I counted eight men, half I knew by name, gathered around the two beat-up pool tables, their attention hard-focused on Bandelier. He was over in front of the rack of cues and chalk, red-faced with drink and bile, a Cuba Libre panatela in one hand and a ditchwater highball, the Montana tippler’s favorite drink, in the other. I don’t know what it is about little men like him—feelings of inferiority and inadequacy on account of their size, I suppose—but once they take over the floor, they seem to grow about six inches and stand high in the collar, at least in their own minds.
“You mark my words,” he was declaiming in a not quite slurred voice. “If we let young bucks like Black Wolf and Walks Far get away with thievery, there’ll be other renegades that follow suit. Won’t be property belonging to any of us that’s safe.”
“Our womanfolk, neither,” another damn fool said. Buster Grimes, a long-jawed stablehand on one of the ranches.
“That’s right, our womenfolk, either.”
That little exchange would have been a touch humorous if it wasn’t so serious. Neither Grimes nor Bandelier was married.
“Those war-whoop heathens need to be taught a lesson, a hard lesson. If Sheriff Monk won’t make them tell what they did with my statue, I say we do it ourselves.”
“I dunno, Mr. Bandelier. That old coot Monk’s dead set against vigilantes.” That was Virgil Tyree, seasonal worker, moocher, and nickel-nurser when he had a nickel to nurse.
“I’m not talking vigilantes. Just a … kind of unofficial posse comitatus.” He waved his cigar and swallowed some whiskey and water for emphasis. “Put on a show of force to get my property back and let those Indians know they better not try any more stealing or they’ll regret it. Them and any other bucks that try doing what they did.”
“Put the fear of God into ’em.” A belly-fat yahoo I didn’t know, maybe a railroad section hand from the way he was dressed.
“That’s right. Give them a scare they’ll never forget.”
“Suppose they put up a fight?” Young Jack Vanner, carpenter’s apprentice and part-time handyman. “Then what? Beat the truth out of them?”
“It won’t come to that,” Bandelier said. “There won’t be any need for violence.”
“Suppose they start some?”
“They won’t. But if they do, why, we’ll just have to finish it, that’s all.”
Tyree: “When do we go? Tonight?”
Vanner: “Maybe we ought to wait a day or two, give the sheriff another chance to do his job.”
Bandelier, around the jut of his cigar: “I don’t see any reason to wait. Monk’s had two days to get my property back and being the Indian lover he is, it’s likely he never will. I say we ride out to the reservation right now!”
That was enough for me. More than enough. I stepped out and into the room and said in a tolerable roar, “Like hell you will!”
They all jerked and jumped and Bandelier near choked on his cigar smoke. One long look at me and Sam and he wasn’t standing tall anymore. You could almost see him shrink down small again.
“I’ve seen horse manure laid out thick before,” I said, hard, “but none thicker nor smellier than what you’ve been spreading, Henry. I ought to put you in handcuffs and haul you off to jail.”
“Arrest me? On what charge?”
“Charges. Drunk and disorderly. Disturbing the peace. Inciting an illegal trespass on government land for the purpose of malicious mischief—”
“I’m not drunk and I’m not disturbing the peace!”
“—and anything else I can think of. Impersonating a duly elected officer of the law, maybe.”
“What? I did no such thing.”
“The same as, with that ‘posse comitatus’ remark of yours.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“There isn’t any such thing as an unofficial posse comitatus; only the county sheriff has the power to organize an official one in order to pursue and arrest a felon or felons. You claiming you can assume that power amounts to impersonation.” I looked at Sam Prine. “That the way you see it, Sam?”
“Sure do,” he agreed.
Bandelier commenced to sputter and whine about only wanting his stolen statue found and returned.
“Henry,” I said, “you know what’s good for you, you won’t give me any more guff on that subject.”
Virgil Tyree said, “Now look here, Sheriff, you got no call to— Uuhh!”
The grunt was because I stepped up and jabbed two stiffened fingers under his wishbone, hard enough to stagger him backward a step. “That’s for calling me an old coot. Say it again and you’ll find yourself on the floor with my foot in your ass and your face in a spittoon.”
That took the starch out of him quick enough. Bandelier and the others, too. None of ’em had anything more to say, nor would they look me in the eye straight on.
I said to Bandelier, “Now listen good. I reckon I’ll let you off the hook this time, but if I hear any more about taking the law into your own hands, or making trouble for the Indians, I will charge you and lock you up. That goes for the rest of you knotheads, too. Understood?”
Chin dips and sullen looks.
“All right. Get on out of here, go home where you belong.”
They didn’t waste any time obeying the order. In less than ten seconds, Sam Prine and I were alone in the room.
“By grab, Lucas, you sure can be a feisty booger when you get your back up.”
He said it in an admiring kind of way so I didn’t take offense. Besides, he was right, I can be a feisty booger. It takes a fair lot to make me mad, but when it happens, them that’s responsible are in for a hard time.
TEN
WHEN TESS WAS alive, she dragged me to church every Sunday unless I could find a good excuse not to go. Now, it’s Reba who keeps trying to make less of a sinner out of me, but she’s easier to resist than Tess was. Good thing she didn’t come around badgering me this Sunday morning. With all that was gnawing on my mind, the last thing I needed was to hear one of Reverend Noakes’s sermons, which were either the fire-and-brimstone sort—he seemed to think just about everybody in Peaceful Bend was an unrepentant defiler of the Ten Commandments—or the repetitious love-thy-neighbor-or-else sort that he delivered in the same thunderous voice. It’s not that I’m an unbeliever, it’s just that I think a man ought to be allowed to practice his religious beliefs in private, without having his ears blistered in public.
I finished my letter to Katherine, not mentioning either the murder or the attempted murder, and posted it on my way to the Western Union office. Weren’t any responses to my wires; wherever James Rainey was, he hadn’t been spotted and taken into custody yet. The sheriff’s office is closed on Sundays except when there’s an emergency, so I didn’t bother going there. Or yet to the Bedford Funeral Parlor where Doc Olsen was doing his coroner’s duty. I looked in on an autopsy once, my first term in office, and that once was more than enough.
There was no buzz among the folks I passed and said good morning to on Main Street, or in the Elite Café where I ate my usual Sunday breakfast of sausages and buckwheat pancakes, so the news about Charity Axthelm hadn’t leaked out yet. A wonder that Reba and her gossip-sniffing nose hadn’t caught a whiff of it by now, nor anybody else had. Well, as Reverend Noakes was fond of saying, God works in mysterious ways.
I didn’t much feel like facing Reba again, but I figured I might as well get it over with. She’d be sure to start in on me again about arresting Grace Selkirk, evidence or no evidence. If I could deflect that business long enough to get her to talk about Charity Axthelm’s immorality and involvement with James Rainey, she’d gladly reveal all she knew or suspected. I’d just have to be careful in how I broached the subject so she wouldn’t get a hint of why I was interested.
Only problem was, Reba wasn’t home. My twist of the doorbell was answered by Hannah Mead.
“Reba went to a luncheon after church,” she said. “I don’t know when she’ll be back.”
“I’ll catch her later. It’s good to see you up and around, Hannah.”
“I’m still feeling poorly,” she said. Looked it, too. Pale, damp-cheeked, a kind of dull sheen to her eyes, her big-boned body slumped against the doorframe. “But I can’t keep lying abed like a invalid.”
“Mind answering a few questions while I’m here?”
“About the buttermilk? I don’t know anything. Reba thinks it was Grace Selkirk who poisoned it.”
“I know. Just a few questions, Hannah.”
She let me in and we went into the parlor. She’d been sitting in a walnut rocker, crocheting something or other; she sat down there again, draped a shawl over her lap, and picked up her crochet bag.
I said, “Reba told me she caught Grace Selkirk spying on the house a couple of days ago and they had words about it.”
“Yes. She was real upset.”
“Did you see them arguing?”
“No. I mind my own business.”
“See the Selkirk woman at all that day?”
“On the street as I was coming back from shopping. First time I ever had a good look at her.”
“How’d you know who she was?”
“Reba talked about her, said what she looked like.” Hannah paused, her crochet hook poised in one hand. “Funny thing,” she said then.
“What was?”
“You hear somebody talked about and you get a picture in your mind. But then you see them in the flesh, up close, and the picture’s not quite the same. You know what I mean, Sheriff?”
“I do.”
“Well, I didn’t get a real good look at Grace Selkirk, but she reminded me of somebody.”
“Somebody you used to know?”
“I’m not sure. I can’t quite place who or where.”
“You think she might’ve had the same feeling?”
“I can’t say. She turned her head away kind of quick when we passed.”
“And you didn’t see her again that day?”
“Again? No.”
“You tell Reba about this?”
Hannah’s head was still paining her; the waggle she gave it brought on a wince. “Should I have?”
“No, and don’t trouble her with it. Try to remember who Grace Selkirk reminded you of, and if you do, call me up or come tell me.”
“I will. It’ll come to me when my thinking is clear again—my head still feels like it’s stuffed full of cotton. But I don’t see why it’s important.”
Probably wasn’t. But then again, the way my mind works, there was a chance it could be.
* * *
DEVLIN STONEHOUSE SAID, “I was taken with Charity, yes. Danced with her every chance I had, bought her a ticket to the Chautauqua last summer, but that was as far as our socializing went. She wasn’t interested in me the way I was in her. Turned me down when I asked to call on her, take her riding and on a picnic.”
He sounded wistful and maybe a touch bitter. Good-looking young fella, dark-haired, clean-shaven, probably not used to being rejected by pretty girls. But he was sober-sided and serious about his job at the bank—apparently not carefree and fun-loving enough for a girl like Charity Axthelm.
“You happen to know of anyone she didn’t turn down?”
“That traveling peddler, Rainey, obviously.” The words came out disapproving and more than a touch bitter. “I still can’t believe she would take up and then run off with a man like that.”
“When did you hear about it?”
“Two days ago, after they’d already gone.”
“Uh-huh. She didn’t strike you as the sort for rash behavior?”
“Not that kind, no.”
“Some other kind?”
He clamped his lips together and looked off into the cold blue sky. We were on the front porch of Ruth Hollings’s boardinghouse, sitting in a couple of her padded chairs. He was still dressed for church, in a dark suit and a bow tie with little gold stars on it.
“Some other kind, Devlin?” I asked again.
“I’d rather not say. She made a fool of herself and now she’s gone, that’s all that matters.”
No, it wasn’t. What mattered was who’d choked the life out of her and dumped her body down that well. “Some folks say she had a reputation for being fast. Any truth to it, far as you know?”
“Some folks ought to mind their own business.”
“No argument there. But I’m not paid to be one of them.”
He said, frowning, “Do all these questions have something to do with her and Rainey?”
“They might. I’d appreciate an answer.”
It took a few seconds for him to say, “There was talk, yes. If it was true, then God help her. But I didn’t pay any attention to it. That was not why I was interested in her.”
“Who was interested for that reason? Anybody you know of?”
“No one bragging to me, if that’s what you mean.”
“Put it this way, then. Fellas she didn’t turn down when she was asked to go riding or picnicking.”
“What does that have to do with her and Rainey?”
“Reluctant to say? It’s just between you and me.”
“… All right. Clyde Rademacher. Clyde Junior. She was seeing a lot of him.”
“When?”
“Late spring, early summer.”
“But not right before Rainey showed up?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Who was she seeing then?”
“I’d tell you if I knew, but I don’t. She didn’t talk about it. She could be … secretive about her personal life.”
“Nobody else talked about it? None of her admirers?”
“Not as far as I know. Nobody ever said a word to me.”
Stonehouse sounded kind of bitter about that, too. As sober-sided and censorious as he was, I had the idea that not too many his age, male or female, confided in him about much of anything of a private nature.
* * *
IT WAS PAST noon by then. I put off hunting for Clyde Junior in favor of a visit to the undertaking parlor to find out if Doc Olsen was finished with his carving.
He was. Just washing up, Titus told me. I asked him if Charity’s folks had come in yesterday, and he said they had. The family didn’t want a funeral or burial in the town cemetery, their aim being to claim the girl’s shell once it was officially released and lay her to rest on their own property. Titus’s expression said he didn’t approve, but it was their privilege. No law against it.
Grace Selkirk was out of sight and earshot in the sewing room, so while I had Titus alone I asked him if he had any idea where the woman had lived before coming to Peaceful Bend or why she’d picked our town to settle in. No, he didn’t. She’d been closemouthed about her past and he hadn’t wanted to pry. About all she’d told him was that she had past experience at sewing, and proved it by the expert way she trimmed coffins.
“Grace told me about the poisoned buttermilk,” Titus said then. “I made her promise not to give even a hint to anybody else.”
“Good.”
“You don’t still suspicion she was responsible?”
“My mind’s open on the subject,” I said. “You know her better than I do. Would you say she’s capable of it?”
“I don’t like to think anybody’s capable of a terrible thing like that. Especially a woman who lives in my house and works for me.”
“I need to ask a personal question, Titus. You don’t have to answer it, and if you tell me to go to the devil I won’t hold it against you.”
“Go ahead and ask.”
“There anything between you and Grace Selkirk?”
A corner of his mouth twitched. “You mean am I sleeping with her? No.”
“She ever issue an invitation, straight out or otherwise?”
“That makes two questions.”
“I know it, and it’s the last I’ll ask. Did she?”
He scratched at his side-whiskers before he said, “Once. And no,
she wasn’t upset when I declined. Neither of us has spoken of it since.” The way he said that, with a little side-shift of his eyes, made me wonder if he regretted passing up the opportunity, or if he truly had passed it up. Titus is a moral gent, not given to telling lies, but every man has his weaknesses. Tempt a fellow often enough and just right and he’d be hard-pressed not to let his halo slip down a notch or two.
Anyhow, Grace Selkirk had lied to me about having no personal interest in him. Seemed likely enough that Reba was right and the woman wanted more than just a roof over her head and a few dollars’ pay. One lie didn’t make her guilty of attempted murder, but it did supply her with a motive if she was after Titus and his money and believed Reba was a rival. Still a pretty thin one, though. I wished I knew more about the woman. More reason to hope Hannah Mead remembered who Grace Selkirk reminded her of.
Doc Olsen came out just then, Sunday-dressed, his long face set in mournful lines. When he saw me he said, “Good, you’re here. Saves me from having to hunt for you.” He took hold of my arm. “Come on, we’ll talk outside. Excuse us, Titus.”
We went on out. Through the plate-glass show window, I could see Grace Selkirk working at trimming another coffin. Charity Axthelm’s coffin? I didn’t like to think that it was.
Doc steered me over to the driveway where his Tin Lizzie was parked. “Autopsy’s finished,” he said. “Grisly work for a Sunday.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“And I’ll probably say it again to somebody else.”
“Official cause of death still what you figured it was?”
“Yes. Manual strangulation.”
“Could you get a reasonable fix on the time of death?”
“Best estimate is sometime Thursday evening. I can’t pin it down any closer than that.”
“Anything else I should know?”
“Yes, dammit,” Doc said. “The girl was pregnant. Five to six weeks along.”
ELEVEN
I WAS ON my way to the Commercial Club—nobody home at the Rademachers, wouldn’t you know—when Bert Milbank came hurrying up.
“Telegram just come for you, Sheriff. Thought you’d want to see it right away.”
The Peaceful Valley Crime Wave Page 7