Murder for Greenhorns

by Kresge, Robert

  “Marshal Taggart,” he said to the younger man, “can I talk to you, sir?”

  They both grinned. “Well, I’m honored to be mistaken for old Sam Taggart here,” the bearded man said. “But I’m Nathaniel Boswell, sheriff of Albany County. Guess you haven’t been in town long.”

  “Must be an Injun by his garb, Nate,” said the older man. “Don’t know as I recollect what tribe wears long johns and blankets, though.” They chuckled as the young cowboy squirmed.

  “Sorry, sir. I just naturally figured the man with the badge would be the marshal.”

  “I been every kind of lawman, son, but I ain’t a peace officer right now. Not even the marshal of Warbonnet yet. Gotta get there before they pin that star on me. What did you want to see me about that’s so urgent you’d traipse into a saloon in your underwear?”

  “My name’s Monday Malone. Used to ride for the Circle M Ranch in Texas, but I’m heading north to find work in Montana.”

  “Sounds like a good way to lose your hair. There’s Sioux and Cheyenne still on the warpath in Wyoming, or hadn’t you heard in Texas?” Taggart grinned at him.

  “Yes, sir. We heard about the big fights up here in ’Sixty-seven and ’Sixty-eight. About Red Cloud and Crazy Horse, and Captain Fetterman. But Nelson Story brought some three thousand head of cattle through here and on to Montana in ’Sixty-six. Must be work for a top hand up there. I heard you’re due to ride that way and thought I’d offer you some company—and an extra gun, if it’s so dangerous.”

  “Aw, we was just joshin’ you a little, Malone,” Boswell said. “Things are a little more peaceable now that Red Cloud’s settled down.”

  “That’s a kind offer, son,” said Taggart. “I could use another man on this trip, but not ’cause it’s dangerous. Town of Warbonnet saddled me with nursemaidin’ some old schoolmarm up the trail. She’s missed the freight wagon. Won’t be another for nearly two weeks. Might be better for her reputation if there’s more in our party than just her and me. Female chaperones are too scarce. If she came in on today’s train, I reckon she’ll contact me through the hotel. You got a horse, or do you just walk around in that get-up?”

  “I got my horse and gear down at Dillon’s. I’m staying there, too, working for my keep. Reckon I can be ready to ride at first light, depending on when you want to pull out.”

  “Prob’ly won’t know that ’til tonight. Maybe not even then, if this schoolmarm ain’t arrived yet. If I need Dillon to get my horse ready, I’ll send word.”

  With that, Sheriff Boswell got up, shook hands with Monday, and said goodbye to Taggart. The marshal offered to buy Monday a beer.

  “Oh, no need, Mr. Taggart. I got some cash.” He patted himself, but his long johns and blanket had no pockets. His money was in his saddlebags.

  “That’s all right, son.” Taggart grinned and put some coins on the bar. The barman set out two beers. “You can buy the next round in Warbonnet.” They sipped their beers and discussed horses and the weather. Monday didn’t mention the schoolteacher; he didn’t want the marshal to know he’d already seen her.

  Taggart finished his beer first, and moved to the door as three men came in. Monday drank his beer a little quicker, suddenly conscious that the place might fill up while he stood here in his underwear and blanket. Taggart stopped at the door and cocked an ear. Southerners by their accents, Monday thought, not Texans. Taggart opened the batwing doors, looked outside for a moment, then came back in. He ambled over to the trio at the bar. They were just picking up their beers; the one closest to Monday smirked at his unusual garb.

  “’Scuse me, boys. Does one of you own that CSA-branded horse at the rail?”

  The man closest to Taggart looked at him and set his beer on the bar. “That’d be mine. Who wants to know?” Monday was behind all three now. The others set their beers aside, freeing their right hands.

  “No cause to get riled, boys. I’m Sam Taggart, formerly of Missouri and Kansas, and wondering if any of you were in Kansas in August of ’Sixty-three.”

  The leader stroked his jaw. “Well, none of us was. We were still straggling back from Gettysburg ’bout that time. Reckon I know what you’re askin’. You want to know if any of us rode with Quantrill. That right?” As he spoke, he took the hammer loop off his pistol. Monday saw the other two do the same, shielded from Taggart by their leader.

  “Yeah, Quantrill. Or Mick Lonergan. I got no quarrel with you boys. Enjoy your beers.” He turned to leave, but the leader took Taggart’s arm, turning the older man back to face him.

  “What you got against Quantrill? He’s dead now. Just like all our heroes—Stonewall, Bobby Lee, Jeb Stuart.”

  “Hero? Him and Lonergan killed a lot of unarmed men and boys. Likely would’ve killed some women too, but enough of us had guns that they ran away from us. Heroes? I don’t think so.” He shrugged off the other man’s hand, but when the leader tried to draw his pistol, Taggart buried his left fist in the man’s belly, then knocked him down against the bar. The man slid down until his head thunked against the bar rail and he lay still.

  The second man tried to draw, but Taggart had his own pistol out like lightning and pointed at his belly. “No guns. Put it on the bar and slide it down here.” When the other man did that, Taggart reached out with his left hand and pushed the sliding pistol so it fell behind the bar. It hit with a thump. Taggart holstered his pistol as quickly as he’d drawn it.

  “Now,” he said to the second man. “Was there something you wanted to say to me about Quantrill and Lonergan?” The second man punched at Taggart’s chest with his right fist. The marshal caught the fist in his left hand, put his right to the man’s left shoulder, and pushed him so his back was to the bar. Then he hit him twice in the belly. The second man slumped to the floor, down but not out.

  The third man drew and cocked his pistol. Taggart’s weapon was still holstered. Monday whirled the blanket off his shoulders and over the head and torso of the third man, who fired a shot into the floorboards.

  Taggart drew and stepped forward, striking the head under the blanket with the barrel of his Navy Colt. The man went down like a felled tree, leaving Monday holding his blanket by one corner. Taggart turned to look at the still conscious second man, who grimaced and held up his right hand to show he was out of the fight. Taggart reached down, took a knife from the second man’s boot and his pistol and flipped them over the bar. Then he took the third man’s gun and sent it behind the bar to join the growing armory. Without taking his eyes off the three men, Taggart backed toward the front door. Monday edged around the trio and followed him.

  When they came to the batwing doors, Taggart backed through but held them open, still watching the three men. He holstered his pistol. Down the street, Monday saw people looking this way. Nate Boswell hurried toward them.

  “That was right cool-headed work you did in there. Don’t believe I’ve ever seen a man bushwhacked by a blanket.” Monday tried to downplay his role, but Taggart continued.

  “You know, son, there’s lots of cowboys up here, but not enough good lawmen. You might think about laying down your lariat and picking up a badge. Pays better than what you make, except during trail drives.”

  “No thanks, Marshal. I seen too much gunplay around peace officers. Reckon I’ll stick to a safe, secure job I can do from horseback.” He grinned and adjusted his blanket.

  “Safe? Secure? What do you figure are the main killers of cowboys—besides cattle?”

  “Well,” Monday said, pushing his hat back, “I reckon horses and cattle kill a lot of cowboys. And there’s weather, of course—flooded rivers, lightning, hailstorms, twisters. Then there’s rattlers. Not to mention rustlers. Even Indians.” Maybe he’d spoken too soon. “But what’s the main killer of lawmen? Bullets, ain’t it?”

  Taggart relaxed as Sheriff Boswell came up in front of the saloon.

  “Yeah, bullets, in a way. I was gonna say carelessness, but careless or not, I reckon what kills most lawmen in the
end is bullets.”

  Chapter Two

  Saturday and Sunday

  The Wagon Trail

  Kate Shaw hurried to match Taggart’s long strides as they walked to the stable. The whiskered marshal carried a rifle in his left hand. Saddlebags and a bedroll perched on his left shoulder. He toted their provisions in a bag in his right hand.

  She felt self-conscious this morning. Kate had borrowed Mrs. Ivinson’s sewing machine and cut up her tan twill dress to re-sew into a riding skirt. She’d made all the seams straight and flat, but feared the garment fit too tight in the seat. She carried her valise behind her, anxious not to draw unwanted attention.

  The mare’s tail clouds of last night had given way to a pale pink dawn with the promise of fair skies. Down the street, Kate saw a young man lead three saddled horses out of the stable.

  “See,” Taggart said, pointing with the rifle, “there’s Muldoon all ready.” The marshal mentioned last night that “Muldoon” would be at the stable this morning. There were three horses. Was Muldoon a horse or a person? The young man, apparently a stablehand by the worn and shabby look of his clothes, tied off a buckskin horse, a little chestnut, and a big bay at the hitch rack.

  The young man took off his hat. At least that looked fairly new. “Morning, Ma’am. Marshal.”

  “Miss Shaw, this is Muldoon, a cowboy up from Texas, who’s offered to ride with us.”

  “Malone, Miss. Monday Malone. Pleased to ride with you.”

  “I’m Katherine Shaw, Mr. Malone,” she said, putting out her hand. “I’m pleased to have your company, gentlemen. Mrs. Crout at the hotel said a party of at least three might deter road agents—and Indians, too.” Something about Monday’s clothing looked familiar, but his shirt looked none too clean, and his trousers seemed damp.

  “Well, Ma’am, I reckon the marshal and I can do that ‘dee-turr’ thing, whatever it is. Can I help you with that bag?”

  “Yes, thank you. Is this my horse? He doesn’t look the same as I remember him.”

  “No, Ma’am, Mr. Dillon had, um, a change of heart and gave you a more reliable mount. He even found this clean sleeping blanket for you. I’ll tie your valise up here with your blanket. If you’ll let us help you up, I’ll adjust your stirrups.” The marshal tied his saddlebags, blanket, and provisions behind his saddle.

  Kate placed her left foot in the stirrup, grabbed the saddle horn, stepped up, and threw her right leg smoothly over her mount.

  “Hmmm. The left one seems all right, but the right is an inch or so too long.”

  “Miss Shaw, just stand in your stirrups a second, if you will.” When she did so, Monday explained. “You don’t want to show that much daylight between you and your saddle if we have to run these horses, Miss. I’ll just let out one more notch.”

  Dillon gave her the rental paper and Kate paid him for two weeks.

  The small party turned out of the stable yard and trotted up the street. From there, they took a road along the pine-sprinkled, grassy hills north toward Rock River and Medicine Bow. The low, nearly even range of the Laramie Mountains hugged the horizon to their right.

  After the sun had warmed them for several minutes, Kate spoke up.

  “Mr. Malone, you must hear this all the time, but why do you have such an unusual first name? Were you the second of seven children, named for days of the week?”

  “You got a right lively mind, Miss. Reckon that’s a real boon for a schoolteacher. My name’s really Easter Monday Malone. That was the day in ’Forty-eight a rancher named Charles Malone found me in the wreckage of a wagon train near Round Mound on the Santa Fe Trail. Weren’t nobody else alive and no way to tell who my parents mighta been. Comanches were hitting small parties on the Trail all that year and the next, they tell me. Guess the Indians didn’t take me ’cause I was a baby. What little hair I had was so red, looked like I’d been scalped already. Lucky for me, it didn’t last.” He took his hat off and ran his fingers through his sandy hair.

  “Then you never knew who your parents were? Or even your real name? How horrible.”

  “It wasn’t too bad. Monday Malone’s been a good enough name for twenty-two years now. And Ma couldn’t have been any nicer to me if I’d been her own boy. They already had a four-year-old son when I came along, and the summer after they found me, they had a little girl.” He stopped looking at Kate and looked ahead along the wagon track, silent for a while.

  “Well, what about your schooling? You speak very well for a cowboy.”

  Monday looked like he wasn’t sure that was a compliment.

  “Ma schooled all of us ’til we was about twelve. So I can read, write, even cipher some. Major Malone made me his tally boy when we brought in new calves each spring. Right after Ma said she was done schooling Mary Ellen and me,” he looked away again. “She died of a fever. None of us Malones was ever the same after that.” He drew a breath. “That was my younger days. Marshal, you want to entertain Miss Shaw next?”

  Taggart laughed.

  “Sorry I didn’t get your handle right this mornin’. I musta been distracted by somethin’ yesterday when you introduced yourself.” He grinned, then addressed himself to Kate.

  “I was born in Kentucky in Eighteen twenty-four, Miss Shaw, so I’m older’n both of you put together. My folks bought a farm in Missouri when I was a boy, and we moved on to Kansas when I was seventeen. I married Emma Weaver there when I was the same age as this young pup here, and we started our own farm. A heap of folks around us went west when gold was found in California, but we bought more land cheap and stayed. Had two boys. Younger one’s in school in Kansas City. Gonna be a dentist.”

  “What about your older son?”

  Taggart sighed and took a moment to answer. “He didn’t survive the war, Miss. We lived outside of Lawrence when Quantrill’s raiders came through there in ’Sixty-three. They killed a lot of folks and burned half the town. I was a part-time deputy when they broke some of their guerrillas out of our jail. Mick Lonergan’s boys rode my son down in the road.” He looked as if the memory was still painful. “I joined the Kansas militia after that. Chased Quantrill and Lonergan’s bands for more’n a year, but I never got any of ’em in my sights.

  “When the war ended, we sold the farm for good money and I picked up a star. I been a deputy in Coffeyville, a sheriff in Independence, and a marshal in Emporia. Cow towns got pretty lively as the railroad built west. They paid real good money for peace officers, but a lot of us ended up killed or crippled. Emma didn’t want that to happen to me, so we pulled up stakes for Colorado last year. I was a deputy in Julesburg when I saw the Rocky Mountain News advertisin’ for a town marshal in Warbonnet.”

  “Why did you take the job, if you don’t mind my asking? Wouldn’t there be more money as a county sheriff?”

  “Yes, Ma’am, but the new Wyomin’ Territory ain’t got but five really big counties right now. That’s a lot of ridin’ for someone like me who’s gettin’ on. There’s a lot of states back East smaller than those counties, and them states ain’t full of hostile Injuns. Nate Boswell’s the first sheriff of Albany County, and I wish him well, but he’s got to stand for re-election every two years. Warbonnet appoints its marshal for four years. No, Emma and me decided that being a small town marshal would suit us just fine, ’til I didn’t want to work no more.

  “What about you, Miss? Bet you’re just startin’ out as a schoolmarm.”

  “I have nothing to tell as dramatic as growing up on a ranch, or fighting Indians and outlaws. My family’s always lived in Buffalo—that’s near Niagara Falls, if you’ve seen pictures. I was born there, and my sister Antoinette and brother Ted, too.

  “My father is a doctor with a good practice. My mother teaches piano and plays for the church choir. Since I showed a knack for taking care of neighbor children and got good marks in school, Mother suggested I go to normal school for a year and get a teaching certificate. There’s such a demand for teachers since the war.” She wasn’t going
to tell them her real reason for leaving Buffalo.

  “I was fortunate to work for Mr. Samuel Clemens on our Buffalo newspaper last summer.” Neither man said anything. “You know, the famous author Mark Twain? His book, Innocents Abroad, was published last year.” Monday and Taggart looked at each other, then at Kate. When neither man indicated he’d read the book, she gave up and they rode the gently rising terrain in silence for a while.

  In another few hours, they stopped to water their horses. The marshal looked at the height of the sun and asked if anyone wanted to eat. They reined in at a small clump of trees, startling a dozen of the little pronghorn antelope Kate had admired along their way. To her delight, they leaped and bounded out of sight.

  Kate hadn’t realized how stiff she’d become until she tried to bend in the middle and get her right foot out of her stirrup. Suddenly everything hurt; nothing—not her feet, knees, or hips—would obey her. She groaned and stayed in place while the men got down. Monday came up on her left side. Taggart approached on her right.

  Taggart freed her right boot and lifted her foot gently as Kate eased over toward the left. Monday freed her left boot and she practically fell into his arms. He held her for only a moment longer than was proper before setting her on her feet. He held her hand for a minute while she wobbled around a bit to ease the stiffness of her legs. Then the two men laid out their noon meal.

  After eating, they rode on toward Rock River.

  “Mr. Malone, you called your father—the man who found and raised you—‘Major.’ Was he in the war, too?”

  Monday told how his father was persuaded in late 1861 to go off with Texas volunteers and try to take New Mexico and Colorado for the Confederacy. He’d lost an arm at some place called Glorieta Pass and had come home a major.

  Kate sighed at the familiar story and looked away at the wagon track. So many families had lost fathers or sons. She thought of Stuart Ferris for the first time in a while. He hadn’t come back either. She made no effort to continue the conversation, and they rode on in silence.