Murder for Greenhorns

by Kresge, Robert

  “What does it mean? Do you think? . . .”

  “Yes, Miss Kate, I think somebody shot up that picture deliberate, to send us a message.” Just like the message to her in the schoolhouse, and maybe sent by two people. The same people? Could they have damaged the school before shooting up the jail? When she looked at the hammer marks on the blackboard this morning, she’d seen they weren’t round, but oval—marks like pistol butts would make.

  “What about your school, Miss Kate? I saw the damage to your blackboard this morning and heard you tell Roy it was probably just a prank. Some of those marks looked higher than a child could reach. Anything you’d like to tell me?”

  Kate made light of the damage, saying she could get Roy to paint some boards black in order to replace the cracked blackboard. They’d work almost as well. But she was concerned about the possible link to the jail shooting. She couldn’t share her suspicions with Monday. If he thought she was in the least bit of danger, he’d call off the investigation and tell the council who he really was. She bit her lip.

  How could she lie to this man or deceive him? He trusted her to share information with him, just like she trusted him. He wouldn’t lie to her or hold anything back, no matter how dangerous. Was she falling back on her old habit of keeping secrets?

  “No, I don’t think so,” she said finally. She looked down at her lap and wouldn’t meet his eye. They couldn’t say much more in front of an audience. They rode on at a gentle pace for a while, answering the children’s questions about everything from dragonflies to clouds.

  At last Monday stopped and Kate reined the buggy to a halt.

  “Yesterday, when Bull and me were out here helping fix Gunderson’s wagon, we saw a man on a big black horse up on that ridge yonder. But I didn’t have Lightning then. I had it in mind to come back here today with you and then ride up there, see if I could find his trail. But now. . . .” He trailed off, indicating the children.

  Kate put her hand to her throat. If not for the presence of the children, Monday would have ridden up there looking for a man who could shoot him from half a mile away.

  When she felt her voice wouldn’t waver, she said, “Well, we’re certainly glad you didn’t have the opportunity to do that, Marshal. You might be riding into great danger. You wouldn’t leave these children and me out here all alone, would you? But how could you find his trail? I can’t see any landmark on that ridgeline.” She squinted and put her hand to her hat brim.

  “Look right down here, Miss Kate. See this twist of buffalo grass? I lined up where I saw him ride over the ridge and put two stacks of stones just over there. This here twist of grass lines up with those rocks back there to point me to the spot.” He sighed. “I reckon I’ll have to come back out here alone tomorrow morning.” He stood in his saddle and looked along the ridge.

  Kate fought to stem her rising fear. If he came back here tomorrow and rode over that ridge, he might be killed. She wanted to solve this murder, but not at the cost of another death. Monday’s death.

  “How far is it to Sloan’s Ford now?” she asked, trying to speak calmly.

  Monday told her it would only be a few more minutes. They hadn’t gone far when he signaled her to stop again. Down the ridgeline where he said he’d seen the dark rider yesterday rode nearly two dozen Indians. They headed for Sloan’s Ford just ahead and, as the little party watched, the Indians entered the ford and splashed across the river, heading south. One big man turned his pony on this side of the ford and stood guard facing them. Monday sat motionless, staring back at the lone Indian a hundred yards away. After the others crossed, the big brave broke off and followed them.

  “Goodness,” Kate breathed at last. “We were fortunate not to be at the ford when they crossed. Shouldn’t we go back to town?” Her heart beat so hard that her hands shook. She pressed them to her lap. Monday didn’t seem to have noticed.

  “Well, I’m no expert on Indians up here in Wyoming, but it looked like their horses were painted and the riders weren’t. That likely means they’re on a hunt, not a war party. Still, we’ll let them get a little farther along before we go down to the ford.”

  “Why was that last one just staring at us, Marshal?” piped up Buxton.

  “He was showing me how tough he was, giving me his ‘you don’t want to fight me’ look.”

  “Were you giving him your tough look back?” asked Sally.

  “No. That was my ‘I ain’t impressed’ look. Reckon it’s a good thing I didn’t make him mad. He had a lot of friends with him.” Monday and the children chuckled. Why didn’t they seem to feel the fear that had turned Kate’s blood to ice? Indians. Oh, God.

  Kate kept her hands busy with the reins, so Monday wouldn’t see them shaking. At the ford, they pulled off the trail and left the wagon in the shade of the willows. Sally and Kate carried the food basket and drinks. Kate found a spot where she and Sally set out the blanket and food. Monday unhitched the horse, then hobbled him and Lightning close to the river where they could graze and water.

  There was chicken with cold potatoes, pickles, and biscuits. They washed it down with a big jar of lemonade and sent the children to play on the gravel bar for a while.

  “What do you make of last night’s warning?” Kate asked softly when they were alone.

  “Nobody could’ve shot that well by accident. I think somebody recognized your drawing of Sam Taggart. It was his way of saying he knows I’m not really the marshal. The killer knows the man in that picture’s dead. That’s likely what shooting the eyes out meant.”

  And Monday could be dead, too, Kate thought. That was the rest of the message. Oh, God. Between Indians and riders on big black horses, and the two warnings right there in town last night, playing detective didn’t seem as harmless as she’d thought when she talked him into this. A plan took shape in her head. Maybe she couldn’t help keep Monday safe in his own jail, but she might be able to lower the odds a little out here on the Cutoff.

  Kate got up quickly, trying hard to project a carefree attitude she didn’t feel, and pulled Monday to his feet. Together, they went down to the river. She slipped her shoes off and reached up under her skirt to remove her knee-length stockings demurely. She waded out into the cool, shallow water, holding her skirt up, and went to join Buxton and Sally on the gravel bar. The three of them called teases to Monday as he pulled off his boots and socks, rolled his trousers, and moved out to join them. Then he remembered something and waded back to shore, where he took off his gunbelt before wading out to join them. Kate thought about the Indians again, but said nothing and tried to join in the fun.

  For half an hour, they skipped stones, scared the fish, chased and splashed each other, until Buxton stepped in a hole and fell on his rear with a splash. They all laughed, but his accident made Kate and Sally settle down a bit. They held up their skirts and carefully waded out a little deeper.

  Monday should have been helping Buxton back to the north bank, but Kate noticed he was just standing there, staring at her. She realized she was showing not only her ankles, but all of her calves, her knees, and a bit more. Monday didn’t move, just stood and looked at her bare legs through the clear water. Kate didn’t move, either. The water was so deep, she couldn’t lower her skirt. After they stared at each other for what seemed a long time, Sally came back to Kate and said something to her, breaking the spell.

  “Let’s go have some pie, shall we?” said Kate, surprised at the huskiness in her voice. “If we leave Buxton alone with it too long, it will surely disappear.” Monday finally turned away and headed for shallow water.

  “Sally,” said Kate, clearing her throat. “Wait here with me a moment. I shall need your help in a little while. I’ll tell you what I want you to do, but you must promise not to tell anyone. I’ll explain the reason for it in a week or so. Will you trust me and help me?”

  “Of course, Miss Kate.” She sounded happy to be part of a girls’ conspiracy. They talked for a minute, then waded back to the bank.


  Monday had dragged a piece of driftwood over for them, so they could sit down to put on their stockings and shoes. He knelt in front of them with a towel to dry Kate’s legs. She took the towel and thanked him. The thought of him touching her bare legs made her tingle.

  “I’d have to be unconscious or incapacitated before I’d let you take such liberties, Mr. Taggart.” She emphasized “Mister” in order to remind him of his married status—and the presence of children.

  The four of them ate most of the pie. At length, Monday and Buxton went to hitch up the horse and prepare for the ride back.

  After she and Sally got aboard, Kate said, “Now I want each of you to have a turn at driving this buggy. Driving a wagon or cart can be a useful skill, for girls as well as boys. Sally, since you’re oldest, you can go first.”

  This provoked some complaints from Buxton, but Monday shortened the stirrups on Lightning so Buxton could ride. Monday sat in the back of the buggy and dangled his legs, while Sally drove from the center of the seat.

  As they started back to town, Kate watched carefully and soon saw what she was looking for. She reached down and tapped Sally twice on the knee.

  “Oh, Miss Shaw. I think I’m done driving now. Buxton can have his turn and drive us back into town. I really need to go use the bushes over there, anyway.”

  “All right, Sally. Marshal, could you reclaim your horse and set Buxton up to drive the next stretch? I’ll go with Sally.”

  They made their way toward some tall brush by the side of the trail. On the way there, Kate reached down for the clump of knotted buffalo grass and pulled it up by the roots. Around behind the bushes, Kate found the cairns of three flat rocks. She looked back carefully, then threw the grass away and tossed each stone in a different direction. She and Sally giggled, waited for a couple minutes, then returned to the wagon. Buxton was ready to go, puffed up at his chance to drive. Monday had been readjusting the stirrups and didn’t seem to have noticed anything.

  “Ready to go, ladies?”

  “Yes, we are. And I feel better than I have all day.”

  Chapter 19

  Monday, August 1st

  Warbonnet

  Monday rode slowly back down the Cutoff toward Warbonnet. His head hung as low as Lightning’s. He’d ridden out just after dawn in hopes of tracking the man he saw against the skyline on Saturday, of finding him without Kate fretting over his every move.

  But there were no trail markers to find. Or if there were, it was beyond his skill. He’d ridden all the way to Sloan’s Ford, looking vainly for his knotted grass marker on the left side of the trail. It wasn’t there. He returned along the trail even more slowly, and still couldn’t find his marker. Once or twice he stopped at likely jumbles of rocks on the north side of the trail, but couldn’t find any stacks of three.

  Finally, in frustration, he rode up the hillside at random, searching for tracks on the slope itself and then along the ridge top. To no avail. The springy grass had enjoyed two mornings of heavy dew, then this morning’s shower. Deep and wide buffalo tracks grooved the uplands in some places. The only fresh hoofprints he found in those scarred places were the tracks of unshod Indian ponies.

  So Monday gave up and came down from the ridge. Guess this proved he wasn’t cut out to be a lawman. Some “great tracker.” He couldn’t even find a trailhead he’d marked himself. Kate seemed to have all the right ideas. She thought of writing that letter to Nate Boswell in Laramie, putting up the drawing at the jail, and asking questions around town.

  If they couldn’t figure out this murder, he could leave for Montana, but would Kate be safe here? Whoever shot the marshal wouldn’t need to worry after Monday publicly confessed to their charade and left. That is, if Kate behaved herself and stuck to teaching. Fat chance of that. He knew her better now than he had a week ago.

  That was no comfort to him as he rode back into town. He couldn’t think of a reason to keep Lightning saddled, so he went on to the livery stable and turned him loose in the meadow.

  Monday checked the corral and the stalls. Still no big black horse.

  As he walked back to his office to put his rifle away, Monday noticed a man he hadn’t seen before coming out of the bank in a black frock coat. The man stopped and waited for him. Monday shifted the rifle to his left hand.

  “How do? I don’t think we met yet. I’m Sam Taggart, the new marshal.” He put out his right. The other man grinned broadly under his wide dark mustache and took Monday’s hand. They were the same height, but Monday reckoned this man had about fifteen years and thirty pounds on him.

  “I’m Mike Logan, Marshal. I’ve been wanting to welcome you to town since Red Tyler said you called last week. Sorry I wasn’t home at the time. The hands and I were out looking to see if the buffalo that ran across my land the night before had spooked our herd. I’ve been in town once or twice since then, but must’ve missed you. We saw the new schoolteacher, though. My congratulations for bringing her up from Laramie safely.”

  Monday recalled the tracks he’d seen indicated the other men at the ranch had ridden in the direction of town.

  “Thanks, Mr. Logan. You got a right nice spread there. Having a few hands sure helps get the roofs up. Looks like you can handle a good-size herd.” He stopped before showing too much interest in the cattle business. “Did Tyler tell you I had him look at a drawing of a man Miss Shaw and I saw get killed?”

  “Yes, he did. Said it happened along Box Elder Creek. When I came in the other day, I saw a drawing of a man in front of the jail. Was that your murdered man? I’m afraid I didn’t recognize him.”

  Monday took the folded picture out of his pocket. Had he mentioned Box Elder Creek to Red Tyler? Lawmen needed to have good memories.

  “That was one drawing. I have another here showing the man with his mustache. Take a look at this one too.” Monday watched Logan carefully as he took the paper.

  The rancher shook his head and handed the drawing back. “No, sorry. Can’t help you. Are you having any better luck asking other folks?”

  “Nope, but I’m not done turning over rocks yet.”

  “Well, good luck to you, then. I hope you don’t get any nasty surprises turning over rocks. Hasta la vista.” He tipped his hat and walked down the boards.

  “Adios,” Monday said automatically, turning toward the bank. Then he stopped. Why had he spoken to Logan in Spanish? Taggart was supposed to have come from Kansas and Colorado. A cattleman like Logan could be expected to use Mexican lingo, but why would a career lawman answer like he’d done? It was bound to make Logan wonder. Monday watched him go toward the stores. His retreating back gave no hint of suspicion.

  Monday figured he was just getting jumpy. He’d have to be more careful. Then he wondered what he was doing standing in front of the bank, looking like he didn’t have anything to do. Work on the jail had been interrupted. If he wasn’t working on the murder, there wasn’t a whole lot of crime to fight around here. Anyway, not ’til the saloon filled up later.

  That gave him an idea, and he stepped into the bank. Noah Crandall was talking with Mark the teller, but looked up as Monday came in. A little bell over the door rang. Crandall’s version of the jail’s squeaky door, to alert them when someone came in.

  “Can I help you, Marshal? You didn’t come to take your money out already, did you?”

  “No, sir. But I was thinking I should learn a bit more about this town and its finances. Was that a big chunk of money I gave you last week or are there bigger fish in this little pond?”

  Crandall took him to a quiet corner. “That was a good-sized single deposit, but I have several customers who have more than your hundred and eight dollars with us. I can’t go into amounts, of course, but ranchers like Dave Masterson and Mike Logan have large holdings here. Both mines have large accounts, too. They have investors in Denver and San Francisco who’ve put payroll and equipment money in here. And our two stores, Webb’s and Hauser’s, have increasing deposits, too.
Joe and Bull make good money. Even the Mormon coal mine down on Deer Creek makes a respectable profit.”

  “How about you, Mr. Crandall? There must be good money in the banking business.”

  Crandall squirmed a bit. “Well, yes. I have a substantial account, since I founded the bank. But I pay my teller’s salary, and I have a large investment tied up in this building and the safe. Of course, as the town grows, I hope to recoup that investment through interest on loans. Has any of this helped you, Marshal?”

  “Some, maybe,” Monday said, taking off his hat and scratching his head. “I’m not too bad at sums, but I can’t see any connection between bank accounts and this murder I’m looking into. Reckon I was barking up the wrong tree.” He put his hat back on.

  “That’s understandable. We get some large deposits here from time to time and there are some large withdrawals, too. Someone like Mike Logan, for instance, who just withdrew a hundred and fifty dollars, must be glad to have the law in town now. No one has to fear being robbed on the street. Except for that unfortunate Malone who was killed, I think we’ll all feel safer using the roads around here.”

  Yeah, the unfortunate Malone. Monday wasn’t feeling too fortunate right now.

  “Well, thanks for taking the time to help me understand what the bank has and how important it is to have a marshal to protect all that. Afternoon, Mr. Crandall.”

  “Good morning, Marshal. You’ve still got a few minutes left in the first half of the day.”

  Monday walked around the corner to his office. He’d hoped to find one or two big depositors who might feel threatened by a lawman coming to town, but that hadn’t worked out. There were enough large customers at the bank to suggest that everyone might have money, land, goods, or cattle they’d want protected. That hundred and fifty Logan took out was likely payroll money. Thirty dollars a hand seemed reasonable. He hadn’t found any financial reason to kill Sam Taggart.