Collection 1983 - Bowdrie (v5.0) Page 11

  “Anything I can do?” The man was tall and well-set-up, with blond hair and friendly eyes. “I’m Kent Friede. I was a friend of Hayes’s.”

  “Nothin’ anybody can do, Kent. Hayes never had a chance. Shot right through the skull. Bowdrie here come in on ’em and made a cleanup. He got ’em all.”

  “No,” Bowdrie said quietly, oblivious of the startled glances from Hadley and Friede. “I got three. But I didn’t shoot at that man inside the bank and he didn’t shoot Hayes.”

  “What?” Hadley turned on him. “Then who—?”

  “There was a fifth man who never appeared in the operation. He killed both Hayes and the outlaw inside the bank.”

  “I don’t follow,” Friede said. “How could that be?”

  Bowdrie shrugged. “Who runs the bank now? Is it this Jim Cane you mentioned?”

  “If there’s anything left to run. Lucky they didn’t get away with any money.”

  “It’s my guess they did get the money,” Bowdrie said. “The fifth man got it, and it’s my bet he knew where to look.”

  “You’re implying it was an inside job?” Friede was obviously skeptical. “I don’t believe that. Jim Cane’s a fine young man. We all trust him.”

  Bowdrie waved a hand. “Close it up, Hadley, and give me the key. Some things don’t fit, but they will before I’m through.”

  Yet as he walked along the street he was far from feeling confident. The outlaw with the broken arm had been taken to jail and must be questioned. Bowdrie had an idea he would know nothing. The man who planned this job would have been shrewd enough to communicate with only one man, undoubtedly the outlaw killed inside the bank. At least, that was how it looked now.

  He believed there was a fifth man involved, but it was no more than a theory and one that might not hold water.

  First, his own arrival had not been by chance. He had been tipped that a robbery was planned. Who had tipped him, and why? Who had thrown that note wrapped around a rock into his campsite only a few hours ago? A note that warned him of the holdup and how it was to be carried out? At first glance he had seen that the banker had been killed from close up. Also, when he entered the bank there had been a thin blue tinge of tobacco smoke in the office air, and the smell of tobacco. None of the outlaws had been smoking, nor had the harried banker.

  Nor was there any reason for them to enter the private office. The huge old safe was against the back wall some distance away, and it was before this safe that Hayes had been murdered. A man standing in the door of the private office could have fired that shot, yet all Bowdrie’s man-hunting experience told him no outlaws would have been in that position. But suppose a man had already been hidden inside the bank?

  A small boy stood nearby in bare feet and Bowdrie glanced down into the wide blue eyes and the freckled face. “Hi, podner! Is this your town?”

  “Yup! My pa sank the first well ever dug in this county!”

  “Rates him high in my book,” Bowdrie said. “Any man who brings water to a dry country deserves credit.”

  “You stayin’ in town?”

  “For a little while, I guess. I’ve got to find the men who did this.” He paused. “It was a dirty deal, son, because there was another man in on this. He not only shot Banker Hayes in the back, he double-crossed his own pals.”

  The boy nodded seriously. By his own standards as well as those of the country in which he lived, the two crimes were among the worst of which a man could be accused.

  All was quiet at the jail when he arrived. The wounded outlaw was lying on his bunk staring at the ceiling. Reluctantly he sat up when Bowdrie came to the bars. “You should have killed me,” he said bitterly. “I ain’t cut out for no prison. I’ll die in there.”

  “Maybe you won’t have to go,” Bowdrie said.

  “What’s that?”

  “If you can tell me who was in on this job, you might go free. Who was waiting inside the bank?”

  “Huh?” The outlaw was obviously surprised. “Inside? Nobody. The boys went after Hayes. He opened the bank door.” He paused, frowning. “Come to think on it, the banker just walked in. The door was already unlocked. But how could anybody be inside?”

  “You tell me.” Bowdrie studied the man. The outlaw was surprised and disturbed. “Who planned this job?”

  “I dunno. They come to me an’ asked if I’d like to go as horse-holder. I’d done a few things with one of those boys before, so I went along. We wasn’t to use no names. Nobody was supposed to ask questions. Him who was killed inside, he was ridin’ herd on us. He set this up if anybody did.”

  “Where was the split to be made?”

  “Well”—the outlaw hesitated—“it was to be made after. After we got away, I mean. Nothin’ much was said about it. We done taken it for granted, like.”

  “The man who was killed down by the store. Did you know him?”

  “Seen him around. He was rounded up, just like me. Those boys had a job planned and they needed help. We wasn’t any organized outfit, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Was there any talk about money?”

  “Sure! That’s why we done it. The big feller, the one who was killed inside, he said we’d make five hundred apiece from it, maybe more. That there’s a lot of money for somebody like me. Hell, I on’y worked seven months last year, at thirty dollars a month. Stole a few head of stock here’n there, never made more than drinkin’ money.”

  Chick Bowdrie went back to his horse, and mounting, rode out of town. That he was being watched, he knew. Out of curiosity? Or fear? Suspicion was growing, centering around young Cane, who would inherit whatever the banker left.

  Easy as that solution was, and Bowdrie could think of a half-dozen reasons for believing it, that simple answer left him uneasy and unconvinced. Riding out of town, he circled around until he could pick up the incoming trail of the four outlaws.

  They could have reached town no more than fifteen minutes before he himself. That meant they must have been camped not too far from town, and might have been visited by whoever the inside man had been.

  Slowly, a pattern was beginning to shape itself in Bowdrie’s mind, although he was careful to remember it was no more than a possibility.

  The inside man had known there was money in the bank and he had made contact with an outlaw, perhaps somebody he had known before. At his suggestion that outlaw had rounded up a few men to pull off the job. None of them were to know anything. If captured they would be unable to tell anything because they knew nothing.

  It was early and nobody had come over the trail since the arrival of the outlaws. He picked up their trail without difficulty. They had made no effort to hide their tracks, until suddenly, by intent or accident, their trail merged with that of a herd of horses. He was more than two hours in working out their trail.

  At first it held to dry washes and then wove through mesquite groves higher than the head of a man on horseback. Almost an hour of riding brought him to a campfire of ashes and a few partly burned sticks. He stirred the ashes and found no embers, but when he felt the ash with his fingers, there was still warmth.

  Dividing the camp into quarters, he searched each section with meticulous care. They had eaten here, and they had drunk coffee. There had been four men who were joined by a fifth man who sat with them. This man had sat on the ground, one leg outstretched. His spur had gouged the sand and there were faint scratches near the upper part of the boot.

  Studying the situation carefully, he then mounted and rode in careful circles, ever-widening, around the camp. He drew up suddenly. Here, behind a clump of mesquite, a man had crouched, spying on the outlaw camp. Bowdrie muttered irritably. The roan twitched an ear and Bowdrie glanced up. The horse was looking toward the trail with both ears pricked and his nostrils expanding. Speaking softly to the horse, Bowdrie waited, ready.

  A rider pushed through the mesquite and came toward them at a fast trot, but his eyes were on the ground and did not see Bowdrie until he was quite near.
He drew up sharply. It was Kent Friede.

  “Find anything?” Was there an edge to his tone?

  “Not much. They camped back yonder, an’ they had a visitor.”

  “Ah!” Friede nodded. “I suspected as much! Most likely Cane rode out here to give them information.”

  “What makes you suspect Cane? Anybody might have done it.”

  “Who else would gain by Hayes’s death?”

  Bowdrie shrugged, sitting easy on his horse. Something about Friede bothered him, and he decided he would not want to turn his back on him. It was just a feeling, and probably a foolish one. It was never wise to jump to conclusions. What he wanted was evidence.

  “I’ve not met Cane. What’s he like?”

  “About twenty-five. Nice-looking man. He’s been a cowhand, and he drove a freight wagon. Lately he’s been working in a store.”

  “How’d he come to be Hayes’s heir?”

  “Hayes cottoned to him from the first time they met, and now he’s about to marry Hayes’s daughter. He works part-time in the bank, with Hayes. After the bank closes, he goes over to the store.”

  JIM CANE WAS in the Caprock Saloon with Hadley when they walked in. He was a rangy young man with dark red hair and a hard jaw. He looked more like a rider than a banker. Cane turned as they entered and his eyes slanted quickly from one to the other. Bowdrie felt his pulse skip a beat as he saw Cane. A few years had changed him a lot.

  “Find anything?” Hadley asked. The sheriff was a stalwart man, a leather-hard face and cool, careful eyes. A good man to have on your side, a bad man to have on your trail.

  “Not much.” Bowdrie explained about the campfire and the visitor. He did not mention the unseen watcher, nor what he had found near the campfire.

  “All right to get back to business at the bank?” Cane asked. There was a shade of belligerence in his tone. “I’ve ranchers coming in for their payroll money.”

  “Will you have the money they need?”

  “I’ve sent to Maravillas for it. We lost eight thousand dollars,” he added.

  “Payroll money? Somebody must have known it would be there.”

  “Everybody knew. We’ve been supplying ranchers with payroll money for years.”

  “Eight thousand? That could hurt to lose. Can you make out?”

  “You mean, will it break the bank? No, it won’t. That bank belongs to Mary Jane now, and I won’t let it break.” He spoke with cool determination, yet there was something more in his tone. A warning?

  “You should make out,” Friede commented, “as long as no rumors get started. What if there was a run on the bank?”

  Jim Cane turned his eyes to Friede. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like to see Mary Jane broke and me thrown out.”

  Bowdrie watched the two men. Hadley had tightened up, ready to avert trouble if it began. Out of such a quarrel might come something revealing.

  Friede put down his glass. “I’ve no trouble with either of you. If Hayes wanted to take in a saddle tramp, that was his business, and if Mary Jane wants to marry a drifter, that’s hers.”

  Cane balled his fists. “Why, you—!”

  “Easy does it!” Hadley interrupted. “Kent, you watch your tongue. I’ve seen men killed for no more than that.”

  Friede shrugged contemptuously. His face was white and drawn, but not with fear. This man when cornered could be deadly. “Don’t start anything, Cane, or I’ll have my say. Some people don’t like wet stock.”

  Jim Cane looked as if he had been slapped, but before he could reply Kent Friede turned away, an ugly triumph in his expression. Cane stared after him and his hand shook as it lifted to the bar as if to steady himself. Then without a word he walked out.

  Hadley stared after them. “Now, what did he mean by that?” Hadley glanced at Bowdrie. “Friede seems to know more than he lets on.”

  Bowdrie made no comment, but behind his dark, Indian-like features his mind was working swiftly. The deep, dimplelike scar beneath his cheekbone seemed deeper, and his face had grown colder. Leaving Hadley in the saloon, he crossed to the bank.

  There were things here he must check before the bank was permitted to reopen, but more than that he wanted to be alone, to think. Letting himself in, he closed and locked the door behind him, then stood looking around.

  It was late afternoon and the sun was going down. Most of the townspeople were at home preparing for supper. Only hours before, two men had died here, killed by a man they trusted, but who was the man?

  For almost an hour he sat in the banker’s chair reconstructing the crime by searching through his experience and what little he had learned for the motivation. After a while he went to the old filing cabinet and rummaged through the papers there and in the desk. Finally he stepped out on the street, locking the door behind him.

  The Hayes house was just down the street and he turned that way. In answer to his knock the door was opened by a slender, dark-haired girl with lovely eyes. Eyes red from crying. “Oh? You must be the Ranger? Will you come in?”

  Bowdrie removed his hat and followed her through the ornate old parlor with its stiff-collared portraits of ancestors to a spacious and comfortable living room. He realized then that he had come to the wrong door. The parlor entrance or “front door” was rarely used in these houses. The kitchen door was the usual entrance. The table, he noticed as he glanced into the dining room, was set for three, although but one plate was in use.

  “Please don’t let me interrupt your supper,” he protested.

  She glanced at him quickly, embarrassed. “I . . . I set Dad’s place, too. Habit, I guess.”

  “Why not? And the other is for Jim Cane?”

  “Have you seen him? I’ve been so worried. He’s taking this awfully hard. He . . . he loved Dad as much as I did.”

  Her voice was low and he caught the emotion in it and changed the subject.

  “I hope to finish my work tomorrow and be riding on, but there are some things you could tell me. Was Kent Friede sweet on you? I mean, was he a suitor?” Bowdrie could not recall ever using the expression before, but believed it was the accepted one. There was so much he did not know about how people talked or conducted themselves. So much he wanted to know.

  “Sort of. As much as he could be on anyone. Kent’s mostly concerned with himself. Then . . . well, he’s not the sort of man a girl would marry. I mean . . . he’s killed men. He is very good with a gun. The best around here, unless it is Sheriff Hadley.”

  Bowdrie’s black eyes met hers. His expression was mildly amused. “You wouldn’t marry a gunfighter?”

  She flushed. “Well, I didn’t mean that . . . exactly.”

  Bowdrie smiled, and she was startled at how warm and pleasant it made him look. He had seemed somehow grim and formidable. Maybe it was because she knew who he was. “Your coffee’s good.” She had almost automatically filled his cup. “Even a gunfighter can enjoy it. But I know what you mean. You want to be sure when you cook supper there’s somebody there to eat it.”

  The door opened suddenly and there was a jingle of spurs and Jim Cane stood framed in the opening. His face was drawn and worried. His eyes went sharply from Bowdrie to Mary Jane. “You here? Why can’t you let this girl alone? She’s lost her father, and—”

  “Jim!” Mary Jane protested. “Mr. Bowdrie has been very nice. We have been talking and sharing some coffee. Why don’t you sit down and we will all have supper?”

  “Maybe the Ranger won’t be able to. There’s been a killing. Kent Friede was found dead just a few minutes ago.”

  Bowdrie put down his cup. He had been looking forward to a quiet supper. It was not often he ate with people. “Who found him?”

  “I did.” Cane stared defiantly. “He was lying in the alley behind the bank, and if you think I killed him, you’re dead wrong!”

  “I didn’t say . . .” Bowdrie got to his feet. “Thank you, Miss Hayes.”

  Kent Friede lay on his face in the alley back of
the bank with a knife between his shoulder blades, a knife driven home by a sure, powerful hand. His body was still warm.

  A half-dozen men stood around as Bowdrie made his examination. Chick was thinking fast as he got to his feet.

  This was all wrong. Kent Friede was not the man to let another get behind him. Nor was there any cover close by. The alley was gravel and not an easy place to creep up on a man unheard. This was cold-blooded murder, but one thing he knew. It had not happened in this alley.

  He withdrew the knife and studied it in the light of a lantern. He held it up. “Anybody recognize this?”

  “It’s mine!” Tommy Ryan’s eyes were enormous with excitement. “It’s my knife! I was throwin’ it this afternoon. Throwin’ it at a mark on that ol’ corner tree!”

  Bowdrie glanced in the direction indicated. The knife would have been ready to anyone’s hand. He balanced the knife, considering the possibilities.

  Kent Friede was dead, the body found by Jim Cane. Only a short time before, the two had almost come to blows before a dozen witnesses, and Friede had made his remark about wet stock. Bowdrie heard muttering in the gathering crowd, and Cane’s name was mentioned.

  Sheriff Hadley joined them. “This doesn’t look good, Bowdrie. People are already complainin’ that I haven’t arrested Jim Cane for the bank robbery. Now this here is surely goin’ to stir up trouble.”

  “Have you any evidence? Or have they? A lot of loose talk doesn’t make a man guilty.”

  “No evidence I know of,” Hadley agreed. “I’d never have suspected anything was wrong at the bank without you bringin’ it up. What gave you the idea?”

  “Tobacco smoke. Somebody was inside the bank before the outlaws got there. After tipping me off to the robbery and its time. Whoever it was figured I’d come a-shootin’ and kill all or some of them and maybe get killed myself. In fact, I think he counted on that.

  “Then during the gun battle outside he finished off the two inside and got away with the money. If I’d been killed too, there was just no way anybody could figure out what happened. He’d have the money and be completely in the clear.”