Murder for Greenhorns

by Kresge, Robert

  Back at the jail, he spent a little time with the papers Doc had given him, town ordinances he was supposed to enforce. The last sections dealt with stray dogs and collecting taxes. He was supposed to shoot strays or trap them. He remembered throwing rocks the other night to drive coyotes away from the Torricellis’ chicken coop. They should get a big dog like the Mastersons.

  What about back taxes? Looked like Chet Stratman owed the most. What if he and the others didn’t pay? Would the town council order him to arrest shop owners? Would that give anyone a reason to kill the new marshal? Chet, Nick Torricelli, Bull, Joe? No, that was crazy. Joe was on the council. With all this legal stuff to read, who’d ever want to be a real marshal?

  All this studying gave him a headache and made him look forward to walking his rounds. Monday put the papers in a drawer, stretched, and yawned. He picked up his pistol and checked caps and loads. Morning and evening, he did that now. Cowboy or not, he was getting used to the lawman’s habits that might keep him alive.

  As it was getting dark, he made his first two evening checks of stores and the bank on the way to and from supper at Joe’s. Checked the school, too. Kate ought to find a way to keep it locked. He checked the bank again, then headed back to the jail for a while.

  Around nine o’clock, he started another round at the saloon. Just a few miners in so far, drinking and playing cards. They’d left a rifle propped by the door. Monday was talking with Chet at the bar about the little bell that the bank and shops used to tell when customers came in. A voice by his shoulder said, “Sounds interesting. Reckon a saloon needs something like that, so nobody sneaks up on the marshal?” Monday turned to see Quincannon grinning at him. “See, little bells like that would work here, too.”

  “Would not,” Chet said. “With so many folks coming and going, my customers would get tired of the sound and rip ’em down—if I didn’t do it first. Wouldn’t last a day, or a night.” He went back to polishing glasses. A few more miners began to trickle in.

  Quincannon went over to a table. Monday lingered to get a beer, then walked over to join his friend, juggling his mug with a nearly empty bottle of good whiskey and a glass. The big man lit a cigar and offered one to Monday, who declined.

  “I’m trying to stop smoking.” He couldn’t say it was because Kate disapproved; he was supposed to have a wife in Julesburg.

  At that moment, Red Tyler and another cowboy came in and went to the bar. They’d probably ridden in with Quincannon. After a bit, they accepted some miners’ invitation to cards.

  “So, Sam. Logan said he met you yesterday. Had any luck in your hunt for that killer? You even figure out who knew the victim?” Quincannon blew out a huge smoke cloud. Damn, Monday thought. He might as well smoke. The smell would get into his clothes and Kate would think that’s what he’d been doing. After all, she did his laundry now.

  “Nope. Seemed like I was making progress. Miss Shaw saw the killer some ways off when we took cover after the shooting. Can’t say anything about the man, but he had a big horse, probably black. Ain’t found nobody around here with a horse that size and color yet. Thought I’d spotted somebody like that east of town on the Mormon Cutoff Saturday. Marked where I saw him ride off, too, but I couldn’t raise his trail yesterday. When I met your boss, I was still sore that my tracking skills let me down. Hope he didn’t think I was mad at him.”

  Quincannon blew out another cloud of smoke and looked at it thoughtfully.

  “He didn’t mention it. I recollect a couple black horses I’ve seen around here. Young Becky Masterson, I think she rides a black pony. Course, I can’t see her as a killer, can you? And I think I’ve seen one or the other mine wagon in here with a black horse or mule. Don’t remember which mine, though. Maybe theirs.” He pointed his cigar at the card players.

  Monday sighed. He’d nearly ruled out the miners. He glanced over at a miner’s rifle in the corner. Sharp’s carbine. Too short to reach out the distance from that knoll to kill Sam Taggart, and the cartridges weren’t as long as that shell he’d found.

  Maybe he ought to do a better job of checking horses and rifles. Time to make another trip to the ranches, farms and mines? He might wait ’til Roy came back from Laramie with the answer to Kate’s letter, but he needed something to fill his days to keep from fretting about stray dogs and taxes. If he went to the X-Star, he’d want it to be a surprise visit, so he didn’t say anything to his friend.

  He and Quincannon talked a while, Monday lying about his life story, Taggart’s life, really. Talk about gun handling led to Quincannon’s background. He’d worked at many jobs—dry goods drummer, stage driver, buffalo hunter, even a deputy for a few years in Arkansas.

  “During the war, that was. A good job to have. County didn’t think its peace officers ought to go off to the fighting. There was always plenty of trouble to be found in Arkansas and the Indian Territory without going looking for it somewhere else.”

  “That’s a lot of jobs, John. This the first time you’ve punched cows?”

  “Yeah. And I’d rather drive a stage all day or shoot buffalo. Some jobs a man does are more pleasant than others. Some are easier than others. But just ’cause some jobs’re easy or hard, don’t mean you’d want to do ’em more than once.”

  Monday laughed. He couldn’t say anything about tending cattle. He was supposed to be a career lawman. “Amen” was all he could say.

  He drained the last of his beer and decided it was time to take another walk around town. Better show that other X-Star cowboy the drawing of Sam Taggart, but he’d left it in his desk after showing it to the coal miners. He’d get it when he went past the jail. He rose, and Chet came over with a fresh bottle of the whiskey Quincannon favored. Quincannon pulled out a good-sized wad of bills and peeled one off for Chet. Pushing cows must pay better here than in Texas. Maybe a good reason to stick around. Wonder what they pay in Montana?

  The big man got up, too.

  “Another trick I learned as a deputy in Arkansas. You know the ‘Mexican hat trick,’ Sam?” he asked, taking off his hat with his left hand. He passed it across his middle to the right side.

  “Isn’t that where you cover your gun hand with your hat, so you can—” He broke off as his friend pulled his hat away to reveal a pistol in his hand. Monday hadn’t noticed any arm movement.

  “Smooth, John. Very smooth. Maybe I’ll practice that for when I might need it.” Yeah, maybe when he went back to Millbank’s ranch.

  “I’ll see you in a few minutes. I’m fixing to make my rounds again and pick up my drawing. I’d like to show it to that other hand yonder. Who is he?”

  “Jasper Tenney. One of Logan’s original hands. I expect I’ll still be here.” He poured a glass of whiskey.

  Monday found nothing amiss on his next round. It was full dark by now. He tipped his hat and stopped to talk with Mrs. Odom and another woman on their way home from the Crandalls. He picked up the drawing from his office and headed back to the saloon. As he got closer, he heard shouts, chairs scraping back, and the sound of a breaking glass. He stopped at the door and looked in from the shadows, following Taggart’s advice.

  Jasper was on his feet, swaying and pointing at one of the miners, who sat as if stuck to his chair. Red tried to calm his friend, but Jasper pushed him away. Chet Stratman was staring wide-eyed. No sign of Quincannon. Couldn’t tell if he’d gone out back to the privvy or was gone for the night. His glass was empty, and the bottle of good whiskey was stoppered. The bottle gave Monday an idea. Jasper hadn’t drawn his gun yet.

  Monday tied down his holster and slipped the hammer loop off his pistol before easing through the doorway. He got fairly close to the confrontation before Chet saw him.

  “Marshal, . . .” Chet began. The other men turned their heads. There went his hope of surprise. Monday held up both hands to indicate they were empty. Could he handle this quietly?

  “Marshal,” Jasper said, slurring the word. “These here bastards been dealing off the bottom o
f the deck to Red and me. Took ten hands in a row. Nobody could have a run of luck like that, lessen they was reading spots or shaved the deck. I’m gonna kill me a miner tonight.”

  “Jasper,” Monday said, moving over casually to Quincannon’s table and turning slightly away from the cowboy. “That ain’t you talking, it’s the whiskey. You don’t want to kill nobody and do time in my jail. Talk to him, Red. He ought to listen to you.” Monday picked up the whiskey bottle with his left hand and turned back.

  “He don’t listen to nobody when he gets like this. He can’t handle whiskey and losing.”

  “Damn right. And I ain’t gonna spend no time in your jail, neither. Quincannon may think you’re somethin’ special, but I don’t. No greenhorn marshal’s gonna get the drop on me and haul me away. You got a gun there. Let’s see how fast you are.” He squared off and faced Monday, hand over his gun butt.

  “You know, Jasper, Quincannon would want you to have a drink of his good stuff and just go home and sleep it off.” He held the bottle out in his left hand. “How about it? On me.” He glanced down at Jasper’s empty glass and raised his eyebrows. Jasper licked his lips. When he glanced down at his glass, Monday made his move.

  He pushed the whiskey bottle in a straight throw for Jasper’s midriff. As the cowboy instinctively brought up both hands to catch it, Monday drew his own pistol, cocked it, and pointed it at Jasper’s belly.

  “Long as you keep both hands on that bottle, you’ll be all right. Red, hook his gun out, will you?” After Red did so, Monday moved in, uncocked and holstered his pistol. He took the bottle out of Jasper’s hands. “Now, I ain’t got a bunk for you in my jail yet, so I reckon Red here is going to take you home. You can have this gun back tomorrow.”

  Red hustled Jasper out the front door. The miners expressed their thanks and began to collect their rifles to leave. Monday cautioned them to wait until they heard the sound of the cowboys riding off. After a couple minutes, they left, too. He brought the bottle over to Chet.

  “If we’d had a little bell over that door, that cowboy’d a-heard ya come in and mighta gone for his gun before all that palaver. Reckon there ain’t no way to gun-proof this place. Thanks for settling it with no shootin’. I was worried when you flung a bottle of my best.”

  Monday didn’t dispute the issue and went out to walk another round. Everything was quiet now with no drinkers in the Alamo. Maybe he could turn in early. On the next round after that, his lone contribution to peacekeeping was telling two women from a wagon train that he hadn’t seen their husbands in the saloon. They should try the livery stable, where the men could be discussing stock with Joe Fitch.

  Buxton found Monday down between the assay office and the coal yard a half hour later. “Marshal, Marshal, I seen the big black horse.”

  “Where, Buck? When?”

  “Tied behind the saloon. I was returning a pocket knife to Mr. Devoe and took the back way, ’stead of along the street. And there it was. Black as a shadow at midnight. Maybe a half hour ago. Mr. Devoe didn’t know where you were. When I went by your office, Petey’s ma saw me and insisted on feedin’ me a big piece of pie. Thought I might not find you ’til daybreak.”

  They walked as far as the bank, where Monday stopped the boy.

  “You did good, son. Now I want you to wait here while I check this out.” Who could have ridden a black horse? The miners? Red and Jasper? Quincannon? Someone who saw the commotion with Jasper and didn’t come in? The men from the wagon train?

  Monday left him there and went across to the saloon. He walked softly to the corner of the building, then drew and cocked his pistol. When he turned down the alley, he could barely see his hand in front of his face. No light to see any horse. Then Chet opened the back door to toss out some wash water. By the light of the open door, Monday saw the hitch rail was empty.

  Chapter 22

  Wednesday

  Warbonnet

  Kate got up early. She washed, dressed, and helped Martha cook breakfast. The schoolmarm was beginning to accept the idea of a morning’s worth of drudgery before she could think about Taggart’s murder in the afternoons. If she was lucky.

  She washed dishes, then took some wash water out back to dump in the vegetable garden. As she returned to the house, she looked off to her left, down toward the backs of the saloon and the livery stable. Three men were gathered behind the saloon. At this distance, all she could be sure of was that one was Bull Devoe. One of them knelt, then showed something to the others.

  Kate couldn’t remember seeing anyone there before. Of course, she didn’t spend as much time in the garden as Martha. These days she helped mostly with the cooking, which she enjoyed, the dusting and cleaning, which she tolerated, and the laundry, which she detested.

  She was strong enough to fill and dump washtubs and carry baskets of wet laundry. Better her than the children. She did enjoy being out with the clotheslines in the summer sunshine. Martha let Kate work the lines and did the ironing herself. Just as well. Martha was particular about ironing and Kate wasn’t very good at it. She’d get lots of practice when Roy brought back her trunk of clothes.

  She and Martha then cleared the table and stacked their own dishes. Martha went upstairs, while Kate prepared to wash the last items. She heard a knock at the back door. Monday stood there, hat in hand.

  “Good morning, Marshal. You’re too late for breakfast, I’m afraid, and much too early for dinner. But I think. . . .” She lifted the pot. “We still have some coffee, if you don’t mind bottom of the pot.”

  “Morning, Miss Kate. Don’t mind if I do. Bottom of your pot’s probably better’n what I make. I saw you were out early this morning, so I came calling.”

  “Was that you down there? Goodness, I couldn’t identify any of you but Bull. How could you recognize me from that distance?” She poured him a cup.

  He grinned. “That hair, that dress? Shucks, Miss Kate, any man in this town could tell it was you, even if you was halfway to Fort Fetterman.”

  “You didn’t come here just to drink Martha’s coffee or admire my dress, did you?”

  “Um, no. I came to talk to Buck. Buxton, I mean.”

  “His mother wishes people wouldn’t call him that. He’s beginning to swagger about when he walks. You’d best remember to call him Buxton where his mother can hear you.”

  “Reckon I will, if she’s on the warpath about it. Think she can hear us now?”

  “I don’t think so. She’s upstairs stripping and remaking beds. I’m the scullion this morning. If you don’t want to be overheard, then come over here and put your hands in hot water. Washing and clattering dishes will make some noise to cover our voices. You can dry.

  “So why did you come calling this morning?”

  Monday finished his coffee.

  “Last night, Buck saw a black horse tied at the rail behind the saloon. But by the time he found me and I checked it out, it was gone. This morning, we found the same all-grain manure we saw at the murder scene.”

  Kate shuddered at the killer being in Warbonnet last night. “That explains why Buxton got back so late. We expected him before dark. He got a bit of a licking.”

  “I’m right sorry. I think he’da been late already, but looking for me probably got him in hot water. Hope I can make it up to him. Since he’s the only one who saw this horse, I was hoping he could maybe tell me something about the saddle and tack or if the horse had a brand, or a rifle on it.” He almost dropped a wet plate, so he paid more attention to his work.

  “Who was in town last night?”

  Monday counted on his fingers. “Three cowboys from the X-Star Ranch, some miners from the La Prele. Bunch of cavalry troopers. Maybe men from the wagon train. Buck didn’t tell me whether the horse had Army tack or brand. Might help me to know that, rule out the soldiers if I can.”

  “Well, you’ll have to find him. He took a cold breakfast and went out early, so his mother couldn’t take him by the ear again. Hush, here comes Martha. I
think he may have gone fishing.” She ended in barely a whisper.

  Martha brought in an enormous armload of sheets. “Good morning, Marshal. I see Kate’s got you doing honest work. Have a care with my second best china. Can you get the door for me? Thank you.” She came back in. “How much hot water do we still have?”

  Kate shook the boiler. “Enough for one tub of wash. I’ll do the first one while more water heats. The marshal can carry a full boiler back in from the pump for me, if he would.” With that, she made for the back door with the enormous boiler. Monday barely got the door open before she got there. Out back, Kate filled a wash tub part way with what was in it.

  “Here. Go and fill that about three quarters full and put it back on the hottest part of the stove, please. You may add a chunk or two of coal to the grate.”

  Monday looked around as he pumped water, as if he feared someone would see him. Kate wished she hadn’t spoken to him about the coal as if he’d been one of her pupils. She really didn’t want to tease him any more. When Monday put the big kettle on the stove, stoked up the fire, and clanged shut the fire door, she let him go look for Buxton.

  After boiling, washing, rinsing, wringing, and hanging sheets for an hour, Kate put down her washboard and pushed stray hair from her face. She went to the front porch and found Martha shelling peas. She was so glad to sit that she didn’t mind helping.

  “What did the marshal want, Kate? You had him pretty well housebroke there. I reckon his wife taught him to help with the dishes once in a while.”

  Snap. “You needn’t think I’ve forgotten the marshal is married.” Snap. “He sent off a letter to his wife yesterday and I dare say. . . .” Snap. “She’ll arrive some time this month. I’m not encouraging him in any way.” Snap. “I think he just comes here for your cooking once in a while, and because he and I rode in together.” Snap.

  “What I find interesting is that he hasn’t asked about a room for his wife yet. I’d think a man preparing to bring his wife here would ask about a room. I’m beginning to wonder—”