Murder for Greenhorns

by Kresge, Robert

  She remembered she was thirsty when Monday drank from his canteen. She opened her own canteen. The young cowboy went back to braiding some long, thin fibers.

  “What are you making, Mr. Malone?”

  “A cord for you, Miss. To hold your hat on without them long pins you’re using.”

  “Thank you. That would make my new straw hat look more like yours and the marshal’s. What are you using?”

  “Horsehair, Ma’am. I combed out some long ones from the tails of our horses when we stopped back there. Braided horsehair’s less likely to rot than leather. My reins are made of horsehair.”

  “Please don’t call me ‘Ma’am’ all the time, Mr. Malone. That makes me feel positively ancient. I’ll be twenty in November.”

  “Yes, Ma’am. Uh, Miss Shaw. You can just call me Monday. Pret’ near everybody does.”

  They rode past the three buildings that made up Rock River in late afternoon and Kate blessed the chance to use a privy. They rode on and reached Medicine Bow just before dark.

  That little town consisted of a store—combination dry goods and saloon—three houses, and a barn. Kate was able to dismount with little difficulty after Monday led her horse alongside the store’s porch. While the cowboy took the horses to the barn, Taggart walked the limping Kate over to the nearest house and made arrangements for her to spend the night in a bed. He and Monday spread their blankets on the porch of the same house. A hard mattress for them, she thought, but a dry one.

  * * * * *

  The next morning, true to Taggart’s prediction, Kate found herself much stiffer than the previous evening, as if a night in a bed hadn’t helped at all. She didn’t groan aloud, but dreaded the next two days in the saddle. She mounted up gingerly and the little group turned north to follow the wagon track toward the mountains. After a while, Taggart motioned toward one mountain, partially obscured by low clouds.

  “That big one, just off to the right, that’s Warbonnet Peak, they tell me.”

  “Goodness, are we that close to the town?”

  “No, Miss. We’ll go through a pass about noon, then start droppin’ down toward the Platte River. We got two days to go and tonight we’ll sleep rough, I’m afraid.” She asked if Warbonnet would be as small as Medicine Bow. “Naw. It has more’n a hundred people and should be much bigger.”

  Kate smiled at the thought of having Sam Taggart for a neighbor. She wondered what his wife would be like.

  Monday had finished braiding the hat cord the night before. This morning he used his knife to make small holes to thread it through the brim of Kate’s straw hat. He slid a little patch of leather onto the cord, then knotted the ends. Without the need for hat pins, Kate let her hair down.

  She was suddenly conscious of what her hair must look like streaming behind her and of how snugly her riding skirt fit where it met the saddle. Kate wished she could turn around to see what Monday was looking at as he rode back there. She heard him mumble something and reined her horse to ride beside him.

  “Did you say something, Mr. Malone? Ah, Monday?”

  “Uh, no, not exactly. I was talking to my horse.”

  “Your horse? What a curious idea. Tell me, does he ever speak to you?”

  Monday blushed. “No, Miss. Not unless he’s got something real important to say. He told me yesterday he likes you. And he don’t like just anybody.”

  Kate grinned, then caught up with the marshal.

  As they topped one rise late that morning, Taggart signaled a halt and they dismounted. Although she felt creaky, Kate needed only a little help to step down today. Ahead of them, across the next grassy ridge, nearly a mile away, a brown tide of buffalo moved from right to left across their path. As they shaded their eyes, they could see Indians on ponies amid the herd. Faint sounds of whooping came to them over the rumble of hooves.

  Oh, God. Indians. Coming to Wyoming was a chance to live a great adventure, break away from sorrow at home and start over, just like friends from back home who’d moved west and people she met on the train. But she wasn’t ready to deal with the reality of Indians just yet. “Buffalo on the tracks stopped our train twice, but these are the first Indians I’ve seen. I wonder what tribe they are. We’ve read so many bloodthirsty tales of the Sioux back East.”

  “Well, Ma’am,” said Taggart, squinting hard and shading his eyes, “whoever they are, Red Cloud ain’t down there. That’s certain.”

  “Why, Marshal, you must have wonderful eyesight. You’ve been in this territory only a week longer than I. How can you be sure Red Cloud is not among them?”

  “Because, Miss,” Taggart said, beginning to roll a cigarette, “I read in the Laramie Sentinel that Red Cloud ain’t returned from Washington and New York.”

  Monday snorted to cover a laugh, and Kate bit back her reply. She felt completely at a loss. What a schoolteacher. She hadn’t even inquired about a newspaper in Laramie. Miss Bishop always said newspapers were a valuable reading and civics tool. She’d have to arrange to have some back issues sent up with her baggage. As they waited for the buffalo and Indians to disappear, Kate tried to hide her embarrassment by restarting their conversation.

  “How is it that you left Texas, Monday?”

  Monday was patting his vest pockets, as if trying to locate his own cigarette makings, but he gave up when Kate asked her question.

  “Couple a years after the war ended, Miss Shaw, north Texas got to be real dangerous, not just from Comanches, but from raiders turned outlaw. Running from the wreckage of the border states, the Major said. Some renegades—Comancheros—helped the Indians get rifles and whiskey. Texas Rangers sure had their plates full.”

  “Prob’ly so,” said Taggart. “Reckon we chased some of ’em down from Kansas.”

  “Anyway, in early ’Sixty-seven,” Monday went on, “some of them outlaws took over Manzanita—our nearest town—while Pa and Mary Ellen, uh, while Pa and Mary Ellen were there, um, to go to church. When they didn’t come back to the ranch that evening, I rode in next day to see what was up. Our brother Tom was off looking for some rustlers. He came home a week later, when everything was over.”

  Kate looked at Monday hard. He spoke more rapidly there at the end. Had he left something out?

  They mounted up and rode on cautiously as the Indians and the buffalo disappeared, north like them, but on a more easterly track. Kate encouraged Monday to continue his story.

  “This gang held Manzanita for more than a day. Took pretty much everything they wanted. Folks in town rose up under the Major to drive ’em out. In that fighting, I took a bullet.” He touched his left shoulder. “The Major got hit on the head, and, . . . and they killed Mary Ellen.”

  He looked away from her, and they rode silently. Kate blinked back tears and felt an impulse to reach across the two-foot gap between them and touch Monday’s arm, but she pulled back without making contact. He didn’t look at her and kept his eyes on his saddle horn.

  The group crossed the pass below Warbonnet Peak in early afternoon. Taggart regaled them with stories of disarming or facing down notorious bad men, often with no shots fired.

  They made camp late that evening on a gravelly bend of Box Elder Creek amid stands of willows. While Kate went off to wash in the stream, the men got a fire going and started coffee. When she came back, they’d opened a can of beans and were cooking bacon to go with their biscuits from Laramie.

  Kate tied her hair up into a ponytail after the meal. She caught Monday staring at her as she did so, and he looked away.

  Taggart asked Monday about riding on cattle drives.

  He told them about riding from Texas to Kansas on three cattle drives, the most recent of which ended last month. After the second one, Monday’s father had died and he’d had a dispute with his foster brother.

  “Tom and me had words a few times over Mary Ellen’s death. Pa died while we were coming home from that second drive. Lawyer in town said he had no will.” Monday looked into the fire and not at the others
.

  “Everybody knew I wasn’t a ‘born son,’ only a ‘found son,’ so Tom got the whole ranch. He let me stay on. Guess he was sorta fair about it, once everything was settled. But he made it clear he wanted me gone as soon as I could hire on someplace else. I didn’t find anything before it was time to take the steers north this spring, so I rode with the Circle M herd again. When I got to Abilene in June, I collected my pay and quit. And here I am.” He smiled, but Kate could tell it was forced.

  After they washed plates, Kate asked about something that had been bothering her all day. “Marshal, will those Indians find our camp in the night?” She spoke softly, trying not to let her voice betray her fear. All she’d wanted was the security of an armed escort to Warbonnet. The thought of Indians skulking through the darkness chilled her blood like the winter wind off Lake Erie.

  “I don’t reckon they’ll bother us tonight, Miss Shaw. They were a huntin’ party, probably driving part of a herd north toward the main body of their band. They’ll be well away from here tonight. They won’t be lookin’ for a party of whites traveling our way.”

  “Nevertheless, Marshal, I should appreciate it if you and Mr. Malone would take turns standing guard tonight.” In her agitation, she rubbed her right hand over her left one. When she caught Monday looking at the jagged white scar on the back of her left hand, she quickly covered it with her right. All her precautions had been for naught. She’d worn riding gloves yesterday and all day today to keep the two men from noticing the scar.

  “It’ll be fine, Miss. Malone just cut some willow boughs and made a bed for you over there.” He indicated a spot near the edge of the firelight. “You can spread your blanket and turn in. Him and me’ll turn our backs for a while.”

  Taggart and Monday walked a dozen paces together and looked out to the west while Kate made use of the bushes. Returning, she took off her boots and rolled into her blanket. After a while, Taggart moved over to where he and Monday had spread their own bedrolls. Evidently the younger man had drawn first watch. She turned her head on the saddle she was using for a rude pillow and looked at Monday through her eyelashes, feigning sleep. Monday crouched by the fire with his rifle. He should have been watching for Indians. Why was he looking at her instead?

  He’d had a violent life and was fleeing a difficult situation with his brother. He continued to look at her while she pretended to sleep. Was he so bold that he would stare at her if he thought no one was looking? She should be careful if she happened to be alone with him. That was the last thought she could summon. Her tired body and mind finally gave up.

  Chapter Three

  Monday

  Box Elder Creek

  Monday knelt carefully on the smooth stones at the edge of the creek and uncapped the first canteen. One stone moved a little and he cursed silently as cool water soaked his knee. He shifted his weight and began to fill the canteen. The sun had just cleared the hill across the creek to the east. It would be a warm, cloudless morning.

  No breeze stirred the willow leaves in front of his face. He looked up suddenly at the sound of footsteps on the gravel. An antelope or deer coming for an early drink?

  It was Miss Shaw. She had a towel over one shoulder and stopped some ten paces on the other side of the willow leaf screen. Monday opened his mouth to say something, but shut it. Kate had unbuttoned her blue print shirt as she walked up. Now as she knelt by the side of the stream, she tugged the shirt from the waistband of her riding skirt and took it off. Monday decided he’d better keep quiet. He couldn’t walk away. She’d hear his footsteps on the gravel.

  The first canteen began to gurgle. Monday quickly put it on a flat stone and capped it. When he looked up, Kate had pulled her little white top over her head. He drew breath suddenly at seeing her bare back, but she didn’t hear him.

  Kate started to sing softly and worked some tendrils of long, straw-colored hair back into her ponytail. As she began to use her soap, he heard her gasp at the shock of the cold water.

  Monday silently slipped the second canteen into the stream. When he signed on to ride north with Taggart and Kate, he’d never expected to see this much of her. She was still displaying only her bare shoulders and back, but he was transfixed by the thought of what he would do if she turned slightly and revealed her profile—or more. Been too long since he’d been with a woman. Thoughts of Mary Ellen bathing in the creek back home only made things worse.

  Kate finished rinsing as Monday began to fill the last canteen. Then she sat facing the sun, turning her head slightly in his direction. Monday froze, but Kate had closed her eyes and continued to sing, letting the sun dry her. What if she stayed that way for a long while and he had to shift position? Or if she discovered him with the “condition” he had now?

  He was saved when the marshal called out, “If you young folks are through with your mornin’ chores, we might see about mountin’ up! You want to have supper in Warbonnet tonight, Miss Shaw, or more of our rough cookin’ on the trail?”

  Kate toweled off and pulled the white top over her head, then retrieved her shirt. She buttoned it up and took her towel and soap back toward camp.

  Monday let out the breath he’d been holding, got to his feet, and capped the last canteen. He took all three by their straps and walked quietly out of the creek bed by another route, taking his time, in order to cool down a bit. When he came out into their campsite, he saw Kate down closer to the stream, rolling up her blanket. Marshal Taggart had finished saddling the horses. They were in the trees on the far side of the clearing, moving in the small steps that meant they were still cross-hobbled, the way Monday set them the night before.

  The young cowboy turned his back reluctantly on Kate and walked up to Taggart, who was fishing his cigarette makings out of his vest pocket. Monday hoped he didn’t look as flushed as he felt. How would he explain how long it had taken him to fill the canteens? Had Taggart noticed Kate went off in the same direction he had? Monday never got the chance to ask.

  BA-WHOOM! A blast of wind roared past Monday’s right shoulder and knocked Taggart down, just two paces in front of him. The marshal’s hat flew off and his head bounced on the rocks.

  As the hat fell to earth, Monday flattened himself beside the marshal, turned his head, and shouted, “Ambush, Miss! Get down!” As he looked around, he saw a puff of gray smoke from a fallen tree near the top of the rise across the creek and heard the echoing boom of a big rifle. “They’re way across the creek! Get on my side of one of them big rocks!”

  Before he finished speaking, Monday pushed himself to his feet and ran into the trees to the tethered horses. He hauled his Henry repeater from its scabbard, worked the action, and made his way down through the trees toward Kate’s position. She was curled up behind a good-sized rock.

  “Miss Shaw, I saw where they fired from. I’m gonna put a few shots up there. When I do, you come back in here to better cover.” Without waiting for a reply, he fired and worked the lever, shooting three times at the fallen tree next to a stand of trees near the top of the hill. It was a long shot from here. Kate joined him.

  “Where’s Marshal Taggart?”

  “He got hit. He won’t be much help to us right now.”

  “Where is he? I may be able to help him. My father’s a doctor.”

  “Not right now, Miss. He’s lying in the open, and you can’t get to him safe. I need you to stay put for a couple minutes while I cross the creek and go up there a ways. I can get closer and maybe drive them off.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous? How many of them are there? I think I saw one.”

  “Don’t know yet. Only heard the one shot and nobody returned my fire just now. I’ll get back down here quick as I can. There’s another rifle in the scabbard on Taggart’s horse. Better fetch it, in case I don’t come back.” Damn. He wished he hadn’t said that. Miss Shaw was probably scared half to death already. Maybe scared worse than he was.

  Monday left her near the horses and went to the creek. Down here he
was screened from the firing position up the hill. That did nothing to calm his pounding heart. He waded the stream as silently as he could. As he came out on the other side, he moved rapidly into the trees. After a couple minutes quietly climbing the gentle slope, he cut to his left through more rocks and scrub and got his bearings. Another minute’s climb brought him to where he’d seen the smoke.

  How many men were up here? Were they holding their fire, waiting for him? The trees on the other side of the old log looked sparse from here, but he watched for any telltale movement. Nothing. He steeled himself, took a breath, then ran across the grass, slippery with dew, and crouched by the log.

  Monday moved along the trunk in a crouch. He paused to look back across the creek. Even though he knew where to look, he could barely see the marshal. Must be nearly a quarter mile.

  Nothing but flies moved. The shooter must have tied his horse right here. Beyond the first manure pile were two more. The bushwhacker must have waited here some time, maybe all night. Here was ash from something he’d smoked—a cigar, likely. Monday found three long black hairs tangled in a bush. Well, at least he could read this much sign. Tracks of only one horse coming from the south and going north, the same direction they were traveling. Whatever the color of its hide, at least this horse had a black tail. Long black tail, according to the hairs.

  Turning back toward the firing position, he could make out the depression where the shooter had sat behind the trunk. More cigar ash and a forked stick jammed in the ground to rest the rifle on. When he looked down at the campsite, he marveled again at the shooter’s ability.

  As Monday straightened up to leave, he stepped in the freshest manure and slipped a little. He stepped back, cursed, and wiped his boot. This manure looked a little different from what he was used to seeing, less green and no blades of grass in it. But it held a gleam of metal.

  Monday bent down and pulled out an empty brass rifle shell. Bigger and longer than a cartridge from his Henry. About two inches long. He walked down toward the creek. As he recrossed the stream, he put the shell in his vest pocket, rinsed his hand, and looked for Kate.