Murder for Greenhorns

by Kresge, Robert

  “Smart young fella like you shouldn’t be buffaloed by anything like a name. You know, ‘Buck’ would make a good nickname for anybody named Buxton. Buck Haskell.” Monday paused on the top step, tilted his hat back, and stroked his chin, as if in deep thought.

  The boy’s eyes grew big. “My ma would never let me call myself that.”

  “A nickname’s what your friends call you, son. Your ma will always call you by your whole name, ’specially when she’s vexed. But if I start calling you Buck, maybe you can get some of your friends to do that, too. Let’s go in. I’ll peg this hat, and you can show me where to wash up.”

  * * * * *

  Monday pushed his plate back and sighed. Martha Haskell did indeed set a fine table. Must be two years since he’d had a supper this good. Kate and Martha got on so well they were on a first-name basis. Joe Fitch came in after the meal and told Kate and Monday the town council wanted to see them in a few minutes to discuss their salaries and the murder. Monday rose and went to the hat rack.

  “That’ll be fine, Mr. Fitch,” Kate said, pushing back her chair.

  “Now, not so fast, Joe,” Martha said. “I’m sure Miss Shaw would like a chance to rest and maybe have a hot bath before you get into a long-winded meeting.”

  “Oh, that would be wonderful, Martha. But I’d much rather have the bath when I return. Knowing that, wouldn’t the meeting conclude more quickly, Mr. Fitch?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. I’ll surely tell the mayor. Not about your bath. Just to finish the meetin’ quick-like.”

  They followed Fitch up the street toward the bank. Crickets sounded in the still evening air. One or two dogs barked.

  “That there,” Joe said, indicating a small building beside the bank on the corner, “is the jail. Ain’t got no sign yet. Used to be the assay office, but that moved into a new buildin’ just around the corner from the bank. On River Street.”

  “I’ll have to learn where everything is, Mr. Fitch,” Monday said. “Along with learning lots of folks’ names. That’s what a new peace officer in town generally does.” He grinned at Kate, but she rolled her eyes at his obvious attempt to seem experienced.

  The rest of the council rose as Fitch ushered Kate into the room. Besides Doc Gertz and Noah Crandall, a fourth man came to take Kate’s hand. He was a ruddy, partly bald man of average height, who wore glasses and long sideburns that matched his white hair.

  “I’m Isaac Hauser, Miss Shaw. Delighted to meet you. I’m the mayor this year.” He held a chair for her.

  “You must be Sam Taggart.” Hauser frowned. “You don’t look old enough to have had experience as a lawman in three other towns already.” He didn’t offer his hand.

  “Well, Mr. Mayor, maybe I did gild the lily a little to get this job. I only worked a year in Coffeyville, two in Independence, and another year in Emporia before signing on in Julesburg. And I ain’t been there quite a year yet. I’m twenty-six, though some folks tell me I look a mite younger.”

  Monday looked Hauser straight in the eye while he told this tale. At last, the mayor put out his hand sheepishly and they shook. He indicated a chair next to Kate. Monday noticed Kate slowly let out the breath she’d been holding.

  “Doc,” said Fitch, “don’t get to talkin’ long like you do sometimes. Martha told me to get Miss Kate back by. . . .” He pulled out a pocket watch. “By eight-thirty. Maybe we could talk about her salary and the school first, then deal with the marshal and that bushwhacked cowboy.”

  “That’s what we’ll do, Joe,” said Hauser. “First, Miss Shaw, I want to say how sorry we are that your first day in our community has been marred by this terrible murder. Believe me, this isn’t an everyday occurrence. We want you to feel safe and welcome here in Warbonnet.” Kate nodded and gave the council her best smile. They relaxed a little and beamed back at her.

  “Now, Miss Shaw,” Hauser went on. “We said in our letter that you’d be paid forty-five dollars a month. The parents are going to pay two dollars a month for each pupil and the town will pay the other fifteen from taxes.”

  “That is what we agreed to in the acceptance letter,” said Kate, sounding a little wary.

  “Well, Miss, we’ve been a little slow in, uh, collecting taxes, what with no marshal and all. So we decided we could only afford to pay you that salary during the school year, from September to May.” He finished in a rush and looked down at the table. The other councilmen had evidently been expecting this; they wouldn’t meet Kate’s eye either.

  Monday figured that meant she wouldn’t see a cent until the end of September. Kate waited so long to respond that the men eventually had to look at her.

  “I suppose that will have to do, gentlemen. Perhaps the new marshal will soon address the arrears in taxes. However, if I’m to be paid for only three-quarters of a year, I shall still need room and board for the entire year. How does the council feel about paying Mrs. Haskell?”

  Crandall looked up from the ledger in front of him. “Ike, she has a point. Somebody’s got to pay Martha for the time ’til school starts.” He turned to Kate. “Mrs. Haskell’s offered to donate your meals and board in return for our waiving the two dollars a month for each of her children.”

  “And that means . . . ,” said Kate, prompting an answer.

  “That’s right,” Crandall said in sympathy. “Forty-one dollars a month.”

  “But Martha’s a real fine cook, Miss Shaw,” said Fitch. “Why, if we had an eatery in this town, Martha’d be the one to run it.”

  “All right, gentlemen. It seems you have me over the proverbial barrel. You needn’t fear that I shall bolt and take the next train back to New York just because I find everything not as rosy as it was pictured. I don’t suppose there are any lawyers in this town, anyway. Are there?”

  “Uh, no, Miss,” Doc said, looking a little less chastened and a bit more amused than his colleagues. “Guess there’s not enough pickin’s for ’em here yet. Reckon as we get a few less Indians, we might see a few more lawyers. Mark of civilization, I suppose.”

  Kate spoke as if Doc were the only one in the room. “Thank you, Doctor. I know I can rely on you to draw up my contract. I’ll sign it on the agreed terms tomorrow. For one year, please. I should like to know that I can negotiate other terms if I choose to stay beyond that.”

  The council members looked crushed. Monday figured now that they’d seen Kate, they were worried she might not want to stay.

  “Ike, I think we’d better agree to that room and board deal for Miss Shaw,” Joe said with a grin. “I’d hate to think we closed the barn door after the mare had fled.” When Kate raised a disapproving eyebrow, he hastened to add, “Filly. I meant filly.”

  With that, Kate gathered her skirt, made as if to rise, and asked if there was anything else she needed to discuss with them.

  “Well, Miss Shaw,” said Doc, rubbing his chin. “I guess we’ll just ask the marshal about this killing. No need for a lady to relive that unpleasantness.” He put his pencil to his notes. “What was the deceased’s name?”

  That rocked Monday. They hadn’t thought to give Taggart a name and had just referred to him as the dead cowboy. He couldn’t think of anything. If they didn’t speak up pretty quick, their whole plan would fall through. He glanced sideways at Kate.

  “Malone,” Kate said quickly. “His name was Monday Malone. He was from Texas.”

  Monday felt his heart beat loud enough to hear. He couldn’t breathe. What had she done? First he was going to pretend to be a dead man. Now the dead man would be buried with Monday’s name on his grave. It was like a fourth Malone would be going into the ground.

  Kate finally looked at him. She gave him a small shrug, as if to say, Well, I had to do something.

  “All right, Miss,” Doc went on, “I reckon the marshal here can tell us the distasteful story. No need to detain a lady on such bloody business. I’ll be done examining the body tomorrow morning and we might as well hold the funeral tomorrow afternoon—if that’
s all right with everybody.”

  Doc came around the table and held Kate’s chair. “Joe, why don’t you escort Miss Shaw back to Martha’s? We’ll talk salary with the marshal and wait for talk of murder until you return.”

  “Doctor,” said Kate, looking over her shoulder from the doorway, “I liked this Monday Malone when we rode together and I want to do my part in helping to catch his killer. I’m a fair sketch artist. I’d like to do a portrait of the marshal—I mean for the marshal—so he can show it around town. This cowboy said he knew someone in Warbonnet, but he didn’t say who. Perhaps a drawing will help us find who knew him. Good night, gentlemen.”

  When she and Fitch left, the three councilmen exhaled in unison. Doc murmured, “Mercy.” That seemed to express everyone’s sentiments. Kate had acted like she was in charge from the moment she entered the room.

  Crandall pulled a bottle of whiskey from behind the table and found some glasses. “Gentlemen,” he said, in exactly Kate’s tone, “a toast to our lovely new schoolteacher,” as he filled and handed glasses all around.

  They all drank, but noticed Monday hadn’t touched his.

  “Don’t you drink, Marshal?” asked Hauser.

  “Not if I’m buying the next round, Mister Mayor. What are you figuring to pay a marshal?” He figured if he was going to pretend to be Sam Taggart, he’d better show the same interest in his job that Kate had.

  “We agreed to pay you fifty dollars a month and the town’s financial situation causes us to offer only a very small adjustment to that figure. We propose to pay you forty dollars a month and buy your ammunition.” He paused as Monday sipped his drink.

  “This is very good whiskey, sir. Best I ever had, and I ain’t had any in two years.

  “That sounds like a reasonable offer, but, you know, a good peace officer can settle a lot of problems without firing his gun. How ’bout if I was to pay for my own ammunition and you put another five dollars into Miss Shaw’s pay? That would encourage me to keep the peace quietly and sweeten the pot a little for her. Might make a deal of difference when you gentlemen talk turkey with her again, come this time next year. She don’t need to know how you came up with the money.” He recalled how he’d bullied Dillon into giving Kate a better horse; taking care of Kate was getting to be a habit, one he could learn to enjoy.

  “Son,” said Doc. “Were you ever a horse trader? I sure wish Joe would get back here, so I could tell him he’s met his match. You know we’d all rather keep on Miss Shaw’s good side, not that she has a bad one, from what I can see.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, refilling his glass, “why don’t we vote on that motion, to pay the marshal forty dollars without bullets and give our beautiful new schoolteacher an immediate raise?”

  “Don’t we need to wait for Joe to get back?” asked Crandall.

  “Only if you and me split our votes, Noah. If we both vote yes, won’t be nothing for Joe to do but sip a little whiskey.”

  “All right, then. I vote yes.”

  After Fitch returned, they explained the deal to him. They all signed or initialed the wage agreements. Monday could read enough of his to see that it was a contract for two years; it would expire when the council was up for re-election in Eighteen seventy-two. He’d be in Montana long before then. He scribbled a signature since he wasn’t sure how to spell “Taggart.” When Doc tried to refill Monday’s glass, he put his hand over it.

  “Mr. Mayor. Gents. Don’t you have some kind of badge I ought to be putting on now?” When they found it, they swore him in and Doc pinned it on. Then Monday turned his empty glass over. “That’s the last whiskey you’ll see me drink in this town when I’m on duty. Now, I’d like to see the jail. I reckon, from this town’s money woes, I’ll be sleeping there.”

  They agreed that would be so, but asked him to wait until they could hear all about the murder. Monday told them the story he and Kate agreed to that afternoon, about hearing a shot that morning and seeing the cowboy topple from his horse. There were only one or two easy questions for him.

  Hauser and Crandall said good night. Doc and Joe walked Monday next door to the jail. Fitch unlocked the door. The hinges squeaked as they entered.

  “You’ll want to grease those tomorrow, I reckon,” said Fitch.

  “If I’m awake, I won’t care. But if I’m asleep, I’d like to know if someone comes in.”

  Doc seemed to be rapidly losing his earlier skepticism. “You’re a mighty careful young man. Maybe you do know your marshaling.” He took out a match and lit an oil lamp. It showed a desk on one side of the room and a single bunk on the other. Another lamp was mounted on the wall by the desk. Behind the desk was an empty rifle rack.

  Fitch opened a door in the back wall, then gave the key ring to Monday. They took the lamp in with them. This room was as large as the other, but had no windows. Shallow shelves ran along the walls. Marks on the stained floor showed where a heavy safe had stood.

  “Me and Bull moved the safe down to the new assay office,” Joe said. “New shelves over there, so we didn’t need to take these. This is sort of your cell, I guess.”

  “It’s big enough to divide into two, if we had some bars,” said Monday. “I’ve seen smaller.” And he had; he’d spent a night in a cell in Abilene on the drive that first year. He didn’t have to pretend he knew something about jails.

  “We’ll have to see what kind of demand there is and how the town’s coffers fill up with back taxes,” said Doc. “Come on, Joe, we’ve shown him all the sights in here. Let’s let him get some sleep. Marshal, how ’bout you come to my office tomorrow morning, and we’ll talk some more about the deceased?”

  Monday nodded and they walked out of the jail. Doc said good night and Monday went back to the stable with Joe to get his saddlebags and blanket. He also brought back his and Taggart’s rifles and Taggart’s pistol and holster. He put the rifles in the rack behind the desk, unloading them first, since the rack had no lock. He put the rifle bullets and Taggart’s gun and holster in a desk drawer.

  He looked around the bare room as he spread his blanket on the thin mattress. Lord, he sure was glad Miss Kate had a better place than this. Not for the first time he wondered if he could pull this off. Not the masquerade. Solving the murder.

  He wondered if Kate had any doubts. She seemed awful sure of herself for someone so young. Nineteen. Hell, Mary Ellen was just nineteen when she died.

  Chapter Six

  Tuesday, July 26th

  Warbonnet

  “Never pull your gun unless you’re willin’ to shoot someone,” Sam Taggart intoned.

  Monday sat bolt upright on his thin mattress, blinking at the early morning light. Damn! He’d nodded off thinking what Taggart would think of this dump of a jail—not even a chair for the desk—and dreamed about the marshal. As he reached for his vest on the bedpost to check his watch, he heard a rooster crow somewhere. Well, that answered that. What did peace officers do with their days? This pretend marshal would have to find out as he went along.

  That reminded him of Kate. He grinned for a moment. She’d showed the town council she had steel in her spine last night. They’d convinced the council and Martha Haskell that he really was Sam Taggart. But the most difficult work was still to come. He hoped Kate would get some ideas and figure out the killer pronto. If they had no luck and he bolted for Montana in a couple weeks, it would leave her in a predicament. No killer, no marshal, and everyone would know she’d lied to put Monday in the job.

  Monday got up and stretched. He scratched and rubbed his chin. No need to shave today. Maybe tomorrow. He gathered his clothes from the floor. There’d be a funeral today. That other shirt didn’t smell too bad. He put on his blue shirt with the narrow stripes, tucked it into his only pants, slipped on yesterday’s socks, and stomped into his boots. Now he could look around a little.

  He creaked open the front door. Nobody about. Across the street, a pump stood by the horse trough that served the saloon. He took the small
coffee pot from his saddle bag and made his way across the deserted street. He pumped a potful of water as quietly as he could and returned to the jail. Inside the stove he found nothing but ashes, which he moved to one side. He went back and brought in a broken tumbleweed he’d noticed. Might last long enough to boil coffee.

  In a few minutes, he had a fair to middling fire going. The remaining bacon looked none too good, but he figured fire could only improve it, so he cut it into three strips and got it frying in his small pan, along with the last of the beans from an opened can. The morning was starting to look better. He absent-mindedly patted his vest pockets, then remembered he gave up smokes when he soaked his makings back in Laramie. Taggart probably had some in his things. Monday recalled the last thing he’d seen the marshal do was pull his makings out of his vest pocket, then fall down dead. That put him off thinking of cigarettes.

  When the water boiled, Monday threw a handful of grounds into the small trail pot. As the little fire was beginning to die, he poured a little cold water from his canteen into the pot to settle the grounds, then enjoyed his first cup of coffee. With his second cup, he ate his beans and bacon. He made sure his new star was secure on the shirt under his vest and buckled on his gunbelt. Time to go calling.

  Horses in the stable should be up earlier than people, so he started by walking around the corner. He found Lightning and Taggart’s mare turned out into the wide corral with Valentine. Joe Fitch was talking to a huge black man with salt-and-pepper hair who looked strong enough to derail a cattle car.

  “Morning, Mr. Fitch.” He turned to the other man. “Don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Sam Taggart.” He felt more comfortable with the lie than he had last evening. That bothered him.

  “This here’s Bull Devoe,” said Fitch. “He’s my blacksmith. Or rather, he’s my partner and his own blacksmith. He uses my barn and yard and sets his own rates. He was just admirin’ your horse. Says it acts like a good cow pony. I didn’t much notice last evening, but I’m inclined to agree with him this morning.”