‘That’s the strange thing. They all congregated down at Mr Miller’s house. Spent some time down there, too. Not the sort of fellas I would have thought Mr Miller would have known.’
‘Oh, and why’s that?’
‘Mr Miller is the richest man in town. He owns the Westmoreland Bank. In fact he owns most things in Coventree.’
‘Mr Miller owns the bank,’ Frank repeated thoughtfully. ‘Whereabouts will I find him?’
‘His house is a big white building down at the south end of town. You can’t miss it. Got fancy pillars outside. Regular mansion it is. When he’s not down at the bank that’s where you’ll find him.’
Frank thought his information was so important the decided to seek out his friends and share it with them. He caught up with Butch and Jessica as they stood on a corner debating which direction to take.
‘That is as good a place as any to start,’ opined the cowboy. ‘Let’s head down and take a look at this Mr Miller.’
The house was very grand indeed, with roman style columns adorning the front and an elaborately decorated porch.
‘I guess he must be purty rich to live in a house like this,’ Frank ventured. ‘It ain’t the sort of place I’ve ever been in.’
‘Me neither,’ Butch agreed. ‘But hell, we gotta ask.’
As they started forward Jessica held back.
‘I don’t feel right going in a house like that. I only ever lived in that old ranch house with Ma and Pa. I only got these old clothes I’m wearing. Ain’t fit for a scarecrow.’
‘Look, Jessica, just because he lives in a high-class house don’t mean he’s any better than us,’ Frank assured her.
But nothing would persuade her to accompany them.
‘I’ll go back to the boarding house and wait for you there.’
‘That liveryman was right when he said it seemed strange those renegades came visiting here.’ Frank observed, as they walked up the long, tree-lined drive.
‘Damn strange.’
A liveried black servant opened the door to their knock. His look of distain was evident as he took in the bedraggled state of the visitors.
‘We’re here to see Mr Millar,’ Butch told him.
Those disdainful eyes looked them up and down. It was plain that Mr Millar’s servant resented two saddle tramps dirtying up the master’s immaculate porch.
‘All tradesmen have to go round the back,’ he said and abruptly closed the door.
‘Doggone if I would pull that uppity black fella out here and trounce him,’ the cowboy spluttered.
He was about to raise the gleaming brass knocker again when Frank restrained him.
‘Let’s go round the back as he says. No use in upsetting folk till we find out what we want.’
Grumbling resentfully, Butch allowed Frank to lead him round the side of the house. Another black face opened the door to them. Though this rear entrance man was not dressed to the same standard as was the front door servant he too looked upon the saddle bums with the equal disdain.
‘Wait here.’
Again the door was closed upon them.
‘Damnit, I’m getting fed up with this.’
Once again Frank had to restrain Butch as he raised his fist to hammer on the door.
‘Goddamnit, Butch he asked us to wait. He’s probably gone to fetch that Mr Miller. We ain’t the most favourable looking fellas to come knocking on respectable folk’s doors.’
Grumbling Butch allowed the older man to persuade him to wait and sure enough the door opened again and an attractive black girl, dressed in a maid’s outfit, appeared in the opening with a tray. She minced past the bewildered men and set the tray upon a table. As they watched she turned to them and curtsied, then she walked back inside.
‘Well I’ll be danged.’
The tray contained glasses along with a jug of lemonade that was rimmed with frosting and had pieces of ice floating in the liquid.
‘You think that’s for us?’ Frank whispered reverently.
‘Hell I know, but I ain’t waiting for no permission to partake.’
They were seated at the table on cane chairs drinking when the door opened and an elegantly dressed man emerged. He was a few inches over six feet with broad shoulders and piercing eyes. Well into his forties, he was clean-shaven and stood very erect looking very imposing as he gazed at his shabbily dressed visitors.
‘Ah, gentlemen, I hope the lemonade is to your liking. My name is Granville Aloysius Garrett Miller. To what do I owe the honour of this pleasurable visit?’
Their host listened attentively to their tale and asked no questions while they talked. Leaving out the detail of their own incarceration during the robbery Butch told it as if they had ridden up to the way station after the raid. He also told of finding the farmhouse and the murdered couple.
‘This girl, she’s the only one as can identify them renegades,’ the cowboy explained. ‘She saw them plain when they murdered her parents.'
At last their host nodded with a slight frown on his face.
‘So what you’re saying is these desperados butchered the travellers at this way station and you have followed them all the way here?’
‘That’s the long and short of it,’ Butch agreed.
‘And you also have a witness who can identify these killers?’
‘Sure thing, her testimony will hang them killers for sure.’
Butch and Frank waited while their host pondered on what they had told them.
‘And you wonder what business they had with me?’
He eyed them speculatively for a moment before continuing.
‘Somehow I think you have the wrong men in your sights. These men you claim were the perpetrators of these atrocities were in actual fact innocent travellers. Strangely enough they had also witnessed the very massacre or at least the aftermath of the deed. They managed to rescue my wife from the slaughter and brought her back.’ He rose from his seat. ‘Let me bring my wife and she can tell you what happened at that way station.’
Granville Aloysius Garrett Miller rose from his chair and bowed to his visitors. As he disappeared indoors Butch and Frank looked at each other with puzzled frowns.
‘A mighty strange twist to the tale if you ask me,’ Frank observed. ‘Do you think we bin mistaken?’
‘Danged if I know, old-timer. The whole business is as queer as a two-headed calf.’
A movement to one side drew their attention. One of the black servants was standing in the garden peering at the two men through the carved rails of the veranda. He was scowling at Butch and Frank but what was even more disconcerting was the shotgun he had poked between the rails and was aiming at the two men. Before they could react another man appeared from the other side and also slid his weapon through the rails to cover them.
‘What the…?’
Butch got no further. The door on to the veranda opened and the owner of the house stepped outside. In his hand was a large pistol.
‘I want you gentlemen to sit very still. My servants have instructions to shoot at the least sign of any hostile move on your part. My gardeners have been summoned and when they arrive they will relieve you of your weapons.’
16.
‘Sheriff, these are the fellas as robbed the stage at Empire Fastness Way Station. I caught them red-handed trying to sell some of the loot.’
Granville Aloysius Garrett Miller threw a holdall on top of the sheriff’s desk. The contents clinked as it landed.
‘Robbed… stagecoach… way station…!’
The sheriff was staring with some bewilderment at the people who had descended upon his office during a peaceful afternoon.
‘You know, sheriff - the report that came in this morning of the robbery.’
The banker was glaring meaningfully at the lawman.
‘The robbery, sheriff!’ Miller grated out. ‘You remember the report came over the wire this morning.’
‘Oh, sure, sure, Mr Miller.’
The s
heriff looked as if he had no idea what Miller was talking about but he was not going to challenge him.
‘Hell damnit,’ Butch protested, ‘we had nothing to do with that robbery, you son of a bitch. You’re trying to frame us. I’ve had one run-in with the law what weren’t my fault. I ain’t going down for something I didn’t do.’
‘See, officer, he’s admitting to having a criminal record,’ Miller exclaimed triumphantly. ‘Slap them in a cell. We’ll send a wire to Wells Fargo we caught the robbers.’
‘Consarn it we ain’t no killers nor no robbers. We’re trailing them fellas as did the killing. The trail led us here to this goddamn town.’
By now the sheriff was on his feet. Butch and Frank watched helplessly as he produced a bunch of keys from a drawer. They could do nothing, for Miller had his servants with him and they kept the two men covered with their shotguns. In a very short time Butch found himself in a similar situation as he had been in Hinkly before being sentenced to prison by Judge Pleasance. His protests were ignored and he was locked in a cell.
‘What the hell we gonna do now?’ he said plaintively. ‘Miller has suckered us into the frame. While those killers walk free, we end up in jail with robbery and murder charges hanging over us.’
‘That goddamn Miller’s in this up to his neck. Those renegades must have brought him the loot from the stage. I reckon he’s what’s called a fence,’ Frank observed dolefully. ‘He’s cooked our goose good and proper.’
‘Hell we gotta get outa here and pronto. The last time I went afore a judge on false charges I got ten years in the pen. This time I reckon they’ll hang me.’
The cowboy rubbed a hand around his neck.
‘I’m too young to die. I got a lot more living to do.’
‘Dang blame, it doesn’t make it any easier being old neither,’ observed Frank. ‘Where the goddamn hell is Joe?’
The prisoners stared at each other with sudden perception.
‘Damnit, say nothing about, Joe. Mebby they don’t know about him. And if Joe’s free he might figure a way to get us outa this fix.’
‘Another thing, Jessica is in mortal danger seeing as we told Miller she was a witness to those varmints’ cruelty and can contradict their story. They’ll as likely as not kidnap her or rub her out. Damn that Miller to hell and back.’
*
There was no one at the livery when Jessica arrived back there. She decided to wait and looking around found a comfortable pile of straw inside an empty stall. Dolefully she parked herself on this and waited for her new friends. Gradually the stresses and horrific events of the past days took their toll and she fell into a doze.
Men’s gruff voices awoke her and at first she thought her companions had returned. But the voices were unfamiliar. The straw was warm and soft beneath her and she lay quietly listening.
‘Hey, anyone here? Where the hell’s that liveryman?’
‘Coming, coming,’ an irascible voice answered. ‘Can’t a fella get no peace around here?’
‘We’re looking for a bunch of riders come in this afternoon. Had a girl with them. We’re looking for the girl. She’s run away from home and her ma and pa wants her taken back.’
Jessica’s eyes snapped open, her sleepiness suddenly gone.
‘Well, if that doesn’t beat all. Yeah, those fellas did stop here. Got their horses back there in the corral. They were enquiring about a place to stay. I sent them down to Mary Todd’s place. If you want to find that young gal that’s the most likely place to look.’
There was the sound of steps retreating from the livery.
‘Well, if that doesn’t beat all. Run away from home. Dang kids.’
Complaining about the ingratitude of children the liveryman shuffled back to his cubbyhole. Jessica sat up. She figured the men were looking for her. For some reason they had made up the story that she was a runaway. Cautiously she peered out into main alleyway of the deserted stables as she pondered her next move.
The men looking for her would go to the boarding house and not finding her would go back to their boss for instructions. She would have to go to the big house and tell Butch and Frank about the men looking for her. They would know what to do. Her mind made up she exited the stables, after making sure the men searching for her were nowhere in sight.
Once again Jessica hesitated about approaching the grand house. To her unsophisticated eye the place looked like a palace. Overcoming her nervousness she pushed inside the gates and made her way through the grounds and around the back.
Within the gardens she heard someone humming. An old black man was hoeing the dirt around a large ornamental tree. This activity was reassuringly familiar for Jessica had done the same job on the vegetable patch at home.
‘Pardon me, mister, I’m looking for two men who came here a little while ago. Can you tell me where they’re at?’
‘It shore a fine day for hoeing, Missy.’
‘I guess. Did you see those two fellas – one was old like and the other was a younger fella, dressed in cowboy style?’
‘It shore a fine day for hoeing, Missy.’
The man never ceased his rhythmic movement – the blade of the hoe sliding through the dirt, levelling the almost perfect tilth.
‘It shore a fine day for hoeing,’ he repeated.
Jessica glared with some exasperation at the man. Before she could remonstrate with him there was the sound of someone giggling. Jessica whirled around to see a young black girl holding a heaped laundry basket. She was grinning broadly at Jessica.
‘You won’t get no sense outa old Amos. He’s gone in the head. Where are you from anyways?’
Jessica joined the young girl and accompanied her as she began walking deeper into the grounds.
‘Me… I… back a ways, yonder.’
Jessica made a vague gesture in the direction of her home.
‘I’m looking for two friends of mine. I left them here a while ago.’
The girl’s eyes widened.
‘You mean those fellas the master took down the jail?’
‘Took to jail! What for?’
They had reached the clothesline and the girl put down her basket and started to peg the wet garments in place. Jessica began to help. The black girl looked with some surprise at Jessica as the young girl worked alongside her.
‘What for they put them in jail?’ Jessica asked again.
‘I don’t know. The master he gave Geraint and Thomas and Passer guns and they held them fellas till Cess and Tebbet came up and took them fellas’ guns. They marched them all down the jail. That’s where they at now.’
Jessica stared in distress at the laundry girl.
‘What am I gonna do? They were my friends.’
‘You come up the house with me. I’ll sneak you in back. We’ll try and find out what those fellas did to end up in jail. What your name? I’m Ruth.’
Carrying the empty basket the young laundry maid turned and began to walk back towards the house. Jessica trudged alongside her, distress showing plainly on her face.
17.
Joe was looking with some satisfaction at the little pile of coins on the table in front of him. He was thinking if his luck ran on like this he would accumulate enough to buy his pals a drink when they all met up again.
‘Raise a quarter,’ a slightly tubby man wearing a brown derby threw his coins into the pot.
There was about four dollars in the centre of the table. Joe was an astute player and he had assessed his opponents around the poker table. He had figured the guy in the derby as a cautious player. The man would not be bluffing. He would have something substantial in his cards to back up his quarter. Joe looked with some regret at the pair of sevens in his hand and decided to fold. He tossed his cards to the table with a wry expression.
‘I’m outa this one.’
‘I’ll see your bet and raise,’ the man with the unlit cigar clamped in the corner of his mouth said.
Derby hat was unsure. Joe could see hi
s eyes shift from the pile of coins on the table to his cards. Joe regarded his fellow card players carefully.
This was how you gauged your opponents. By watching their little mannerisms, you assessed their strengths and weaknesses and could tell when someone was bluffing and when they held a good hand. But his attention was distracted by a sudden disturbance. There was the scraping of chairs being pushed back and a flurry of movement behind him.
‘Goddamn you to hell, you been cheating all along.’
Joe twisted round to see what was going on. Two of the card players at the next table were on their feet while their companions sat frozen in place. Both the men were armed. Joe sensed the situation could explode into violence. He saw he was in no immediate danger for the men facing each other were to the side of him. If shooting started he was well out of the line of fire. However he made up his mind to fling himself on the floor if things got out of hand.
‘Take that back. You’re accusing me because of your own cheating.’
‘I saw you plain. That card came off the bottom of the deck.’
‘Look guys, let’s settle this peaceable,’ a man at the table with a large walrus moustache pleaded.
He may well not have wasted his breath.
‘No one accuses me of cheating less he can back it up.’
The man accused of cheating wore a small goatee beard and a surly look. His opponent was a young cowboy with a frank open face. The cowboy took a step back from the table.
‘I say again you’re a miserable, low-down, cheating coyote. You’ve been cheating all night. Just put the money you stole from me and these other fellas on the table and I’ll allow you to walk outa here. Otherwise you can be carried out.’
Goatee beard’s face twitched as he saw his accuser was not going to back down.
‘Damn you, you’re just a poor loser. You’re more at home with those dumb cows you herd than in civilised company.’
There was a sudden movement as the other players at the table pushed back their chairs and scrambled to get out of the line of fire should shooting break out.
Joe was sitting quietly tensed as he watched the two protagonists. Off to one side of the cowboy he saw a furtive movement. As he watched he saw a man to the forefront of the crowd stealthily pull his side arm. He caught the slight movement of the tinhorn as he signalled the man in the crowd. Suddenly the carpenter realised the young cowboy would not stand a chance against a sneak bullet from behind.
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