Paris, France
Inspector Laurent had papers spread out on the desk before him, matching records with the five hundred names he had been given by the port authority in Hamburg. He’d matched up eighty-seven Swiss names with Swiss records. For every name on the passenger list, he found a corresponding name in the Swiss records, and saw nothing extraordinary. He had done the same thing with the one hundred and twelve Belgian names. That left him three hundred and one French names to go through.
The first name was Gaston Abadie. He listed himself as a mechanic and was traveling with his wife and two children. Laurent was sure Abadie wasn’t Pierre Mouchette.
He went on to the next name.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Big Rock
“Hey, piano player. Play Buckskin Joe,” Manning said to the piano player.
Gordon Beaver began to play the song.
In the Brown Dirt Cowboy Saloon, the atmosphere had changed with the onslaught of all the Long Trek riders. Although somewhat more animated than the patrons of Longmont’s, the regulars were overshadowed by the men of Long Trek, who were exceptionally loud and boisterous. They were argumentative with the customers and with each other.
“Hey, piano player. Play Buckskin Joe, again,” Manning shouted.
The piano player complied.
“That was very good,” Manning said. “Play Buckskin Joe again.”
Again the piano player complied.
“All right, how about Buckskin Joe?”
“For heaven’s sake, I’ve played the song three times already,” Gordon said.
“Play it again.”
One more time, Gordon played the song.
“All right. Now, I want you to play Buckskin Joe,” Manning said.
“I have played it four times. I definitely will not play it again.”
Manning pulled his knife, then walked over to the piano player and laid the sharp side of the instrument at the top of the piano player’s ear, right where it was connected to his head. “Mister, you’ll damn well play what I tell you to or I’ll carve off this ear,” he said menacingly. “Now, play Buckskin Joe like I told you to.”
Shaking, with his face reflecting his fear, the piano player played Buckskin Joe again.
“Now, ain’t that the prettiest thing you ever heard?” Manning said when the piano player was finished. “Play it again.”
“Piano player, don’t you dare play that song again,” one of the other patrons said. “It’s driving me crazy.”
“Well now, ain’t that just too bad?” Turning around, Manning saw the man who had called out had a pistol in his hand.
“Peterson, what are you doing? Put that gun away,” Emmett Brown said.
“What am I doin’? I’m goin’ to shoot that crazy piano player if he plays that song again. That’s what I’m doin.” The tone of Peterson’s voice clearly showed his agitation. He cocked his pistol and aimed it at the piano player.
“And I’m going to cut your ear off, if you don’t play it,” Manning said, giggling. “That kind of leaves you in a pickle, don’t it?” He demonstrated his willingness to do so by cutting into the ear just enough to make it bleed.
“Mr. Brown, what am I going to do?” Gordon called out to the saloon owner in fear.
“I don’t know, Gordy. God help me, I don’t know what to tell you to do,” Brown said.
There was a gunshot, and Gordon jerked, causing more of his ear to be cut. He called out in pain, though also with some relief as he realized he hadn’t been shot.
Peterson got a shocked expression on his face, then dropped his gun. Looking around he saw a small man, holding a smoking gun. “What . . . what did you do that for?”
“Me ’n my friends was enjoyin’ the music,” Priest said. “It looked like you was about to stop it.”
Peterson staggered back against the bar, then slid down and died. The bar kept him in a sitting position.
Once more, Gordon began pounding away on the keys. Amy, one of the bar girls, came over to hold a towel against his ear to stop the bleeding.
“Hey, girlie. Sing the song he’s playin’,” Priest ordered.
“I’m not a singer.”
“Sing it or I’ll shoot the piano player,” Priest said.
“Please! I don’t know the words!”
“The words are here,” Gordon said. “Sing it, Amy. Please, sing it.”
“Gordy, you know I can’t sing.”
“It doesn’t matter. Please, Amy,” Gordon begged. “They will shoot me if you don’t sing.”
Amy cleared her throat, then began singing.
“He ties up one foot, the saddle puts on,
With a swing and a jump he is mounted and gone.
The first time I met him, ’twas early one spring,
Riding a bronco, a high-headed thing.
He tipped me a wink as he gaily did go,
For he wished me to look at his bucking bronco.
The next time I saw him, ’twas late in the fall,
Swinging the girls at Tomlinson’s ball:
He laughed and he talked as we danced to and fro,
—Promised never to ride on another bronco.”
Just as the song finished, Sheriff Carson came into the saloon. “Brown, I heard a shot.”
“I reckon you did, Sheriff. Peterson just got hisself kilt.”
“Got himself killed? You mean he committed suicide?”
“No.”
“Then you tell me how a man ‘gets himself killed.’”
“By pointing a gun at me,” Priest said.
Sheriff Carson looked over at the man who spoke. He was a small, thin man with a prominent Adam’s apple and a big nose.
“Are you saying you killed him?”
“Yeah, I killed him. But it was in self-defense. Everyone in here will tell you he had a gun in his hand. Hell, look at ’im. He’s still holdin’ the gun.”
Sheriff Carson looked over at Peterson’s body, and, as Priest said, his fingers were still clinched around the handle of his gun.
“This has been a busy day for me and for Tom Nunnley.” Sheriff Carson looked at Priest. “And for you. I understand you killed two men out at Long Trek.”
Priest smiled. “News gets around fast, doesn’t it?”
“Fast enough.”
“I suppose you also heard that was self-defense. Both Strode and Conn drew on me.”
“Like Mr. Peterson?”
Priest shook his head. “No sir, this one was different. You see, Mr. Peterson already had his gun out. He was threatening to shoot not only me, but the piano player.”
Sheriff Carson frowned, then looked toward the piano. “Is that true, Beaver? Peterson was going to shoot you?”
“Tell him, piano player. Did he threaten to shoot you or not?”
Gordon was standing by the piano, holding a towel to his ear. Many red spots of blood were on the towel.
“That’s true, Sheriff. He threatened to shoot me if I played Buckskin Joe one more time.”
“One more time? What do you mean one more time? How many times had you played it?”
“I don’t know,” Gordy said. “Six or seven times, I suppose. I lost count.”
“Good Lord, man. Why were you playing the same song so many times?”
“I-I play requests, Sheriff. You know that. What money I make is in tips. If the customers don’t like what I’m playing, they won’t give me tips.”
“I see. What happened to your ear?”
Gordy looked over toward Manning, then toward Priest. “I cut it shaving.”
“Are you sure there isn’t more to it than that?”
Gordy shook his head. “No, that’s all there is to it. I cut it shaving.”
“Sheriff, are you through lookin’ at the body?” Brown asked. “Because if you are, I’ll get a couple men to carry it next door to the undertaker.”
Sheriff Carson stared for another long moment at the piano player, then he studied Priest a
nd the other Long Trek riders in the bar. If he pushed the issue too far, Priest and the others might turn on him. He wished Smoke had come with him. He wouldn’t be nearly as anxious, if Smoke were there.
“Sheriff, the body? Can I have a couple men carry it out?” Brown repeated after the long, drawn out silence.
“Yeah,” Sheriff Carson answered, and he turned and hurried out of the Brown Dirt.
“You two men, I’ll give you five dollars apiece if you’ll carry Peterson’s body next door to the undertaker.”
The two men nodded, then with one man at Petersons head and the other at his feet, they picked him up and carried him to the building next door.
Tom Nunnley already had three bodies laid out in the embalming room, when the two men came in with a fourth. “Lord Almighty, is there a war going on? This is the fourth gunshot victim I’ve seen today.”
“Yeah, and a man named Priest kilt three of ’em,” one of the two body bearers said.
The other man laughed. “You ought to give him a percentage of what you’re makin’.”
“Oh, my Lord, this is Clem Peterson,” Nunnley said. “I just buried his wife last month. He’s been actin’ strange ever since. I guess I’m not all that surprised to see him.”
It was nearly midnight when Chris Logan dismounted and walked over to look down at the dam on Frying Pan Creek. He was carrying three sticks of dynamite, tied and fused together, and he laid the dynamite on top of the wooden dam, rolled out a long piece of fuse, trimmed it, then lit it and backed away quickly.
He watched the fuse spark and sputter until it reached the sticks. There was a big explosion and the dam was destroyed. Once more, water began flowing through the natural channel of Frying Pan Creek.
Satisfied with his work, Logan mounted his horse to ride home. It had been his intention to pick up any bit of evidence that would suggest anything other than the natural failure of the dam, but as he rode off, a small, overlooked coil of fuse lay on the ground behind him.
Returning home he saw, with great satisfaction, that once again, water was flowing through his land.
When he went back into his house, he saw his wife sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee by the light of a single candle. Logan smiled at her. “We’ve got water again.”
“Chris, please tell me you didn’t do something to the dam,” she said, the tone in her voice reflecting her concern.
“I can’t tell you that, because that is exactly what I did do. That damn Frenchman had no right to dam up the creek, and you know it.”
“What did you do?”
“I blew that damn dam to hell, that’s what I did.” Logan laughed. “Damn dam, that’s funny.”
“No, Chris, it’s not funny. That was a dumb thing for you to do.”
“Nobody saw me, Ethel.”
“It doesn’t make any difference whether they saw you are not. We are the only ones the dam had any effect on. How hard is it going to be for the Frenchman to figure out who did it? I’m afraid.”
Logan put his hand on Ethel’s shoulder. “Darlin’, I was with Reno at Little Big Horn. I don’t think I can ever be afraid again.”
“Look there,” Gately said the next morning, pointing to the spot where the dam had been. “The dam is gone.”
Anderson, who was riding with him, dismounted and walked over to have a closer look. He saw several pieces of splintered wood lying about.
“It’s not just gone. Someone took it down.” He picked up a piece of wood and examined it more closely. “Like as not, it was dynamited.”
Gately dismounted. “Let’s toss these pieces into the stream,” he said, picking one of them up and throwing it into the water.”
“Why?”
“If Garneau finds out the dam was dynamited, it could get dangerous for someone. If he thinks the dam just failed due to water pressure, it would be much better.”
“Yeah,” Anderson said. “Yeah, I see what you mean.” He joined Gately in tossing the shattered remnants of the dam into the water.
“What are you men doing?”
Startled, Gately looked around to see that Manning had ridden up on them.
“Nothing,” Anderson said. “Just cleaning up a bit, is all.”
“What happened to the dam?” Manning asked.
“I think the water pressure must have caused it to give way,” Anderson said.
Manning dismounted and picked up one of the pieces for a closer examination. Shrugging, he started to toss it into the water, then he saw the small coil of fuse. Reaching down, he picked it up for a closer examination. “Water didn’t do this. This dam was dynamited.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Gately said.
“Really? What do you call this?” Manning held out the piece of fuse he had found.
“Damn, I didn’t see that,” Gately said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Paris, France
Inspector Laurent was in General Moreau’s office. “General, I believe I have found the man I have been looking for.”
“You’ve found Mouchette?”
“Well, I haven’t actually found him yet, but at least I am certain I have discovered the name he is now using.”
Laurent placed some papers on General Moreau’s desk. “He is Colonel the Marquis Lucien Garneau.”
“Colonel the Marquis Lucien Garneau?” General Moreau replied with a puzzled expression on his face. He shook his head. “Inspector, I am aware of no such colonel.”
Laurent smiled broadly. “Precisely so, mon général. But someone using that name booked passage from Hamburg, Germany to New York in America. And since there is no such person, I am certain it must be Mouchette.”
General Moreau returned Laurent’s smile and nodded. “Yes. Yes, I am sure this must be so.” The smile left his face. “But if the coquin has escaped to America, I fear he has eluded us. America is a very large country.”
“I would like to go to America to look for him.”
General Moreau stroked his chin as he considered the request.
“General, this man not only stole two and a half million francs, he also murdered Sergeant Dubois,” Laurent said, pushing his request. “And now, using a false name and rank, he is, no doubt, bringing discredit upon the French Republic. He must not get away with it.”
“What makes you think you can find him in America?”
“Because, mon général, I have right on my side.”
General Moreau nodded. “Very well, Inspector. Go to America with my blessings, and with the hope of all France that you find this criminal.”
Laurent saluted. “I will find him, mon général.”
Sugarloaf
“Pearlie?”
The cowhand was in the barn when he heard someone call out to him, and he went to the door. “Gately, what are you doing here?”
“I’m afraid there’s goin’ to be some trouble over at Logan’s place.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Bad trouble. Garneau put up a dam on Frying Pan Creek to keep the water from flowing onto Logan’s ranch. I think Logan must have blown the dam last night. One of Garneau’s gunnies found out about it. I think Garneau plans to send some people over to teach Logan a lesson.”
“Why are you tellin’ me this, Gately? I thought you worked for Garneau.”
“I did, but I don’t work for him no more. Me ’n Andy has quit. I don’t like the way the Frenchman does business.”
“Thanks for tellin’ me,” Pearlie said. “I’ll tell Smoke and see what he wants to do about it.”
“I’m goin’ with you,” Malcolm said when Smoke, Pearlie, and Cal stopped by Carro de Bancada on their way to Logan’s ranch.
“You don’t need to go. We just stopped by to tell you what’s happening,” Smoke said.
“If I am the one who has talked all the others into staying, should I not subject myself to the same dangers I’m asking of them?”
“There’s likely to be some shooting. You said yo
urself, you have no experience with guns.”
“My father told me the story of Uncle Humboldt,” Malcolm said. “He was a boy raised in Brooklyn, just as my father was. He had never even fired a gun until he went into the army during the war. At Gettysburg, my Uncle Humboldt was mentioned in the dispatches for what he did with a rifle.”
Smoke chuckled. “Yes, I saw some examples of your uncle’s marksmanship. He was very good with it. Very well, you can come along if you wish.”
“Thank you. I’ll just get my guns.”
“Make sure you bring a rifle.”
Concerned they might get to Logan’s place too late, they were glad to see Logan, his wife, and his two sons working in the garden when they rode up. Logan looked up as the riders approached, at first with some apprehension, then with a smile when he recognized them.
“Well, Smoke, Malcolm, Pearlie, Cal. Welcome. What are you all doing here?”
“Chris, did you dynamite the dam on Frying Pan Creek last night?” Smoke asked.
The smile left Logan’s face. “What if I did? I don’t see where the Frenchman has the right to dam off a creek.”
“Whoa. We’re on your side, Chris,” Malcolm said. “But the thing is, Garneau might be sending some men over here.”
“Let ’im do it. If Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull didn’t scare me, that peckerwood isn’t going to. I’ll stand up to him.”
“You won’t have to stand up to him alone,” Smoke said. “We are going to be here with you. But it might be a good idea for Mrs. Logan and your two boys to leave. They can go to my place and stay with Sally for a while.”
“Yeah,” Logan said. “Now that you mention it, that might be a pretty good idea. Ethel, I’m going to get the buckboard hitched up. Take the boys over to the Jensen place.”
“Chris, I . . .”
Logan took his wife’s hands in his. “Ethel, you were a soldier’s wife. You know how things are.”
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