Standing in the very spot where Johnny McCoy had stood, Chantry turned slowly around, studying the angle at which the bullet must have come.
Years of using guns, trying to make every shot count, and using a gun always with purpose and never for casual amusement, had taught him a good deal about guns. It had also taught him a great deal about the men who use guns.
This man was shooting to kill, not to frighten or wound. Therefore he must have been confident of his marksmanship, as well as of his position. It was still light, so the man must have been concealed, must have fired, then abandoned his position instantly. He must have abandoned it in such a way that he would not be noticed, or if noticed his presence would surprise no one.
Rarely is anyone unobserved, even when they are most sure they are unseen. There is nearly always an eye to see, and often a mind to wonder.
Hence the unknown marksman had to select a concealed position to which he could gain access without being seen, or if seen it had to be a position where his presence would not require explanation.
Johnny, of course, might have turned as the bullet struck. Might even have been starting to bend down. The bullet holes had seemed to be slightly slanted down as though fired from a slightly higher elevation.
Borden Chantry stood with his hands on his hips, looking around. If the killer had remained in firing position he would now have him, Chantry, under the gun. And he had already been shot at once.
Slowly he turned. There were two second-story windows in the bank building from which a bullet could have come. There was one over the stage station office, allowing for some movement from Johnny after he was shot, and there were two or three barns.
These barns each had a loft with doors or windows from which shots might have been fired. All were within two hundred yards--no great distance, certainly.
He prowled about, going from barn to barn, studying distances and elevations. At last he halted and stared around with disgust. What was he trying to do? He was no investigator. Of course, it was like tracking, and he had done a lot of that. Walking back to the McCoy cabin he sat down on the stoop.
It had become dark. Only a few stars were out, and it was clouding up.
Suppose ... just suppose the killer had done as he at first thought? Suppose the killer had fired his shot, then run down to the body?
If he had done that, then what had become of his rifle?
Borden Chantry got up quickly. His asking people to go home had been in hopes no tracks would be made to cover up those he was looking for. But suppose that had trapped the killer? For if the killer had run down to the body, then he had left his rifle either at or near the spot from which the shot had been fired!
Moreover, he must return and get that rifle before he, Borden Chantry, could find it.
If that was true then before many hours were past the killer must leave his living quarters, wherever they might be and slip through the streets and alleys, get the rifle and get back to his room!
Borden Chantry walked into the street and stood there for a moment, making a mental picture of the town. Yet the more he sized up the situation the less he liked it. There had been no real clue in the position of the body of the original victim, but with McCoy it was different, and it offered possibilities. Too many possibilities.
From where McCoy had fallen he could have been shot from any one of six directions and Chantry could eliminate none of them offhand. The trouble was that a man shot dead does not always drop in his tracks. He might have made a full turn, a half turn, or just turned his head, so the angle of the wound was of slight help, no more.
Sighting from the spot where the body had fallen, there was a direct line of sight to the bank ... the rear door of the bank or either of two upstairs windows. There was also a direct line from the back door or window of the Corral Saloon.
Lines could also be laid out to Mary Ann Haley's, the back of the stage company office, the stage company corrals and stable, as well as the back of the restaurant. There were just too many possibilities.
When it came to that, there was a direct line of sight from his own kitchen to the spot where McCoy fell.
Irritably, he shook away the thought.
Bess? It was impossible. Yet out of fairness he must suspect everybody.
If only he could come upon some clue to the man's identity.
Borden Chantry walked slowly up the dusty street, and turning aside, walked toward the rear corner of the Corral Saloon. The shot could have been fired from here. Carefully, he checked the area ... No fresh tracks that he could make out, no cartridge shell, no indication that anyone had stood there.
He crossed the street to the caf`e and went between it and the post office, then walked along behind the buildings to the rear of the stage office. He had no reason to think Blazer might have shot McCoy, but he could not rule it out, either, so he scouted the area thoroughly, then around the corral and the barn where spare horses were kept for the stages.
Nothing.
The night was cool. It was clouding over, and it would be a dark night. Glancing toward the lights of his own windows he thought he saw his wife's shadow against the curtain. She would be feeding the youngsters about now, his own son Tom, and Billy McCoy.
Two men murdered ... and they might be separate and distinctive crimes, but he did not believe it. He walked back between the store and the jail and out on the boardwalk.
The street was empty as the street of a ghost town. The people were cooperating, and that was a help.
No cowboys in town during the week, to speak of.
He crossed the street to the rear corner of the bank, and drew another blank. There was no chance of getting upstairs until tomorrow. He glanced past the corner toward Hyatt Johnson's house, a fine, big, well-built house such as befitted a banker. And a house from which the bullet might have been fired.
He was turning away when he saw, beyond a couple of residences, the vast dark bulk of the old Simmons Freight Barn. The Simmons outfit had operated bull trains out of that barn, freighting to the western mining camps, and east and north to the railroad. A year before they had closed up shop and gone out of business, selling out when the railroad built on west. Now the place was empty.
Or was it?
It was by far the largest building in town, yet he had not even thought of it, for it stood empty and was somehow no longer even a topic of conversation.
Yet from that building, from either the front of the building or from the loft, it would have been an easy shot--not over seventy yards, at best, from where McCoy fell.
He started to cross to the old barn, then turned abruptly away and went across the street to the caf`e. A light still showed there, and he could see Ed washing up.
He opened the door and stepped in.
"Marshal? Just closing up. You sure killed business tonight!"
"Sorry."
"Don't be. I can stand the rest. I got me a good book and some drummer passin' through left me a bunch of newspapers from Omaha and St.
Louis. I surely do like readin' them papers.
It fair worries a body to see what the world is comin' to! Why, the crime in them cities!
You couldn't give 'em to me. I'd rather live here where it's safe."
"Wasn't very safe for Johnny McCoy."
Ed's face was serious. "It surely wasn't. Marshal, I liked that man. Like I said, he was a warm, generous fella, give you the shirt off his back. If you catch the man who did it, I'd like a hand on the rope."
"I'll get him." Chantry spoke with confidence, and surprised himself, for it was a confidence he did not feel. Or did he? Where had that quick reply come from? He was never a man given to making flat statements of what or what not he would do.
Yet the words had come as if springing from a deep well of belief within himself.
"I've got to get him, Ed. This is a good town, a law-abiding town, and I took an oath to keep it so. We've had shootings and cuttings, but mostly not among the townfolk, and ther
e's a change of feeling, Ed. The old days are gone."
"Marshal, I'm going to leave the door open.
There's some meat on that tray, along with some bread and butter. There's coffee in the pot ... fresh-made. I had me an idea you'd be around most of the night, so I made it for you.
"Yonder in the case there's a half of apple pie. Be stale tomorrow. You he'p yourself. I'm going to turn in now."
"All right. Mind if I keep one light burning?"
"Figured on it. Night, Marshal. See you tomorrow."
Borden Chantry carried the pot from the stove to a table along with some slices of meat, bread, and a quarter of the pie.
The light was in the kitchen, and where he sat it was in the shadow. It was dim and quiet, the room smelling faintly of coffee. Straddling a chair, he reached around the back and put a thick sandwich together. Then with his right hand he reached back and took the thong off his gun.
Facing the street from the darkened room, he ate his sandwich and sipped coffee, ears tuned for any slightest sound, eyes for any movement.
The old building creaked slightly as the heat left it. A lone dog trotted across the street, pausing to sniff some object lying in the gutter.
Gradually, his eyes became more and more accustomed to the dark, and from where he sat, invisible himself, he could look northeast past the corner of the bank toward Hyatt's house, across the street at the Corral Saloon, lighted but empty, and southwest past the rear of the Mexican restaurant toward Mary Ann's.
The kitchen was on his left, the wall of the building behind him, and beyond that the dark area that divided the restaurant building from where his own home stood.
He ate his sandwich, drank his coffee, and then poured a new cup and tied into the apple pie.
He was lifting the second bite to his mouth when his eye caught a faint shifting of shadows near the rear of the bank.
For a moment he was very still. Had he deceived himself?
Had something really moved? Or--his He put down his fork and wiped his hands on the rough napkin. He got up, stepping back from the chair, and on cat feet he went to the door.
Nothing moved.
Yet he had seen something. Was it the old dog?
His mind told him no.
The door opened easily under his hand, with only the faintest of squeaks. He stepped out on the boardwalk, crossed it with one more step and started across the street vaguely lit by the light from the Corral Saloon. He swore softly. If anybody was watching, they could not help but see him.
The saloon seemed empty. There was no sign of anybody around. He went quickly to the corner and looked past it toward Mary Ann's ... A shadow moved against the curtain, but there was no sound of music. Then he remembered. Mary Ann was ill.
The Mexican caf`e was dark.
Holding close to the wall of the saloon, he walked toward the rear, and looking past the corner he could see the great bulk of the Simmons barn.
All was black and silent.
He rested a hand on his gun, straining his eyes toward the old barn. Yet he saw nothing ... it was something he heard.
Something he felt.
Hesitating only a second, heart pounding, he crossed toward the barn. His toe kicked a small pebble and it rattled against others. He swore mentally, reached the corner of the barn and edged along toward the door.
It stood open ... only a few inches.
He drew a long breath, felt his mouth go dry and his heart pounding in slow, measured beats, and then he stepped through into the darkness.
He felt the blow coming before it hit him. He started to turn, and then something smashed down on his skull and he felt himself falling ... falling ... falling. ...
Chapter VII
He grabbed out wildly, seizing upon a boot, but the foot kicked free and he heard running steps. He yelled out, started to rise, then fell back into the straw.
He must have passed out then because the next he knew, several people were standing over him and Prissy was holding his head.
Time Reardon was there, Lang Adams and Alvarez from the Mexican caf`e.
"I hear you yell, se@nor," Alvarez said.
"I grab a gun. I come to help, but there is nobody, only you on the ground."
He got up shakily, his skull buzzing.
"Thanks, I'll be all right."
Prissy stood back, and as he raised his eyes, Borden could see somebody ... Hyatt, undoubtedly ... standing in the door of his house, light streaming past him, looking to see what the confusion was about.
"I got slugged," he explained.
"Somebody was in the barn."
"Did you see him?" Reardon demanded.
"Did you get a look at him?"
"No ... no, I didn't. I was lucky not to get killed."
"You've got a thick skull," Lang said, grimly. "Or you would be dead. Bord, if you're going to keep on with this, you should have a deputy. You could get yourself killed."
"I ... I'll make out." He shook his head but it buzzed. "I'm all right. I'll just go along home."
"You'd better wake up Doc Terwilliger," Lang advised. "You've got a nasty cut on your skull."
"Bess will take care of it. She's had experience." Somebody handed him his hat and he checked his gun. Still in its holster. "You all go along home now. I'll be all right."
Lang hesitated. "Bord? If I can help ...?"
"Thanks, Lang. I'll be all right."
When they had gone he turned to the Mexican, who was the last to leave. "Alvarez?"
He turned. "S@i?"
"Were you the first one here?"
"S@i ... I think so, se@nor."
"Did you see anything? Anybody?"
"I ... think ... maybe. Somebody was in the barn, I think. I hear somebody, and there was a light ... then a curse. Curses ... then somebody ran.
"Se@nor?" Alvarez looked up at him.
"I think there were two people in there. I hear curses, then like a scramble and I am coming running, and something moved ... very quick ... and was gone."
"You didn't get a look at him ... or her?"
"No, se@nor."
"Thanks, Alvarez. You got out there mighty fast."
"S@i ... you are the law, se@nor, and the law is good to have. There are savages among us, se@nor. Without the law there is no freedom, there is no safety. I am for the law, se@nor."
When he had gone Borden Chantry walked into the barn, whose door now stood wide ajar.
All was very still. He felt along the wall to where he knew a lantern had hung ...
It was still there.
He raised the globe and, striking a match, lit the lantern. For a moment he just looked around.
The old stable had that musty smell of a place kept closed, mingled with the smell of hay and the leftover smell of harness now gone.
He walked slowly around, glancing into the stalls, at the ladder to the loft, and the dirt floor at its foot. He stopped by the ladder ... nothing. He looked up into the black square of the trapdoor and decided against it.
At the back there was a tack room and a smaller door, and beside that door a barrel with several sticks in it and a wornout broom. A sack lay on the floor near it.
A rifle could have been placed there and hidden under the sack. Yet there were a number of places in which it might have been concealed. No doubt, it was gone now.
After awhile, his head throbbing painfully, Chantry walked home, pausing to lean against a building at one point, his head feeling heavy and awkward.
Bess met him at the door, her face shocked at his expression.
"Oh, Borden! Borden, what happened?
You've been shot!"
"Not shot." He tried to grin. "Just rapped on the skull. I'd better sit down, Bess."
She helped him to a chair, then went to the sink for water. It felt good just to sit down. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. In a moment he felt the soothing touch of the warm cloth as Bess dabbed away the matted blood in his hair.
"It's
a nasty cut, Borden, and it's all discolored ... bruised."
"I'll be all right. He was waiting for me, just inside the freight barn."
"Who was it, Borden?"
"I wish I knew ... But I've a clue.
A small clue, but a clue."
"What is it, Borden?"
"No ... not now. I'd rather not say, and you'd think it too unimportant ... And maybe it is." He got up unsteadily. "I'm going to bed, Bess. All I need is rest."
The gray, slivery wood of the boardwalks was hot to the touch. The dusty street was empty and still.
It was just short of noon, and the town was quiet, waiting, listening.
Judge McKinney sat in the Bon-Ton over an early lunch. He was a big old man in a threadbare gray suit, the vest spotted from food spills at some bygone meal. Under his black hat his hair was gray and thick, his beard the same.
"Sorry to hear about Borden Chantry," he said to Hyatt Johnson. "He's a good man."
"A good rancher ... At least he was. But do you think he's the man for this job, Judge?
Why, he told me yesterday he planned to get a court order from you to examine the bank files.
That's unheard of!"
"Not quite, Hyatt. Not quite. It's been done a time or two, and Borden's not a man to go off on a tangent. If he wants to see your files he no doubt has good reason."
"But I can't let--"
Judge McKinney leveled his cool gray eyes at Johnson. "Hyatt, if I write a court order for Borden Chantry to see your files, he'll see them."
Hyatt Johnson hesitated. That was not what he wanted, not what he wanted at all. He had been so sure that a word to the judge ...
Well, he was the banker, and the judge was the authority. Weren't they on the same side? He hesitated, waiting just a moment, then he said, "Judge, I'd never refuse a court order, of course. But the files have confidential information ... I am sure you wouldn't want everybody having access to your personal financial information, nor would I. I think--"
"Hyatt," McKinney smiled, "I doubt if there's anything in those files that Borden Chantry doesn't know. As for my finances, I venture to say that Priscilla could give you a clearer statement on them than you could ... or I, for that matter.
Borden Chantry (1977) Page 6