Silver Moon Page 4

  Wilson caught my glance.

  “Stupidity, too,” he said. No bitterness. “A stallion I’d kept for three years. I knew he was mean. Just didn’t know he could be so patient. One careless moment. I was leading him to a mare and stood too close to his head with too much slack on the rope halter…”

  Wilson shrugged.

  I could imagine the rest. Folks fear a horse’s kick. With good reason. Stoved-in head or ribs are not uncommon. But it’s the teeth that cause real horror. When stallions fight, that’s how they damage each other. With lightening slashes, they tear from each other chunks of muscle that leave gaping holes in the haunch or the neck.

  During Wilson’s one careless moment, that stallion must have clamped its teeth on his bicep and ripped it from the bone in one swift motion. Most men would have fallen right there, leaving themselves helpless to be stomped to death, for stallions gone mean carry a blood-lust hatred for the two-legged creatures that prison them. That Wilson, in agony, had the presence of mind to escape was as impressive as his obvious determination not to let the handicap stop him now.

  “Glad to make aquaintaince,” I said, “I’m hoping you might be able to help.”

  “The Rocking N horse.” It was a statement.

  “Someone get here ahead of me?” I’d offered a ten-dollar reward for the whereabouts of the horse at each of the previous liveries. In the absence of the help of a deputy or two, I expected that method to be as good as any to have the streets searched for the horse. Naturally, if a stablehand found it in one of the other liveries before I got there, he’d have a good claim on the ten dollars, and have earned himself a couple week’s wages.

  “No. I hadn’t heard.” Wilson’s voice was quieter, more serious. “When I saw the horse, I feared it might involve the law.”

  He turned away from me and walked along the edge of the wagon, wading through the straw that had spilled from it onto the dirt.

  I stepped around the pitchfork, and followed.

  The front of the livery had doors open wide enough for a drawn wagon to pass through, but away from that opening, the livery grew darker each successive step inside. I saw dimly the tops of the backs of the horses that filled each stall — Wilson was good enough, and more importantly, known to be good enough that he had few stalls empty. I took in the clean smells of horse and the sweetness of hay dust, and a step later, discovered why there was so little stink. Two wheelbarrows were full with horse muck scraped from the ground. He’d cleaned the stalls first thing, and by the way he’d been pitching straw, was also generous with bedding. I told myself to stable my horses here as soon as I could.

  Wilson stopped at the last stall on the right-hand side. He opened the small door in the back wall of the livery. Light poured in to show the horse he led by rope halter from that stall: a large dun, rubbed down and blanketed. A saddle lay balanced on the top fence board of that stall, and I assumed Wilson had stripped it from the dun. Straddled behind the saddle on that same fence board, saddlebags draped the sides of the stall.

  The sunlight also gave me a chance to note the brand on the haunch of the dun as it cleared the stall: a large “N”, sitting atop a “C” turned sideways into a bowl. The Rocking N.

  “Not a horse you’d forget,” Wilson said with the same quietness as before. “Bob Nichols stabled it here more than once when he stayed overnight in town.”

  “He left it here last night?”

  Wilson shook his head. “Some cowpoke brought it in about an hour ago.”

  “Why’d you assume I might come looking?”

  “Cowpoke claimed he found it wandering just outside of town. Nichols is a careful man. He wouldn’t let something like that happen. As soon as I saw the horse, I figured him to be in trouble.”

  I thought that over and knew it to be true. A horse without a man usually means just that. But Wilson had said…

  “Trouble doesn’t necessarily mean the law,” I said. “Nichols could have been hurt somewhere. Why’d you expect me instead of family or a doctor?”

  Wilson smiled sadly. “I’d heard already, that Nichols and Calhoun been found dead at the bank.”

  I snorted. Had Crawford stopped to place an ad in The Sentinel before busting into my office?

  I looked Wilson square in the face. “You know something about that horse I should know?”

  “That cowpoke brought in this dun still saddled,” Wilson said. He rubbed the horse’s neck with his left hand as he spoke. “And I’m guessing if he’d known what this horse carried, he might have taken it for a long ride instead.”

  “The saddlebags,” I guessed. “He’d minded his own business and not looked inside.”

  “Saddlebags were empty. Bare flapping empty. But not the blanket roll tied behind the saddle.”

  Wilson guided the horse back into its stall. When he stepped out moments later, he had a blanket in his left hand. He carried it by the four corners bunched in his fingers, and the bottom sagged like a sack, as if the blanket held something heavy.

  It did. Something I’d tell Crawford about as soon as I could.

  Twelve thousand,six hundred and twenty dollars in gold coin.

  Chapter 6

  I found Crawford outside the Red Rose Saloon, in a shouting match with one of Laramie’s most well known drunks.

  “You flea-bitten souse, you’ll return those notes to the bank!” Crawford’s vloume was impressive.

  I stepped through the crowd to see Old Charlie beaming with joy as he leaned against the window of the saloon. Given that the whiskey bottle he held high in his right hand was only a quarter full, I could understand how he managed to sustain his joy despite Mayor Crawford’s blustering rage.

  “Marshal Keaton,” Old Charlie slurred happily. On the occasions I’d had to escort Old Charlie to jail quarters, his thin, coyote face had always shown that satisfied glow. “Care for a snort in toast to a fortunate turn of events?”

  He pointed at Mayor Crawford, a movement that cost Old Charlie some balance, and he had to splay his feet to remain standing.

  “Crawford here won’t share the bottle,” Old Charlie said. His pants were little more than worn canvas. His shirt had lost most of its buttons, and hung wide open to reveal the faded, full length, red long johns he wore underneath. “In fact, Marshal, the mayor’s a mite prickily this fine morning. I told him he had plenty money in his bank. No need to haul me into daylight and take what little I—”

  “Keaton, arrest this man,” Crawford sputtered.

  I leaned close to Crawford. “That’s Marshal Keaton.”

  Mayor Crawford contained himself with effort that made his jowls quiver. “Marshal Keaton, this man has been spending First National bank notes. I insist he returns the money.”

  “Charlie?” I asked.

  Old Charlie threw his head back and laughed. That put him into a coughing fit which only ended when he bent double and spewed a string of spittle onto the sidewalk between his battered boots.

  He straightened, and wiped threads of that phlegm from the gray bristles of his chin. “Marshal, who’s got claim to money blowing in the breeze?”

  “What’s that Charlie?” a male voice called from the crowd.

  Old Charlie tilted the bottle and took a long gulp before answering. “In the breeze, boys. I found bank notes in God’s wide open breeze!”

  There were more stirrings of interest from the people gathering around.

  “Shut him up,” Crawford hissed between clenched teeth.

  “Nobody’d be listening if you’d have left him inside.”

  “He smells,” Crawford explained. Not softly. “Outside is the only place I can stand to be near him.”

  As if asked to uphold Crawford’s complaint, Old Charlie passed wind with obvious thunder. “Rotten stomach, Marshal,” he apologized. “Doc Harper says I gotta eat more greens.”

  “Hey Charlie! Where in the breeze?” came another voice.

  Old Charlie raised his bottle in salute. “Right out
side my shack boys. Like picking cotton!” He cackled and leered at Crawford. “Must be I’m living right.”

  Crawford stamped his foot. “Stop him. I insist.”

  “Appears like the damage is done.”

  By the expression on Crawford’s face, he knew I was speaking the truth.

  The crowd around us was already beginning to thin. Some men were in full run. A couple of women weren’t far behind, held back not by spirit, but by the layers of skirt they had hitched at their knees.

  Old Charlie lived past the edge of town. We’d be clear of our audience for a long while.

  I turned back to Old Charlie. “Money in the breeze? How much blew your way?”

  “Couple hundred, Marshal. Buy you a drink?”

  I declined. Regretfully. Lack of greens or not, Old Charlie made better company than the Mayor Crawford.

  “Marshal Keaton,” Crawford began. “It is unacceptable that you do not take immediate action. Those bank notes belong to First National.”

  “Crawford,” I said, “you have no way of proving these notes are part of the missing money.”

  I watched the progress of the crowd as it strung itself out. The street now looked like a picnic footrace. One saloon dancer had knocked down a few of the slower men.

  “Charlie,” I said, “what say you give me that money for safekeeping.”

  Old Charlie’s regarded Mayor Crawford with open distrust. “Marshal, I—”

  “Charlie, the money will stay in my office until all this is sorted out.”

  With his right hand, Old Charlie nervously rubbed the white chest hairs poking between the buttons of his faded long johns.

  I didn’t let him hesitate long. “Otherwise,” I continued, “Mayor Crawford will be gnawing on you every day until you manage to spend it.”

  Old Charlie frowned as he contemplated that complication to his otherwise simple life. It didn’t take him long to reach into his pocket.

  I accepted the crumpled notes and carefully counted. “Two hundred and twenty, Charlie. You want an official receipt?”

  “Not from you, Marshal.”

  I nodded. “When you finish that bottle, you’ll be hungry. I’ll be dropping off some of these notes at the Chinaman’s, and he’ll keep it as credit for you. After all—”

  “You can’t do that! It’s bank property!”

  Old Charlie was still sober enough to give me a sympathetic nod.

  “After all,” I continued, “there’s two good reasons you’d better take a good meal over another bottle.”

  “What’s that, Marshal?”

  “I‘d hate to see this money wasted on fines,” I said. I scowled as I thought of the next reason, a bothersome rattle-snake throwing preacher. “And trust me, Charlie, you couldn’t get drunk enough to endure the man you’d share the cell with.”

  Old Charlie grinned, and saluted me with his free hand.

  I tipped my hat in return and led Crawford away by his elbow.

  “Crawford,” I began as we walked back to First National, “how’d you know Old Charlie had bank notes?”

  “You will return those notes immediately.”

  I sighed. “Crawford, how’d you know Old Charlie had bank notes?”

  “I got word from a cowboy,” Crawford said stiffly. “He hales from the Bar X Bar ranch. Said he’d found a horse grazing near Old Charlie’s shack. And where else would the old drunk be but at the Red Rose?”

  “You oughta be a marshal,” I agreed. “What’d the cowboy tell you about that horse that put you onto Old Charlie?”

  “He’d found it with the saddlebag open and bank notes were blowing out from it.”

  “You believed him?”

  “This cowboy plunked a bunch of them right on my desk and said it was all that was left in the saddlebags.” Mayor Crawford smiled maliciously. “Let those fools run to Old Charlie’s shack for whatever else blew free. My clerks have been combing the brush out there for the last hour.”

  “You’re not worried about the clerks keeping some for themselves?”

  The smile disappeared.

  “By the way,” I finished, “Jake Wilson found the missing gold. Figure on him showing up sometime this afternoon to claim his reward.”

  Chapter 7

  By the time I spoke to Crawford again early that evening, I’d searched as many backtracks as I could think to find and was forced to believe most of the pieces were in place.

  I explained as much to him in his office.

  “Nichols paid a visit on Calhoun last night,” I told Crawford where he sat behind his desk with his paunch filling his lap. “Real late. They left the boarding house together.”

  “Calhoun! That snake was in on it with Nichols!”

  I shrugged. “All I know is what the boarding house woman told me. She heard someone knock on Calhoun’s door, and it woke her into peeking out her bedroom to look down the hallway. She saw it was Nichols, and as her rules only disallow women visitors, she turned back in and let them be.”

  “That proves it then,” Crawford said. “Calhoun set this up. You got an eyewitness.”

  Darkness hit early now in the fall, and Crawford’s office was already dim. I dug a match from my shirt pocket and snapped it into flame with the edge of my thumbnail. I continued to speak as I lit a nearby oil lamp.

  “Why you in such a hurry to crucify Calhoun?”

  Crawford’s eyes seemed to shrink in the light. “It…it… just seems logical…”

  “That after years of service, the vice president of your bank might be so unhappy he would conspire to rob you?”

  Crawford began to puff with indignation at my choice of words.

  “Yes, it’s a possibility.” I said, “Maybe Calhoun did let Nichols into the vault to set up a robbery, only to have a .45 calibre disagreement with his partner. But I doubt it.”

  I dropped the spent match on the edge of Crawford’s polished desk. “Because on the other hand,” I said, “for all you know, Nichols pulled a gun on Calhoun right there at the boarding house. Forced him at gunpoint to the bank. And of the two, that’s where I’d place my bet.”

  Crawford stared at the burnt matchstick that littered his desk. He reached for it, but his belly brought him up short.

  “Think it through, Crawford. If you Calhoun, set on helping someone into a vault that would be empty by daybreak, and if you were about the only person in town with the combination to that vault, would you take a chance on doing anything late at night that might be remembered by anyone?”

  Crawford grunted agreement. To keep his mind on our conversation, I picked the burnt matchstick from his desk and handed it to him.

  “I did more trailwork,” I said. “The wandering horse story fits too. As much of it as you want to believe.”

  “As much as I want to believe?”

  “Your cowboy from the Bar X Bar, he dropped how much of the missing bank notes on your desk?”

  “Fourteen thousand, two hundred. When I get those notes you confiscated from Old Charlie, that’ll make —”

  I drew my finger across my throat, and found it encouraging that Crawford shut his mouth so quickly.

  “Add to it the gold that Jake Wilson returned, and you’re still some ten thousand short.”

  Crawford nodded in painful agreement.

  “A cowboy makes four hundred in a year of busting horses, cattle, and his own bones,” I said. “Seems to me that ten thousand is considerable incentive to lie. Or kill.”

  Crawford may have frowned in thought. But in the dim light, and with the layers of fat on his face, any wrinkles that might have risen from that frown could also have been my imagination.

  “Kill?” Crawford asked.

  “Kill,” I repeated. “Ask yourself how you’d best keep nearly half the money you stole, and manage at the same time to appear innocent.”

  The flesh on his face began to work in thought.

  I’d already done my share of thinking this day.

 
I was not a Pinkerton man. I did not have learning or experience in their kind of law enforcement. And I knew it. So upon seeing the two dead bodies less than ten hours earlier, I had decided against wasting any time in an attempt to think as a Pinkerton detective. Instead, I had spent all day coming at the problem from the opposite direction — standing in the killer’s boots and trying to puzzle through how I’d have tried to hide a double murder, if indeed this was not as simple as two men shooting each other.

  The first person I’d wondered about as a killer had been Crawford. While it made no sense to steal money from himself, Crawford might have had any number of hidden reasons for arranging these deaths. One reason came to mind easily. Nichol’s ranch. Chances were Crawford could foreclose on something nearly three-quarters paid for, a sweet deal for any banker.

  Crawford didn’t know, and only would if his wife told him, but my first stop after the Red Rose saloon had been to his home, a two-storey wood-frame building on a quiet street well away from the dust of the main thoroughfare. She’d told me his snoring kept her awake all night, and made it a point to say his snoring was the only thing that ever kept her awake.

  Following on the heels of that alibi came that conversation with the boarding house woman. When I’d asked if it could have been Crawford knocking on Calhoun’s door, she’d made it clear that she’d have to be a total idiot to not recognize Crawford’s backside — even in poor light, half asleep and squinting to the end of the hallway. I’d had to agree, and with two witnesses reluctantly speaking for Crawford, it seemed certain he was not the killer.

  That left me next to wonder about the cowboy, a redhead by the name of Clayton Barnes from the Bar X Bar ranch. He claimed he’d found the horse as he headed back to the ranch from Laramie.

  Yet the Bar X Bar, I’d discovered, was close enough to the Rocking N that he could have had dealings with Nichols, close enough that I could think of a way for the redhead to throw suspicion away from himself.

  Were I in his boots, and not totally greedy, I’d pretend not to know about the gold in the blanket roll, and turn it along with the horse to Jake Wilson, known far and wide for his honesty. Then I’d give half the bank notes right back to the bank, knowing it would appear, just as it did, that Nichols had secured most of the stolen money on his horse, then returned to the vault to meet his unexpected death, and afterward the horse had wandered away to lose most of the money.