The Iron Marshall Page 12

  "Not at the hotel? Then where-?"

  "I've no idea, ma'am. Yet you've seen her. She's always neat, never dusty, her clothes always fresh and clean. She's not camping out, ma'am."

  Holstrum was behind the counter of his store. He peered at Shanaghy over his glasses and smiled. "Ah? You come to my little store, Marshal? What can I do for you?"

  "I'm looking for Carpenter."

  "Carpenter, is it? Ah, no. Not today, I think." He waved a hand. "But who knows? We see each other often, one day is like the next. He is not at his shop?"

  Shanaghy shook his head. He liked the store, and the pleasant smells of dry goods, slabs of bacon, fresh-cut chewing tobacco, new leather from the saddles and bridles, and coffee from the coffee-grinder.

  "Sometimes, Marshal, I think you worry too much. When the men of Patterson come you can talk. Maybe he will listen to you."

  "Maybe." He looked out of the window at the empty street. A hatful of breeze caught at the dust and swirled it, then dropped it reluctantly. He went to the huge circular cheese under glass and lifted it, slicing off an edge for himself, then he strolled back to the counter.

  "Maybe I should go back to New York," he muttered. "Since coming here I've been thinking of other things than myself. I'm growing soft."

  "It is a small place here," Holstrum agreed. "We have not much to offer."

  "Where were you from, Holstrum? Another small town?"

  "A farm," the older man said. "On a farm I was born. On a farm I lived. There was work, much work. Morning, noon and night, there was work. Always, I think of other places, better places than the farm. I think of women, too, of soft, warm, beautiful women mit perfume. On the farm I see no such women. My mama, she is gone before I know more than her face, and we are all men. My father, he drives us. Always it is work."

  "So you came west?"

  "I work on a boat on the canal. Then I come to Chicago, where I work. I save a little. I see always people with much. I envy them. I go where they go and stand outside and look in on them.

  "They are rich people. Their women are soft and warm, and when they passed me going from their carriages, I smell their perfume. So I say, someday ... "

  He broke off. "A boy's foolishness, that's what it was. Now I have good business. Soon I shall be rich man."

  "What happened to the farm? And your brothers who stayed?"

  Holstrum shrugged. "My father is dead. The farm is now only one of five farms. They have done well, my brothers. One also owns a store. One has a bank."

  Shanaghy finished the cheese. "You might have been a banker had you stayed, but you wouldn't have seen all this." He waved a hand.

  Holstrum stared at him over his glasses. "I do not like all this. Sometime I will have a big business in a big town ... You'll see."

  Shanaghy grinned. "And maybe the woman with the perfume ... or have you found her already?"

  Holstrum lowered his head and stared at the marshal over his glasses. For a moment he peered at Shanaghy, then shook his head. "One time I think I meet such a woman. She wished to go to a fine place so I dress in my new black suit and take her there. We ate and we talked, but I do not know what she says ... many words of things of which I know nothing." He paused. "I never see her again. And the meal," he added, "it cost me all I would earn in one week. For one meal.

  "Someday," he added, "it will not be so! I shall eat many such meals, and I shall not think of cost! I will know many such women, and they will not think small of me."

  "You think she did?"

  "I never see her again. When I go to ask they say she is not at home, or is not 'receiving.' "

  "Tough," Shanaghy said. "That could happen to anyone." He was thinking of Jan Pendleton. What a fool Holstrum was! But he wouldn't be. Not by a damned sight. He wasn't going to make a fool of himself.

  By suppertime they all knew Carpenter was gone. None of his horses were missing. His saddle was in the barn. His pistol, rifle and shotgun were all in place. Yet Carpenter was nowhere around.

  The judge was in the restaurant when Shanaghy came in. He remembered him from that first night when some man had come in to tell the judge that something must have happened to Rig Barrett. The judge nodded when he saw Shanaghy.

  He held out his hand. "Marshal? I am Judge McBane. Judge by courtesy, that is. Once, back in Illinois, I was a judge. Out here I am merely another lawyer, trying to make a living."

  "We need a judge, and we need a court. The nearest one is miles away."

  "You may be right. Sometimes I think the fewer laws the better. We are an orderly people, we Americans, although others do not think of us so."

  He was a short, heavyset man with a bulging vest, a heavy watch chain with a gold nugget and an elk's tooth suspended from it, and a thick mustache that covered his upper lip and most of his mouth. "I understand our smith has disappeared?"

  "Well ... he doesn't seem to be around. But there are no horses missing that we've heard of, and all his are in the corral."

  The judge led the way to a table, seated himself and brushed his mustache with the back of his forefinger, first the right side, then the left.

  "He was in to see me," the judge commented casually, his eyes roaming the room. "Said the horses of those men you have chained down in the street had disappeared."

  "They have."

  Judge McBane turned his slightly bulging eyes back to Shanaghy. "Seems to me," he suggested, speaking quietly, "that a marshal looking for a missing man could go through every stable in town. If he didn't find Carpenter he might find those horses. Their brands might tell him something."

  Shanaghy flushed. "Of course!" He shook his head ruefully. "I'm new at this business, Judge, but why couldn't I think of what's so obvious?"

  "I do it all the time," the judge replied cheerfully.

  Shanaghy got up suddenly. "Judge? If I may be excused-?"

  Later, he thought, How did I remember to say that?

  He had not realized there were so many stables in the town, but where horses are used there must be places in which to keep them.

  In the ninth stable, near an abandoned corral, both by the smell and by struck matches, Shanaghy found fresh manure and places where the horses had stood. They were gone now.

  He was turning away when he saw the boot-toe. It was barely showing above the hay in the long manger-hay with which a body had obviously been hastily covered.

  Even before he brushed away the hay, Tom Shanaghy knew.

  It was Carpenter.

  Chapter Thirteen

  HE HAD been struck over the head, then stabbed at least three times. The blow over the head seemed to have come from behind.

  Shanaghy thought of Mrs. Carpenter and swore softly, bitterly. He would have to tell her. It was something that must be done, and now.

  Yet first, he must look around. Whoever had killed Carpenter had come here with him, or had come up behind him. It was unlikely that Carpenter had been killed elsewhere and brought here. Undoubtedly he had found the horses and been killed at that moment.

  Why kill him for seeing the horses unless the horses pointed to someone? Yet from what he had gathered there were few local brands. There were but a few local people who ran cattle, and the farmers did not have any but a few milk cows which they kept up or picketed on grass so they could not stray.

  Shanaghy straightened up and stood very still, thinking. He had started to strike another match when he heard a faint stirring ... Was it outside? Or inside?

  Careful to make no sound, he eased himself back into the stall and squatted on his heels. The double doors of the stable stood open. Along one side was a row of four stalls, divided one from another simply by horizontal poles and floor-to-roof posts. The manger was simply a long trough that extended through all four stalls.

  On the opposite side there was simply the wall. Nails had been driven into the boards on which to hang odd bits of old harness, links of chain, and whatever had been lying around loose. Near that wall was a wooden buc
ket and a pitchfork. On the ledge formed by a two-by-four that ran the length of the side between supporting posts, there had been a currycomb, a brush and some heavy shears.

  At the back of the barn was a window. Here and there cracks allowed a glimpse of the lights of the town. The nearest building was about fifty yards off, the pole corral on the side away from the town.

  Somebody had either come here with Carpenter or had followed him here. Perhaps had lain in wait for him. And Carpenter was dead.

  Again, a faint stirring. Shanaghy cleared the thong from the hammer of his six-shooter. He heard a faint creak and looked up. One of the big barn doors was slowly swinging shut!

  He started to rise ... Was it a trap? Or just the wind?

  He was in the fourth and last stall. He got up suddenly and started for the door. As he did so it swung shut and he heard a latch drop into place.

  Rushing to the door, he pushed against it, but the door held firm. He knew the hasp on the door couldn't be very strong. He stepped back to lunge against it, hesitated, for fear of a shot, then threw himself at the barrier.

  The door was immovable. Something was wedged against it from the outside. He turned quickly toward the window ... It was too small!

  For an instant Shanaghy stood perfectly still. This was stupid! What in the world could be the reason? Nobody could be kept locked up like this for long. He would get out on his own, or, when morning came and people began moving about, he could call out ...

  If he was alive.

  Realization came to him one instant before he smelled the smoke.

  Fire!

  Destroying not only him, but Carpenter's body, as well->• Carpenter's body with its telltale wounds.

  Shanaghy was no fool to waste time in charging about or battering at walls. The closest buildings were stores, empty at night. The feeble sounds he could make, unless he started shooting, would attract no attention, and even the shots might be passed off as some drunk celebrating a little.

  The smoke was coming through cracks from the north side of the barn, the side away from the town, and from the smell it was hay burning. Hay would create the most smoke, and might smoulder for some time before growing into flame, but it was smoke that killed most people in fires. Shanaghy knew that from the firemen working Morrissey's volunteer companies in New York.

  He had to get out, and he had to get Carpenter's body out. He'd never get the doors battered down in time.

  The smoke was getting thicker. As he ran to Carpenter's body, he started coughing. He lifted the smaller man from the manger ... to the back of the barn.

  The loft ... the small loft where hay was stored for use during bad weather! There was a simple ladder of crosspieces nailed to a post that gave access to the loft.

  Higher up, the smoke would be worse. No matter. It was the only way. Lifting Carpenter's body, Shanaghy slung it over his shoulder. Holding the body in place, he grasped the post itself with his free hand and climbed.

  Five steps. He dumped the body on the little hay that remained. Then, coughing and gasping, he reached for the roof.

  It was made of poles with a crude thatch of branches and straw. Almost unable to breathe, his eyes smarting from the smoke, he clawed at the poles with his bare hands. He ripped and he tore. He got hold of a branch and broke it free. Dust and dirt cascaded over him. He tore at the thatch, coughing with great, lung-tearing gasps. Suddenly, his hand went through and fresh air flooded around him. Below him, he heard the crackle of flames from inside the barn.

  After ripping branches away, he grasped a pole and broke it by sheer brute strength. More dust and straw tumbled through upon him, but there was more fresh air, too.

  Stooping, he grabbed Carpenter's body by the collar and crawled through the hole onto the roof. Flames were leaping up behind him. None were yet visible outside, although there was considerable smoke.

  After reaching the edge of the barn, he dropped the body and leaped down himself, falling quickly to one side, gun in hand.

  Nothing ... the would-be killer was gone, fearful of being seen close to the burning barn.

  Tom Shanaghy gathered Carpenter's body in his arms and walked slowly away. Behind him the barn exploded into flame, and he heard shouts and yells from the town. The Carpenter home was but a hundred yards or so away, and he walked toward it.

  She was standing on the step, looking toward the fire, and she saw him coming. He saw the white of her wrapper when she stepped away from the door and came toward him, walking slowly.

  "Marshal? Mr. Shanaghy? Is it him?"

  "Yes, ma'am. He was murdered, ma'am."

  "Marshal, would you bring him in, please?" Then she paused. "What is happening, Marshal?"

  "I found his body, but they locked me in the stable and set it afire."

  She indicated a bed and he placed the body there, gently. "Ma'am? They'd left him in the manger, covered with hay, but the worst of this is from bringing him through the roof."

  "Even then, with the fire, you took time to bring him out? Marshal, I-"

  "Ma'am, forget it. And don't worry. I'll find who did it. I'll find them if it's the last thing I ever do."

  Men had crowded around the fire, watching to keep it from spreading, although the building was isolated. Shanaghy glanced toward them and went on to the street again, pausing there a moment to brush the dust from his derby.

  There were still a few horses along the street and there was one rig ... A man was untying the horses and he turned at Shanaghy's footsteps. It was Pendleton.

  Shanaghy paused. "Leaving town, Mr. Pendleton? You aren't staying for the fire?"

  "I have seen a fire, Marshal." The Englishman turned toward him. "What has happened?"

  "Carpenter has been murdered. I had just found the body when somebody set fire to the barn. An attempt, I presume, to destroy both me and the evidence."

  "But you got out? And the body?"

  "I brought it with me. Is Jan with you?"

  "At this hour?"

  "I was hoping she was. Somebody ... a woman, I think, should be with Mrs. Carpenter. I could think of no one better than Jan."

  "I'll bring her in. But there's Mrs. Murphy, too, over at the boardinghouse."

  Puzzled, Shanaghy watched Pendleton drive away. It was late, almost midnight, in fact, and not a likely hour for anybody to be out. Western towns were not like New York. Here, people arose at daybreak or before and worked the day through. By night they were ready for bed, and sleep.

  Shanaghy watched the receding back of the buckboard and then walked across to the hotel.

  Carpenter was dead and an attempt had been made to kill him, so it was no longer fun- and party-time. Also, somebody had either been watching the barn or trailing him. More likely the latter.

  From his room in the hotel, Shanaghy looked down into the street. He had no light burning and offered no target, yet he himself could see into the street. He was puzzled.

  He had always been wary of being followed. This caution had developed from his days around the Five Points, for the area had been a hangout for thugs. Even the children would rob a man, setting on him in gangs and tripping him up or pulling him down. Shanaghy was as sure as a man could be that he had not been followed. Yet he had been observed.

  Somebody, or several somebodies, was taking time out from whatever else they were doing to watch him ... which meant they were worried.

  First they had tried to have him killed in Greenwood's, and second, in the burning barn. What next? That there would be another attempt, and that it would be soon, he knew.

  He put his derby on the dressing table, took off his boots, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

  What actually did he have? He believed an attempt was to be made to steal the money, which was due in the day after tomorrow by the latest reports.

  He believed the mysterious young woman was involved. He believed the supposed railroad detective who had put him off the train was also involved.

  Whoever was in on th
e action had a local base, and sources of local information.

  That person, or persons, had hidden the horses, had attempted to kill him.

  He thought of the men down there in the street. He had taken food to them, and water. What disturbed him was that they seemed less worried by their captivity than expected.

  Escape would not be easy. The posts were deeply sunk and the railing was thick, strong, well-seasoned wood. The sound of a saw or an ax would be heard all over town. Digging the posts out of the ground would be a formidable job.

  Had they received some promise they would be taken care of?

  Irritably, he got up and paced the floor. In just a matter of hours, the money would be arriving. If Vince Patterson did not come in with his cattle and his riders, the robbers would have planned some other diversion. As quietly as possible, he moved his bed closer to the window, put two pillows behind him and sat up, looking out at the street. From where he sat he could see the two men chained to the hitching-rail. Both seemed to be asleep, and the street was empty.

  By now the plotters might have discovered that Patterson was not to make his move. In any event, he must think that way and not blind himself to whatever else might happen.

  Suddenly, he sat up. One of the men at the hitching-rail had lifted his head and was peering intently across the street toward a place hidden from Shanaghy's view.

  Shanaghy got up, pulled on his boots and slipped into his coat. After donning his derby, he went quietly down the stairs into the deserted lobby. A faint light glowed over the desk but all else was dark. He moved to the wide window where, standing near the pillar, he had a good view up and down the street.

  Suddenly he saw the hand of one of the chained men shoot up as if to catch something, then saw him clawing in the dust to get hold of it.

  Shanaghy wheeled. Moving swiftly, he went down the hall.

  At the back door he paused, then eased the door open, and slipped out into the darkness. As he did so a figure emerged from between the buildings and moved away from him.

  There was no chance for identification, not even a glimpse of more than the shadowy figure. Shanaghy started after him, running as softly as possible on the sandy earth.