“I’ll just be a moment over here, Kate. You go on.” Martha moved toward a marker on the northeast side. Kate followed her. When the woman bowed her head, Kate did likewise. Martha placed fresh flowers on the scanty grass in front of the wooden headstone. Hand in hand, they walked toward other people gathering at the gravesite.
“Jack never really recovered from the wounds he got in the war. Last winter was just too much for his lungs.” Martha dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief and looked at the arriving mourners. “So many folks from border states fled out here after the war. They lost so much. At least I had Jack for four more years.”
Kate looked past Martha and out east, back toward Buffalo—and Petersburg. She rubbed the back of her left hand with her right. Oh, Stuart. She shivered.
The wagon with the casket pulled up. The intermittent sunshine picked that moment to break through the clouds. Monday and Joe and a huge black man took the casket off the wagon. An older man who must be Roy Butcher got down from the wagon and helped the others carry the casket to the grave. As they set it down, Doc stepped forward and addressed perhaps twenty people who’d come.
“This’ll seem a little unusual, but this is the first soul we’ve planted up here who got killed by persons unknown. I’m going to have Bull open the lid, and I’d like each of you to file by the coffin to pay private respects. The new marshal says this man Malone may have known someone here in Warbonnet. If any of you know him, the marshal would appreciate your takin’ a look and tellin’ him so. Come ahead now, Martha. You and Miss Shaw are the closest.”
After she and Martha walked past, Kate stopped and watched the other mourners. She saw out of the corner of her eye that Monday was doing the same thing. A good idea, she conceded, and we both thought of it at the same time. Maybe Monday would find the killer before she did.
No one showed a flicker of recognition. If anyone knew the body was that of Sam Taggart, they might have solved this murder right away. After the last person filed by, Doc motioned to Bull to close the coffin. The pallbearers lowered it into the ground. Ike Hauser stepped forward. As this year’s mayor and justice of the peace, the duty of performing funerals and weddings in between the monthly calls of the circuit riding preacher fell to him.
“Those of you who have hymnals, let’s all turn to that new one, ‘Shall We Gather at the River’.” Kate approved of the choice. She could see the beautiful Platte shimmering from up here.
After the hymn, Ike led a prayer, then spoke on the unsettled nature of the territory and how it was through the blood of the pioneers buried up here that a safe and secure future would be ensured for the residents of Warbonnet. Kate bit back a grin. The mayor must have sensed he sounded like he was running for re-election. He stopped as soon as he realized he was warming to his subject and opened his hymnal decisively. At the page he held open, he said, “Let’s turn for our final hymn to that old comforter, ‘Amazing Grace’.”
Kate wondered at that. She would have picked “Nearer My God to Thee” or something similar. She began to sing in her clear, bold soprano. This was one of her favorites.
“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
“That saved a wretch like me.” Something was wrong. The marshal—Monday—was shaking.
“I once was lost, but now am found;
“Was blind but now I see.”
All at once, Monday turned away abruptly to his right, rubbed his eyes, and staggered down the hill like a blind man. Kate left the hymnal with Martha and ran after him.
“’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear . . .”
“Marshal, wait!” He appeared not to hear her. They’d moved out of earshot of the singers.
“. . . And grace my fears relieved.”
“Monday, stop! Wait for me!” He stopped, but didn’t turn.
“How precious did that grace appear . . .”
She reached for his arm and turned him around. Tears coursed down his cheeks.
“. . . The hour I first believed.”
“Oh, my God. I know how you must feel. They’re putting Sam Taggart into a grave marked with your name. I’m so sorry for my thoughtlessness.”
“Through many dangers, toils, and snares . . .”
“No, Miss Kate, that ain’t it.”
“I have already come;”
“They sang this song when my ma died.”
“’Tis grace that brought me safe thus far,”
“And we sang it when we buried Mary Ellen.”
“And grace will lead me home.”
“Last year, we had to sing it again when we laid my pa in the ground.”
Kate put her hand to her mouth. She felt stricken to her core.
“Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,”
She held her arms open to comfort him.
“And mortal life shall cease,”
“No, Miss Kate, I can’t. There’s folks will see.”
“I shall possess, within the veil,”
“If I don’t care, why should you?” She took two quick strides forward, her own cheeks burning, and pulled him firmly to her bosom. His tears mingled with hers.
“A life of joy and peace.”
In a moment, Monday pulled away, blinking rapidly. “I got to go, Kate. There’s people coming. I—I’ll see you when I get back.”
He pulled his hat up by its strings and set it on his head. Monday reached his horse quickly, pulled the reins loose from the rail, and swung into the saddle with a quick, easy motion. He had Lightning turned and headed away, down toward Fitch’s livery stable before his boots even found the stirrups. Kate wanted to wave or say something, but was left with just her hand raised to her mouth. No handkerchief. Damn! She’d forgotten after all, and felt moisture on her hot flushed cheeks.
“Miss Shaw! I cannot believe this town wants to see its schoolteacher make a spectacle of herself with a married man at a solemn ceremony.” Kate spun around angrily to see the pinched woman from this morning bearing down on her. She brushed back tears and thought of a stinging retort.
“Ah, Kate,” said Martha, rushing down. “I see you’ve met Jane. Wasn’t it nice of her to lend you this dress?” That left Kate gasping for a reply, looking like a fish out of water.
“Mrs. Odom, how nice to meet you.” Kate forced sweetness into her voice. “Thank you for letting me wear this dress today. I’m afraid I’ll have to wash some tears out of it before I return it to you.” Martha handed her a handkerchief.
“Well, I can see you’ve been crying. I saw that marshal blubbering too—and over some stranger, a penniless cowboy.”
“No, Mrs. Odom,” Kate said, using the mask of the handkerchief to regain her composure. “On the way here, I learned the new marshal’s had much sorrow in his family the last few years and that last hymn brought back many painful memories. I was offering him the comfort that any of the women of this town would have shown him. I just happened to be the closest.” That set her back, Kate noticed with satisfaction. She kept a straight face while she wiped away the last of her tears. Martha came between them and took each by an elbow.
“Come now, you two. Let’s make some lemonade. I have a little pie left, too. Let’s go down to my place, and we’ll talk while I take in the wash. Kate can return the dress tomorrow.”
As they walked down the long hill toward the back of the Haskells’ house, Kate saw Monday reach the livery yard. He gathered up his saddlebag and blanket. Then he guided Lightning up River Street and headed north toward the Platte River crossing. She wondered what he’d find out at the ranches, farms, and mines. Would asking questions be dangerous? She regretted again putting Monday’s name on Taggart’s corpse. She hoped the young cowboy didn’t believe in omens.
Chapter Eight
Tuesday
Arrow Ranch
Monday’s horse splashed across the Platte River. It ran shallow and sluggish at this point, no more than two feet deep. He stopped on the far bank and dismounted to fill his canteen. While he w
as at it, he splashed some water in his face. Lightning tossed his head and whinnied.
“I know, boy. Who’d want to talk to a tear-streaked marshal?”
Lord, it was hard to hear that hymn again. If he’d left a little quicker, maybe Kate would’ve had her nose stuck in the hymnal and wouldn’t have seen him leave. Of course, then she wouldn’t have caught and held him like she did. She sure felt good. Smelled nice, too.
Remembering Kate at her bath yesterday, he wished he could have put his arms around her. But people would have noticed. Some of them knew Taggart was married. He’d mentioned Emma in one of his letters. Joe asked about Emma when they were loading the coffin on the wagon. There went any chance he had to court Kate before he left for Montana. He climbed back aboard Lightning and guided him up the road onto the bank.
Court her! Why would she want anything to do with a drifting cowboy? No job, no prospects, bound for another territory. Not to mention no education, no family. Punch a few thousand cows for a dozen years and he’d have enough for a little spread of his own—maybe. Why would a woman like Kate want to live as a small rancher’s wife on a no-account spread so far north the snow’d probably melt only a couple months a year?
“You’re dreaming, Malone,” he said aloud. “She’ll be married to someone else long before you’d make a fair catch. Better enjoy looking at her while you can. One way or another, this charade is going to end. And when it does, you’ll have to get out of town fast when they find you’re no Sam Taggart.”
He urged Lightning into a trot and fished out of his pocket the map Joe sketched for him. Four ranches and a farm on this north side of the river. A farm and two mines back on the south side, east of town. He’d be doing well to check the first couple of ranches this afternoon, sleep over at one, check the other ranches tomorrow, then splash across the Platte between here and Fort Fetterman at—he squinted at Joe’s scrawl—Sloan’s Ford, and check out the farm and mines south of the river on Thursday. Hope nobody needs a marshal in town before Thursday evening.
The first ranch was to the left of the road about a half-hour north of town, past some little sandy hills. He and Lightning passed a few skittish antelope as they rode north.
Joe had indicated owner’s names, but not the names of the ranches. Monday almost missed the road leading in to what Fitch had called “the Masterson place.” He and Bull had smiled for some reason when they said that would be his first stop. He rode for a few more minutes, until he saw an arched gate ahead and farther up, tucked against a low hill, a ranch house, barn, and corral. The sign over the gate proclaimed this place “Arrow Ranch.” The brand looked to be two sideways “Vs” connected by a straight line, sort of a crude arrow.
Barking announced Monday’s arrival. A woman drawing water from a well to the left of the house looked up at his approach. She had brown hair with a little gray, pulled back into a bun, and wore an apron over a faded calico dress. The woman shielded her eyes to look at him, then spoke sharply to the big yellow dog at her feet.
“Sampson, be hushed, now! It’s just another cowboy. Good afternoon,” she said to Monday. “I don’t recognize you, Mister. Are you lookin’ for work? My husband and son’ll be back soon. Slide off and cool your saddle. You’re welcome to wait. Take supper with us, too.”
“Thank you, Ma’am,” Monday said, stepping down. “I’m not looking for work, but you’ve got a nice spread here. I’m the new marshal, Sam Taggart.” She didn’t react to his name.
“I’m forgettin’ my manners, Marshal. Pleased to meet you. I’m Rosalee Masterson. This—” she indicated the porch of the ranch house, where the front door had just opened—“is our daughter Rebecca.”
A girl stepped to the porch rail and smiled at him. She looked about sixteen or seventeen, with long, curly auburn hair, freckles and a wide smile. Her gingham dress was yellow. No apron on her, but she was carrying a rifle with practiced ease. The dog must have alerted her.
“Afternoon, Mr. Taggart. I heard you introduce yourself to Mama. You didn’t say if you’d stay for supper. Whoever you are, that invite’s open to the marshal as much as some cowboy.” Her husky, breathless voice sent a shiver through him.
Oh, Lord. He’d just been wishing for someone like a rancher’s daughter, like Mary Ellen. No wonder Joe and Bull had smiled. She was enough to turn the heads of even married men, and he wasn’t feeling particularly married right now.
He tipped his hat. “Afternoon, Miss. I might maybe stay to supper. I’ve got to ask your Pa some questions, and I don’t know how long that’ll take. Guess I could water my horse and help out a little ’til then. Here, Mrs. Masterson, let me help you with that bucket.”
“You take your horse to the trough over there in the corral, Marshal,” said Rosalee, disdaining his offer and hauling the heavy bucket toward the porch. “My Dave and Corey will be back here directly. They went to check on some strays up on the north side. We got a hundred fifty head of cattle now. If we get many more come next spring, we’re thinking of takin’ on an extra hand. That’s why I reckoned you must be lookin’ for a job.”
Rebecca took the bucket from her mother with one hand. Strong besides beautiful, Monday noted. She paused on the steps and spoke to him over one shoulder draped in curls.
“Marshal, you come on up to the porch after you see to your horse. We have some fresh buttermilk. If you’re partial to buttermilk.” Her breathless voice caressed the word “buttermilk.”
“Yes, Miss. Thank you, Miss. That’d be fine.” Monday let out a whistling breath as he turned and walked Lightning to the trough. Mercy. Now he knew why Doc used that word after Kate left last night.
An hour later, two horsemen rode up to the house. Dave Masterson was maybe forty-five and chubby, with a big white hat. When he took it off, his damp thinning hair formed stripes across his head. Dave’s light-haired son Corey towered over him and looked to be in his early twenties. Monday shook hands and introduced himself. They showed no more reaction to the name Sam Taggart than the women had.
Monday helped with chores until the meal was ready. As he forked fresh straw in the barn, he noted a black horse in one stall, but it was a pony, little more than a year old. Not big enough for the one he wanted. None of the other horses had black tails.
During the meal, the Mastersons invited him to stay the night. Between Rosalee’s cooking and the chance to look at Rebecca some more, Monday readily agreed. After supper, the three men sipped coffee on the porch.
“Rosalee says you’re here on business, Marshal. What brings you out here so soon?”
Monday took Kate’s drawing out of his vest pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Corey.
“Shoot,” said Corey, looking at it first before giving it to his father. “You chasin’ him, Marshal? Looks like a tough customer to me.”
“Yeah, he was, Corey. But no, I’m not chasing him. Somebody caught up with him and put a big slug in him. He was a cowboy from Texas riding with me, shot from ambush south of town yesterday morning. Brought him in and we buried him today at the town cemetery. New schoolmarm drew this likeness. You ever seen him before? He’d be about your age, Dave.”
“Naw, don’t reckon I’ve seen him before. Nice drawin’, though. New school teacher, you say? Well, our young ’uns are too old to go to school any more.”
“Really? Miss Rebecca, too?”
“I’m gonna be eighteen this fall, Marshal,” she said proudly, tossing her hair. “Don’t figure there’s much more I need to learn that Mama hasn’t taught me already.” She brought out sugar for the coffee, and buttermilk for herself.
Monday showed the women Kate’s sketch. “Either of you ladies recall seeing this man? Maybe a stranger to these parts, but maybe not.” They shook their heads.
“Dave, your wife said you were thinking on hiring help in the spring. I ’spose this fella mighta been looking for a job. Anybody else hiring?” He hoped his question sounded casual.
“Naw, don’t think so. We mentioned around W
arbonnet we might need some help in the spring, but nobody’s asked about a job yet. When we’re ready, we’ll write up somethin’ to send to the Laramie paper with Roy Butcher. We get a few cowpokes coming through, headin’ for Montana.”
Monday blew across his cup to hide his expression. “And do they find work up there?”
“Sure do,” Corey said. “This is one of the main trails north, so they pass through Warbonnet, but they don’t all stop at the ranch. What visitors we get are mostly soldiers on patrol from Fort Fetterman.” For some reason, this made Rebecca blush. Nice contrast with her green eyes, Monday noticed. He’d never seen a green-eyed woman before. Neither had a lot of men, he supposed. Likely made this gal a real magnet.
“Corey, you stop joshin’ Becky,” his mother warned. “We see some soldiers pass through here nearly every week. They make a loop out of Fort Fetterman along the Trail and then turn north. They usually stop here for water and sometimes buy a steer to take back with ’em. That nice Lieutenant Beamish always seems to stop his patrol here, anyway.”
Becky excused herself. “Mama, I’m goin’ down to settle the milk cows in the barn and check the chickens one last time. Marshal, there’s an empty stall or two down in the barn, unless you’d rather use our front porch. Looks like it’s gonna be a nice night.” She took a bucket down to the barn. Her skirt twitched as she walked. No one said anything. Monday thought maybe his hosts were assessing him by his silence.
“Uh, think I’ll take the barn later tonight. Straw will be softer than this here porch. Thank you folks for your kindness. And ’specially you, Ma’am, for that fine cooking.”
While they waited for Becky to return, Dave and Corey told him about the ranches and farms he was going to call on tomorrow and Thursday. A little farther up the road and east of it was Mike Logan’s X-Star Ranch, an all-bachelor spread so far. Logan had filed his claim about the same time as the Mastersons and had a foreman and four or five hands. Not particularly friendly, Dave reckoned, but a good neighbor anyway, and he knew the cattle business.
Murder for Greenhorns Page 8