Monday pretended not to understand the suspicion in Fitch’s words as he shook hands with Bull. He needed to divert their attention from Lightning.
“Deveaux, huh? You from down N’Orleans way?”
“No, sir. De-Voe. I think that’s Dutch or somethin’. My granddaddy took his name from the only half-kind owner he ever had. North Carolina’s where I grew up.”
“And Bull,” Monday said, stringing out the conversation as if he hadn’t understood Fitch. “I’ve heard some strange first names, but I’m blamed if I ever heard a better nickname.”
“It’s short for Noble. I was named Noble Devoe. After the war when I took up this trade, shoein’ horses and fixin’ wagon wheels, folks in Kansas City started callin’ me ‘No-Bull’ Devoe for my fair deals with no dickerin’. Folks here in Warbonnet shortened it to Bull. Now about your horse.” He grinned. He’d seen through Monday’s effort to change the subject.
“Well, yes, he was a cow pony. Name’s Lightning. I, uh, won him off a young cowboy in a faro game before I left Kansas for Julesburg.”
That seemed to satisfy them and they settled boarding fees.
When Fitch lit up a cheroot, Monday patted his vest pockets for makings and found a small, hard cylinder. He pulled out the rifle shell from yesterday morning.
“This here’s a shell I found at the killer’s position where we were ambushed.”
Fitch took the shell and weighed it in his hand. “Big ’un,” he said, holding it up close to get a better look at it. “Whew, don’t smell like gunpowder.” He wrinkled his nose. “Smells like manure.” He picked up his burnt match and took the shell over to Bull’s anvil. Fitch carefully scraped the inside of the shell and emptied out a small quantity of fresh-looking manure. “How’d it come to be in your pocket, Marshal?”
“I picked it out of a manure pile, where the killer picketed his horse. There were three piles of it. This came out of the freshest. Looked like it came from a grain-fed horse.”
“Pure grain?” asked Bull. “Even Joe don’t baby his best horses that way.”
“Looks like your killer has a fine horse he dotes on,” Fitch said, handing back the shell.
“A big black horse. Or at least one with a black tail. I found three long black hairs tangled in a branch near the manure piles.”
“Hmmm. I don’t know of any such horse around here. We see one or two black ones come through here each week with wagons passing through. Reckon we ought to be on the lookout for a big one like that, Bull.”
Monday began to wonder if he’d told them too much. He didn’t know yet where they’d been yesterday morning. Maybe one of them was the killer. He’d have to tread more carefully before telling anybody else about his meager clues.
They talked a while longer, then Monday walked over to the bank, stepping over heavy wagon ruts as he did so. He found Noah Crandall just opening up and deposited the hundred and eight dollars he’d saved from his cattle drives. Since it seemed a little early to call on Doc, Monday made his way across to the saloon. The Alamo Saloon, he noted with a grin. A little piece of Texas up here? It was open.
But you couldn’t tell by the clientele. Nobody in the place. Then the bartender straightened up from behind the bar.
“Help you, stranger? We ain’t really open at this hour. I’m just airin’ the place out and cleaning glassware.” He was a tall, bulky man with faded reddish hair and a waxed mustache.
“That’s all right. I’m Sam Taggart.” Monday showed him the badge pinned to his shirt. “The new marshal. Council just hired me last night.”
The man hurried out from behind the bar. “Damn glad to meetcha, Marshal,” he said, pumping Monday’s hand vigorously. “Any trouble in this town usually starts right here. That’s why I was glad to see ’em give you the old assay office across the street. Means you can get here right quick. Oh, ’scuse me. I’m Chester Stratman. I own this place. Staff of one. Had a boy to help me for a few weeks, but he run off last month with a pretty girl on a wagon train that come through here.”
“What kind of spirits do you stock? Do they all come up the wagon trail from Laramie?”
“My whiskey does. The beer would never stand that rough road. Oregon Trail from Nebraska ain’t much better, but I get a few barrels of beer twice a month out of Cheyenne that way. Got a couple barrels left, if you’re thirsty.”
“Not at this hour. It’s a little early yet, even for beer. Guess you don’t offer no food. I heard there’s no eatery in town.”
“Naw, nearly everybody rustles their own meals; a few eat at Martha’s.”
Monday remembered he should meet Kate at Doc’s. He pulled out his watch. Eight thirty. Maybe not too early. He was about to leave when he thought to ask Stratman about his customers.
“We get all kinds in here. Trouble is, my regular customers drink the least. I have to wait ’til the miners and soldiers come in to blow off steam.”
“You get any Texas cowboys in here? I saw your sign.”
“That was my wife’s idea. I was gonna call this the Alhambra, but there’s one down in Laramie. When we get the odd Texan through here, they toast my sign and drink up a storm. We’ll be bound to see more cowboys when we get more ranches, and when the ranches hereabouts get bigger.”
“How can they do that? Ain’t all the land here bought up already?”
“Not hardly. Not many more than three thousand folks in the whole territory. Most everybody has claimed their hundred and sixty acres under the Homestead Act. You can buy more land on credit, long as you ain’t carried arms against the Union. Them that buy land don’t have to stay on it too long before they sell it. Some folks passing through on the Trail done that. That’s how the ranches north of the river been growing.”
Monday thought for a moment. Growing ranches might mean jobs right here. He’d better check on that.
“Thanks, Mr. Stratman. Reckon I need to get down to Doc’s.” He tipped his hat and headed for the door.
“Not so fast, Marshal. Call me Chet. If you ain’t a regular five or six times a night, I’ll complain to the council. I sell a lot of cigars, too. If you’re not gonna be a customer today, how ’bout taking some cigars with you? On the house.” He held out a handful. Monday took one, returned Chet’s grin, and headed for the door again.
Monday walked down the creaking sidewalk and examined the cigar. Might match the ash he’d found at Box Elder Creek. But if Chet sold a lot of these, this wouldn’t make much of a clue. Lost in thought, he nearly collided with a small man working a broom in front of the general store.
“Whoa, there. Sorry, Mister. Didn’t see you.”
The little man adjusted his glasses and squinted. “Watch where you’re going, cowboy. If you want to run, use the street, not the public walk.”
Monday held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, I said I was sorry. Didn’t mean to crowd you. I’m the new marshal. Reckon I had my mind on business. You the owner of this store?”
“No, indeed. That would be Mr. Matthias Webb. I’m his son-in-law, Leonard Odom.” He kept both hands on the broom and didn’t offer a hand. Monday did.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Odom. I’m Sam Taggart. I rode in last evening with Miss Shaw, the new school teacher.” He looked for a reaction to Taggart’s name, but couldn’t detect anything. Odom hesitated, then took the proffered hand. He had slicked down dark hair, parted in the middle and slick looking sideburns, but his hand was dry and his grip was surprisingly firm for the man’s size.
“We’re gonna have a funeral this afternoon for a cowboy we found murdered on the trail. Maybe I’ll see you there.”
Odom said nothing, but looked at his hand after Monday released it. Two doors down, Monday saw Doc come out onto the walk and knock his pipe on a hitch rack.
“Excuse me. I see Doc Gertz waiting for me.” Monday touched the brim of his hat and stepped around the small man.
Chapter Seven
Tuesday
Warbonnet
K
ate blinked and sat up. So much light streaming in her windows. Must’ve slept ’til noon. She stretched, threw back the sheet, and found the robe Martha had lent her. Smells of bacon and coffee downstairs. She went to the top of the stairs and saw young Sally looking up at her.
“Good morning. I hope it’s still morning. What time is it?”
“Only a quarter to eight, Miss Shaw. Mama sent Buxton out early to put a sack over the rooster, so you could sleep in.”
Kate washed and dressed, brushing her hair and humming while she tucked it into a bun. She looked ruefully at the wrinkles in her pink gingham dress and wished she had more than a hand mirror. She’d have to make do until her trunk got here. She went downstairs.
“Tell me, Martha. The marshal’s expecting me to attend the funeral for that poor cowboy this afternoon. Do you think this dress or my blue one would be somber enough for the occasion?”
“Maybe the blue one on somebody else, Kate. But even wrinkled, neither one would look somber on you. I think I can rustle you up a black dress, though. I’ll check with Jane Odom later this morning. She’s near your size.” Martha put a steaming plate on the kitchen table.
“I’ll be goin’ to the funeral myself,” she went on. “It’s awful to have to bury some poor soul without knowin’ more than the name on his grave. I sure hope the new marshal can find out who killed him. Though I don’t know how anybody could work that kind of magic.”
Me neither, thought Kate, sipping her coffee.
“I only brought four days’ clothing with me. The rest is in my trunk that Roy Butcher will pick up in Laramie next week. Do you think I could do some laundry today? I’m not much at sewing, but my mother drilled rudiments of all the other domestic necessities into me.”
“I have to do some wash today. Twice a week when I got this number of boarders. Bring me what you have and I’ll wash your things first. I know you have to see Doc Gertz this morning. We can take the laundry in this evening and maybe you can help with the ironing.”
Kate brought all her clothes down. Then she borrowed a few sheets of writing paper from the children’s supplies and found an old pencil stub.
She took her straw hat from the rack by the front door and went up the street toward Doc’s office, saying good morning to two men she passed. The sound of their footsteps stopped. When she looked back, they were holding their hats in their hands and staring at her. A woman, thin and pinched in a gray dress, gave Kate a grudging response to her hello.
Kate knocked on Doc’s door and, hearing no answer, opened it. “Hello, Doctor? It’s Kate Shaw. Are you in?”
“Back here, Miss. The marshal and I are discussin’ this unfortunate cowboy.”
Kate passed through the office and stepped into his treatment area. There were two beds and a table in this back room, but the central feature today was a pair of trestles with an open coffin laid on them. Monday and Doc stood on the far side.
“Mornin,’ Miss Kate,” said Monday, removing his hat. A shiny star peeked out from under his tan leather vest. Doc glanced up, then consulted his notes.
“I determined the deceased to be about forty-five or fifty years of age. No distinguishing marks besides two old bullet wounds, one in his left thigh, the other on his right hip. He obviously died from a gunshot wound in the chest, about fifty caliber.” Monday fished a shell out of his vest pocket and passed it to Doc.
“Ah. A cartridge from the murder weapon. Seems to be the size I said. You’re making me look like a genius this morning. Hmmm,” he said, letting it roll back and forth in his hand, looks longer than any I’ve seen before. That’s about all I can say about this man, aside from his measurements and a list I made of his clothes, possessions, and the contents of his pockets. He did have a well-worn pistol and holster and, I understand, a pretty fair horse and saddle for a cowboy.” He tapped his teeth with his pencil.
Kate spoke quickly, hoping to divert him. “Well, Doctor, I’m certain you did your best for him. Perhaps someone will step forward at the funeral and say they knew him. But I’d like to make a sketch for the marshal, so he can show it around town.”
Doc brought a lamp over to light the coffin. Monday took her pencil, sharpened it with three strokes of his belt knife, and handed it back to her.
Kate put a hand to her throat. The marshal looked so much older now, older than her father. What were they doing to Taggart, putting him into a mismarked grave and playing amateur detectives? What would her parents say? How could she tell his widow about this? She wiped the corner of one eye.
Monday seemed to sense her mood. “Miss Kate, would you like us to leave, so you can work on your sketch? We’ll be out front if you need us.”
“Yes, thank you, Marshal.” She couldn’t bring herself to use the name Taggart on Monday yet. “I thought I’d do a second sketch for you to post at your office, in case someone recognizes him while you’re out at the ranches and farms.”
“That’s a good idea. Come on, Doc. You told me Bull and Joe will be digging the grave. How do we get the coffin to the cemetery?”
As they moved into the front room, Kate took up position for her sketch. She blotted a few tears with her sleeve. Why hadn’t brought a handkerchief? She’d better remember to take one to the funeral.
She finished both sketches in half an hour and went out to the front office. Doc was alone. “Where’s the marshal?”
“He’s gone to see about using Roy Butcher’s wagon to haul the casket this afternoon and to line up Roy and a couple men to act as pallbearers. Told me he’d like to be one himself. Said this Malone feller would want him to do that.”
Kate bit her lip. She regretted blurting out the name thoughtlessly last night. “Here are my sketches. What do you think?”
“Hmmm. Well, this first one looks pretty good. This other one, though. . . . Why’d you leave off his mustache?”
“I left the mustache until last and then wondered what if someone knew him from some time ago, before he had a mustache? I thought the marshal could put up this drawing in town and take the mustached one with him.
“That’s not a bad idea. You seem to have some sound notions. Are you accustomed to helping peace officers with their work?”
She flushed. “No, of course not, Doctor. I just, well, it seemed to me. . . .” She rubbed her right hand over the scar on the back of her left. Doc noticed it for the first time. She caught him looking at it. He took her hand.
“How did you come by this scar, if you don’t mind my asking? You said your father’s a doctor. I’d have thought he’d do a better job patching his daughter up. It’s a shame you have this mark, sort of like a tear in the canvas of a beautiful painting.”
“I hurt myself when I was younger and didn’t tell my father right away.” She took her hand back. “By the time he could treat it, the scar tissue was forming. I think on my folly often.” Only a dozen times a day. Lord, what a fool she’d been.
“I guess I should be going.” Kate rolled up one drawing and gave Doc the other to hand Monday when he came for the coffin. “Martha was going to try to scare me up a proper funeral dress, and I promised to lend a hand with the laundry. I’ll see you at the funeral.”
Kate headed back up the street to Haskell’s, passing other houses and acknowledging the tipped hats of nearly a dozen men this time. Some were standing in little groups, doing nothing that she could determine. Almost as if. . . . No, they couldn’t be lining up to get a look at her, could they? That’s what schoolboys would do. She picked up her pace, walking more determinedly toward the boarding house, but slowed quickly when she realized her gait made her skirt swirl in a most agitated manner. She mustn’t become a spectacle. She hoped Martha had found a more solemn dress for her.
Martha showed her a black dress. “I got this from Jane Odom. Jane’s tall and slim like you, but not so generous across the bosom. After we’re done with the noon meal, you’ll be wantin’ to try this on. Upstairs in my room, there’s a good-sized mirror.”
Kate finished helping Martha cook and clean up, then went to try on the dress. The hem and sleeves were the proper length, but, looking in the long mirror, she doubted she’d be able to get it buttoned up the back. She went down for Martha’s help.
“Just as I thought,” Martha said, standing back. “There ain’t no makin’ them buttons meet the holes. But I got an idea.” She fished some string from a drawer and laced the buttons to the button holes, cinching Kate tight.
“I don’t imagine that looks quite presentable from back there.”
No, it don’t. But I got that figured out, too.” She went out and came back with a black shawl. “Here, put this around your shoulders for the funeral. It’ll help make you look a trifle more somber. Maybe you won’t need any more of Jane Odom’s dresses after today. I can find you another blouse or two to go with the ridin’ skirt you got. You’ll be fine, Kate.”
Kate went back up to the mirror. She did look all right. On a whim, she took her hair down and shook it out. It looked good on the collar of the dress and on the shawl. She hoped she wouldn’t scandalize anyone if she wore it down. Delighted with the view from the mirror, she twirled a little. No swish in this skirt, she noticed. Maybe none in the owner, either. When she went downstairs, Martha was ready, with a prayer book and hymnal.
“Best we be goin’, Kate. It’s near half a mile.” She gestured out the back door and up the long gently sloping grassy hillside. “We picked that spot for the cemetery ’cause it’s above the flood line, and the softest ground in the area. Never figured my man Jack would be one of the first to rest up there.”
Martha had told her last night while they hauled bath water how her husband had taken ill soon after building the house. He’d died early last winter. That was why Martha had taken in boarders and laundry. She even offered baths.
They were short of breath by the time they passed under the simple wooden poles and crossbeam at the cemetery. Maybe a dozen grave markers. An open grave in the southeast corner. The Kansas and Colorado corner. That seemed fitting.
Murder for Greenhorns Page 7