Marshal Jeremy Six #7

by Brian Garfield

  “But what can you do?”

  “I still think Krausmeier’s death had something to do with this.” That was true, though not in the way he meant it to be taken. He added, “Everything comes back to Stratton. The marshal thinks I’ve gone around the bend on this, but he’s wrong. None of this would have happened if it hadn’t been for Stratton. Krausmeier wouldn’t be dead, your father wouldn’t be in jail, your brother’d still be alive. It all belongs on Stratton’s doorstep.”

  And that, too, was true. He couldn’t blame Stratton for Earle’s death, not in any honesty; but it was still true that if it hadn’t been for Stratton, Earle wouldn’t have fallen over that railing—because Destiny wouldn’t have come after Earle in the first place. But none of this was spoken aloud. What he said was, “Six is a stickler for the book. He won’t listen to anything I say unless I hand him evidence to prove it. All right. I’ll get the evidence he wants.”

  “But how can you do that?”

  “One way or another,” he said flatly, “I’ll force the truth out of Sid Stratton.”

  “Do you really think Stratton killed Earle?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe had it done. Or maybe didn’t. But whatever the truth about that, I’m convinced of one thing: Stratton knows a hell of a lot of things he hasn’t told. He killed Krausmeier; I’m sure of that. And whether or not he killed Earle, he can prove your father’s innocence.”

  “How?”

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “But I’ve got a feeling I may be able to find a connection between Stratton and this witness who claims he saw your father kill Earle.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “It’s the only way to make it fit,” he answered. “That witness is lying. We both know that. But the question is, why is he lying? I think Stratton put him up to it.”

  “Why Stratton?”

  “Because he’s done the same thing before,” Destiny said. “My brother was ruined by the same kind of frame-up that’s put your father in jail.”

  She was sipping brandy from a bell-shaped glass; her eyes watched him over the rim of the glass, and her silence prompted him to explain:

  “My brother Steve was the marshal in Silver City. I was his deputy, but I didn’t find out about this until later—partly because I was away part of the time, delivering prisoners to Santa Fe and Mesilla, and partly because Steve was ashamed to admit the truth, even to me. It seems Steve had been making things too hot for Stratton. Stratton was running the same kind of shill game he’s trying to run here. Steve clamped down on him. To keep from being thrown out of town just when he was starting to make a fortune, Stratton figured he had to find some way to get Steve off his back. About that time, I noticed that Steve suddenly laid off. He quit shadowing Stratton’s men. He stopped hanging around, trying to get proof Stratton and his dealers were cold-decking the game. He left Stratton strictly alone. It didn’t make sense to me, but when I started asking questions, Steve told me to take a gang of prisoners out of town for delivery to a couple of sheriffs. It was something the sheriff’s deputies usually did, but this time Steve told me to take care of it. I was gone a couple of weeks, and when I got back, it seemed as if the whole town had fallen apart. Crooks had drifted in from all over the Southwest, and it looked as if Steve just didn’t care anymore. He didn’t lift a finger to do anything about it. The damned town was just about crawling with toughs. Steve just stayed drunk.”

  Lisa’s eyes were wide. “But what could have happened?”

  “Stratton got to him,” Destiny answered bleakly. “I don’t know exactly how, but he did it. A few nights after I got back to town, Steve got roaring drunk before supper and said he was going over to a dance hall in the back of town. It was the worst dive in town and I told him not to go, but he slapped me across the face and told me to mind my own damned business. That was the last I ever saw him alive. He got into a fight with another drunk over some worthless tramp of a girl, and they started at each other with chairs and bottles. Sometime during the fight the other drunk pulled his gun and shot Steve.”

  “How horrible,” she murmured. “How horrible for you.”

  “It was horrible for Steve,” he answered, “because by that time I’m convinced he didn’t care whether he lived or died. Steve was a good man, Lisa. He was as tough and straitlaced as they come. Not a whole lot different from Jeremy Six, when you come right down to it. Or at least that was what I thought, until those last weeks.”

  “But what did happen to him?”

  “I never found out enough to prove anything. Just bits and pieces I picked up from the usual sources of information around the wrong side of the tracks. By the time I’d pieced it together and made sense out of it, Stratton had made his pile, closed his game and left town with his gang. But it appeared as if Stratton had found a lever to use against Steve. It wasn’t money, because Steve never cared that much about money. None of us did. It wasn’t direct threats, because Steve was never scared of any man alive—or if he was, he went ahead and fought him anyway, when he had to. So it wasn’t a bribe, and it wasn’t a direct threat. It took me a while to find out what it was Stratton used, and when I did find out, it made me sick to my stomach.”

  Destiny paused, drained his drink and set the glass down. He closed his eyes, hard, for just a moment; then he said, “There was a nice old fellow named Billy Caxton who used to trap wolves and mountain lions for the bounty the ranchers put up. Caxton lived way back in the hills in an old abandoned mine shack. Lived there with his children, a boy about ten and a little girl about eight or nine. They were half-breed kids—the old man had married a young Papago squaw, and she’d died giving birth to the second child. This country’s unfriendly to half-breeds, so old Billy kept the kids with him. He was schooled enough to teach them reading and writing, himself. Steve and I had got close to the old man and his kids. Billy Caxton was a fine man, and he had the richest lode of stories you ever heard about the early days out in this country—the fur-trappers and the mountain men, long before the Civil War. Billy’d been one of the Ashley-Henry trappers, way back. He used to tell us about the old days, living with the Indians, all the old Indian legends and superstitions. He’d been with Kit Carson when they trapped the last Navajos at Canyon de Chelly.

  “Billy Caxton,” Destiny went on, “was a great man, Lisa, and Steve and I loved him. And that was the way Stratton got to Steve. Stratton must have sent a couple of his tinhorns out to Billy’s mountain place to get the drop on Billy and the little kids. I never could prove any of this, you understand, but I picked up enough hints to make me sure enough in my own mind. Stratton had Billy and the kids kidnapped and taken way back in the mountains somewhere. And then he told Steve that if Steve didn’t lay off him and let him run his cheating game the way he wanted to run it, then Stratton would have the Caxtons killed. One by one. First the little girl. Stratton said he’d deliver the little girl’s head to Steve in a sack if Steve didn’t play along. At least, that’s the way I heard it, and I had no reason not to believe it.”

  “God,” Lisa whispered.

  “So that’s what Stratton is,” Destiny said. “And that’s the way he ruined my brother. Steve couldn’t lift a finger after that, not without having three people he loved get killed. So he had to stand back and watch Sid Stratton cheat the town blind. And that was too much for Steve. He couldn’t take it, and he couldn’t stop it, and so he fell apart. He took to drinking faster than they could distill the stuff. Because that’s the way we’re made at bottom, us Destinys. We’re tough as hell on the surface, but down low we’ve got no bottom. Just loose sand. When things get tough enough, we just collapse. And I’m just the same, Lisa. I’m no good, like Steve.”

  “Stuff and nonsense!”

  He gave her a dreary look; she said, “Now you’re being absurd, Jim.”

  “Am I?” he asked with a crooked smile. “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me. A lot of things I don’t want you to know.”

&nb
sp; She said, “You’ve stuck by me and my father.”

  “Don’t take me for a rough-surfaced saint on that account. Lisa, don’t count on me in this pinch. I’ll get your father out of jail, or maybe die trying, but that may not mean what you want it to mean. That’s just something I’ve got to do, for my own private reasons. But where anything else is concerned, I’ll turn out just like Steve; I know that. I’ve got no more guts than he had.”

  “I saw the way you faced down that whole crowd of armed miners yesterday, when you came to arrest Dad. You were so brave it was almost foolhardy, but just the same it brought tears to my eyes. You’re not a coward, Jim.” He was too uncomfortable to stay put any longer; he got clumsily to his feet, grabbed his hat, and strode to the door. He said, “Don’t be sure of anything about me, Lisa. Hell, forget me.” Without saying anything more, without even looking back at her, he rammed through the door and tramped to his horse, and rode away down the hill at a savage gallop.

  Tracy Chavis, a cattleman who detested the idea of walking more than ten feet when a horse was available, rode from the Drovers Rest to the Marshal’s Office and dismounted there. Six was standing on the walk, watching him come. When Chavis clumped up onto the boardwalk, spurs rattling, Six turned inside, maneuvered his weight into his chair, and waited for Chavis to close the door.

  “Arkansas Brown told me you wanted me.”

  “Thanks for coming,” Six said. “I hate to put this on you, because it’s only an errand-boy job, but I need somebody I can trust not to spread the word about it.”

  “Name it.”

  “I want you to send a telegram to San Francisco for me,” Six said, “and wait for the answer and bring it back to me. And make sure nobody sees it but you and the telegraph operator, and tell him if he knows what’s good for him he’ll keep his mouth shut.”

  “All right,” Chavis said, without questions. Six handed him a sheet on which he had scribbled a message in his crabbed hand; Chavis read the message with a growing frown.

  Six said, “If you’re curious about it, I’ll explain it when you get back.”

  “Sure,” Chavis said. “Can’t say I’m not curious, Jeremy. How you feeling?”

  “I am feeling just fine and dandy, damn it. I wish people would quit wasting so much time inquiring into my health.”

  Chavis grinned broadly, ducked an imaginary missile, and left, folding the message in quarters and putting it in his pocket before he climbed onto his horse to make the three-block journey to the Western Union office.

  Six sat back and drummed fingers on the arm of his chair. He tended to chide others for impatience—he had done so with Destiny—but he had never truly developed the ability to wait calmly. After a few minutes he decided to go back and have a talk with Mainwaring, more for company and for something to do than for any specific purpose of duty; but two visitors arrived just then, separately but at the same time, and spared him the necessity for the walk. He was grateful for that, for he had to admit privately that his wounded rib cage was throbbing; he had overdone things today. But that was his habit; he despised weakness in himself and did everything possible to pretend it didn’t exist.

  The visitors were, first, Clarissa Vane, who brought his late lunch on a tray—there were two lunches, and she sat down to eat with him—and, second, Jim Destiny, who hitched his horse outside and came in mopping sweat off his forehead.

  Destiny seemed in a mood even more foul than before, which caused Clarissa to remark, “Your face looks like it could hold a three-day rain.”

  Destiny only grunted. Six said, “I’ve got a job for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Finish what you started yesterday. Go out to Silverbelle and see what you can find out about Mike Flynn. Ask around. Find out if anybody saw him leave or come back the other morning when he says he went to Mainwaring’s. See if anyone can confirm or deny that part of his story.”

  Destiny’s eyebrows lifted. “You mean you’re beginning to agree with me? You think Flynn’s lying too?”

  “I don’t make that kind of decision,” Six answered, “until I’ve got the facts to go on. I’d suggest you do the same. Now get moving, so you can get out there before they change the shift.”

  Destiny swung with a snap of his bony shoulders and went back outside; got on his horse and disappeared from view at a canter.

  Clarissa observed, “It’s a hot day to send a man on an errand like that.”

  “Not likely to cool off before October,” Six grumbled, “by which time Garrett Mainwaring could be very dead from hanging. But my main reason for sending him wasn’t what he thinks. Hell, Flynn wouldn’t have made up his story if he knew somebody could prove he hadn’t left the mine that morning. Either Flynn’s telling the truth, or he knows nobody can disprove his story. Either way, Jim won’t find out anything.”

  “Then why’d you send him?”

  “To make sure he’s away from here for a few hours. I’ve got a few irons in the fire and if they heat up right, we may come up with some evidence to help Mainwaring out. But I don’t want Destiny around here jumping to confusions and rushing off prematurely.”

  Clarissa finished her light meal and took a sip from the glass of beer she had brought for Six; she said, “I take it Mike Flynn is the witness who says he saw Mainwaring kill Earle?”

  “Yes. But don’t let it get around. I wouldn’t have mentioned it to anyone else.”

  “I know,” she said, thanking him for his trust with her eyes.

  Presently, sometime after Six had finished the beer, Tracy Chavis returned on his horse and came in carrying several filled-in telegraph blanks, which he tossed on the desk with one hand while he removed his hat with the other and nodded to Clarissa with an amiable smile. Six picked up the telegrams and studied them with close concentration.

  Chavis said, “You told me you’d explain what that’s all about.”

  Six tossed the telegrams down, still frowning. Then he shrugged, “It doesn’t seem to be all about anything. I guess I had a bad hunch.”

  “About what?”

  “That wire you sent for me asked a San Francisco banker I know to find out who was buying Mainwaring stock.”

  “I can read,” Chavis said dryly. “But why’d you want to know that? And what good does this list of names do you?”

  “Probably none,” Six said. “I don’t recognize any of the names. I half-expected to find out that some of the stock was being bought up in Sid Stratton’s name, but his name isn’t in those telegrams.”

  “Stratton?” Clarissa said. “What’s he got to do with the stock market?”

  “It was just a wild guess,” Six said. “Mainwaring told me this morning that his being thrown in jail had driven the price of Mainwaring stock pretty far down. That could indicate a motive for framing him, if he was framed. A man who wanted to buy the stock cheap would have a motive for trying to destroy public confidence in Mainwaring.”

  “That makes sense,” Chavis said. “But I guess it didn’t work, eh?”

  “Maybe. There’s still one other possibility.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Let’s find out if Mainwaring recognizes any of these names.”

  Six gathered up the telegrams and levered himself out of the chair. Both Clarissa and Chavis stepped forward to offer help, but Six’s baleful glare kept them back. He made his way into the cell corridor and led the way down to Mainwaring’s cell. Clarissa and Chavis followed.

  Mainwaring was flat on his back, but not asleep. He was staring at the ceiling. He rolled his head slowly to the side to look at Six; his face was utterly without expression.

  Six unlocked the door and stepped in. Mainwaring didn’t stir; he only watched Six, who dropped the sheaf of telegrams on his chest and said, “See if you recognize any of those names.”

  “What for?”

  “Read them first, then talk.”

  Mainwaring made a face and gathered up the telegrams, held them at arm’s le
ngth in the window light, and squinted at them. He shuffled quickly through the half-dozen telegrams and finally sat up, handing them back to Six. “Recognize any names?”

  “Several of them. What of it?”

  “Those are the people who’ve been buying Mainwaring stock in San Francisco.”

  Mainwaring grimaced. “Trust them to gather round like buzzards at a fat carcass.”

  Six said, “Could any of them be fronting for Sid Stratton?”

  Mainwaring’s head shot back and he stared at Six. “What?”

  “Just a thought. What do you think?”

  Mainwaring shrugged. “Anybody can front for anybody. But Stratton’s not the type. I never heard of him out there—never heard mention of his name around financial circles. He’s a two-bit card player. The boys in my league don’t bother with small potatoes like him.”

  “Maybe,” Six said. “But Stratton’s pushing his way into the big money. Has been, ever since he cleared out of Silver City with a small fortune.”

  “First I’d heard of it,” Mainwaring said. He glanced at the telegrams again and shook his head with a wry, contemptuous expression.

  Six said, “What’s wrong?”

  “Some of the gents on that list, I used to think they were friends of mine. But I guess you don’t mix friendship and market business. It’s a cutthroat game. I knew that when I went into it, so I guess I’ve got no complaints coming. But still, I’m surprised to see some of those names. They jumped in pretty damned quick, didn’t they?”

  From the door, Tracy Chavis said, “Any of those names suggest anything in particular to you?”

  “For instance?”

  “I don’t know,” Chavis admitted. “But Jeremy had an idea that if this murder charge is a frame-up, then finding out who was taking advantage of it might give you an idea of who might be behind it.”

  “Let me have another look at those,” Mainwaring said abruptly. Six handed him the telegrams and Mainwaring went over them with more care than before. He ran his eyes down each list several times, went back to one telegram and stared at it with a puzzled frown.