Borden Chantry Page 3

  Think back. If a man rode into town, what would he be coming for? To buy land? To buy cattle? Land wasn’t moving much these days and it was the wrong time for cattle-buying.

  Irritably, Chantry stared down the street. He should have taken the advice he got and just buried the man like any victim of a shooting, but he had to open it up, make a big thing of it. It was nigh on to noontime already, and all his questions had led to nothing he hadn’t known or guessed. He still did not know who the man was, where he came from or why he came to town.

  He started down the street and suddenly a boy darted from an alleyway. “Hi, Marshal!” It was Billy McCoy. That kid was everywhere, into everything.

  “Hey, Billy!”

  The boy came back with a retort. “Yeah, Marshal? You want I should ketch a rustler for you?”

  “You leave that to me for a coupla years, Billy. What I want to know is did you see the dead man around town? You know, that—”

  “Aw, sure! I seen him. I snuck into the barn over there and looked at him…First dead man I ever seen up close.”

  “You stay out of there, Billy. That man’s not on display. What I mean is, did you see him before? When he was alive?”

  “Sure, I saw him. I saw him when he first came into town…It wasn’t quite daybreak yet. Pa, he woke me up when he came in and I got up to get a drink from the well.

  “I seen that man come ridin’ in. Ridin’ a mighty fine sorrel horse with three white stockings. Prettiest horse I seen this year, and a good walker, too. Why, that horse could walk as fast as most horses trot.”

  “Where did he go? Where did he leave his horse?”

  “How should I know? I went back an’ tried to get to sleep. He was ridin’ right up Main Street when I seen him. But I never seen the horse again. I saw the man two, three times. I saw him around town durin’ the day, an’ I saw him that night when he was drunk.”

  “Drunk, did you say?”

  “Well, he looked it. He come up the street and kind of fell against the building. He shaken his head a couple of times and started on up the street. He was weavin’ around some…kind of like he was drunk, but…he might have been sick, Marshal. He just might have been sick.”

  “Thanks, Billy,” Chantry said, and continued on down the street.

  Big Injun was waiting at the barn. “You give me dollar. I dig grave.”

  “All right, Big Injun. You do that. Dig it deep, now.” He turned away when a thought came to him. “Big Injun, this man came into town riding a tall sorrel, three white stockings. Did you see it?”

  Big Injun got a shovel from a corner of the barn and walked back to the door. “Tall horse? Seventeen hands?”

  “Could be.”

  “Me see ’um. Go north.”

  North…? Borden Chantry paused there and considered. The man had come into town riding a mighty fine horse…yet where was the horse? The man was dead. His horse had to be somewhere around.

  Chantry glanced left and right. He could see Johnny McCoy, Billy’s father, sitting on the end of the boardwalk near the Corral.

  Chantry suddenly realized the one place he had not asked questions about a murder was the most likely place to start—Time Reardon’s Corral Saloon. The victim, it had been said, had been drunk.

  Reardon, a small man with neatly combed hair and sly, careful eyes stood behind his bar. “How are you, Marshal? What’s on your mind?”

  “There’s been a murder. Tall man, buckskin coat. Have you seen him?”

  “He was in here. Had one drink, then left.”

  “I heard he was drunk.”

  “Drunk? Him? I doubt it, but if he was he didn’t get it here.”

  “You said you doubted he was drunk…Why?”

  Reardon took a cigar from a box, clipped the end and lighted it. “Wasn’t the type. I’ve been in this business a long time, Marshal, and that man was no drinker. A drink…yes. But drunk? I doubt it.”

  “Did you know him?”

  Reardon hesitated…a moment too long. “No, no I did not know him. But I’ll tell you two things about him, Marshal.” He smiled thinly, no smile in his eyes. “You know I always like to help the law. I’ll tell you two things. Whoever he was, he wasn’t running from anything, and he wasn’t hunting anybody. He was a man I’d lay odds on in a gun battle, and he was carrying money.”

  “Money?”

  “He was careful, Marshal, but I saw it. He had a small sack hung inside his waistband on the left side. It had to be gold.”

  “He had only one drink?”

  “That’s all. Paid for it with a quarter…You know my drinks are two for a quarter.” Reardon puffed slowly on his cigar. “I called after him, told him he had another coming and he said to forget it, or give it to somebody who needed it more than he did.”

  “When I asked if you’d seen him before, you hesitated.”

  “Did I? Well, maybe I did. Let me put it this way, Marshal. I had never seen that man before, but once I knew somebody who looked very much like him, and if they are related let me suggest you find the killer and find him fast.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means that if that man should be part of the family I am talking about, you have the killer in jail before they come looking. If you don’t they’ll take the town apart, plank by plank, brick by brick.”

  “I don’t think we’d let them do it,” Chantry said gently. “There’s some pretty salty boys in this town.”

  “Yes, there are.” Reardon dusted ash from his cigar. “Marshal, people have said some pretty hard things about me, but I don’t think you ever heard anybody question my nerve.”

  “That’s right,” Chantry agreed, honestly. “I never did.”

  “Then understand this. I have a business here, a fair-sized investment in the town, but if those boys come looking I am going to crawl into the nearest hole and pull the hole in after me.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I’ve said enough, and I pray to the good Lord that I am wrong, but Marshal…find your killer, and find him quick.”

  Chantry thanked Reardon and left.

  What he needed now was a chance to sit down, to think a little. Despite himself, Reardon’s remarks had worried him. That was all he would need, a bunch of hard-nosed riders coming in looking for a murderer. He’d seen such crowds before, and had seen some of the shootings that resulted. Usually the town won, but men died and property was damaged, and it was not the sort of thing he wanted to happen.

  At the Bon-Ton he took a pot of coffee and a cup and went to a seat by the window. He sat down, filled his cup, and leaned back in his chair. All he still had was a tall dead man who had ridden a sorrel horse with three white stockings.

  A man suspected of being a dangerous man to tackle, a man who did not seem like a drinker yet had been drunk…or apparently so.

  At least, he had something to start with. If he could just find that horse!

  Forty years ago this had been Kiowa country and then the buffalo hunters had come. There was a good spring here, so some of the hide-hunters had camped nearby. And later some suppliers had come in and opened a trading post for the hunters, building the place out of the board-stiff, iron-hard hides.

  Within a few months a stage stop had been added to the trading post and saloon and the cluster of dugouts and hide-shelters. One of the buffalo hunters squatted on a waterhole a few miles south and brought in some cattle. Then some copper ore had been found and a small mine started working. So the town had come into being.

  Hyatt Johnson’s father had been one of the original buffalo hunters. George Riggins, the old marshal, had been another.

  The door opened and Lang Adams came in. Seeing Borden, he came around to his table. “Well? How’s the crime detection business?”

  “Slow,” Borden replied irritably. “Have some coffee.”

  “You worry too much.” Lang filled his cup. “After all it’s only a job.”

  “Yeah,” Chantry replied shortly, “
but it may mean my scalp. It may mean the town.”

  Lang looked at him sharply. “The town? What does that mean?”

  Chantry repeated what Reardon had said, and in reply to a question, added, “That’s all I know, but you and I both know there’s some outfits around that are as loyal to one another as some of the Scottish clans. You step on one of their toes and they all holler. Well, it looks like somebody stepped on a toe.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it. It’s unlikely anybody will ever know what happened to him, and probably nobody cares.”

  “I care. It happened in my town.”

  “You take it too seriously,” Lang said. “Look, the man is dead. More than likely he deserved shooting. I know how you feel, but what are you going to gain? You won’t get paid a dollar more, and if anybody does come looking, just say you don’t know anything about it.

  “The man was a stranger. It is likely that if he was murdered it was by somebody who followed him here, somebody who may have come just for that reason. And when it was done, he simply left.”

  “Maybe…And again, maybe not. One thing I do know, Lang. If he’s still around here, I am going to find him. And when I find him, he will go to jail…Or hang.”

  Chapter 3

  * * *

  BORDEN CHANTRY WAS a puzzled man. He wanted very much to do his job right, but he had never been any hand at puzzles…Trails, yes. He could work out a trail, and sometimes that took some doing. Well, why not work this out the same way? The idea gave him confidence.

  Time Reardon had said the stranger had been carrying a well-filled poke…So where was it? Time had noticed it, and it was likely that others had. Suddenly Borden was aware he had seen nothing of Puggsey Kerns or Frank Hurley, two of Reardon’s associates.

  To say they were thugs was understating the case. George Riggins had both men in jail from time to time but had been able to prove nothing that would permit keeping them there. If a drunk was robbed in the vicinity the chances were one or both had a hand in it, and it was likely they had been involved in some stage holdups out of Cheyenne, but there was no evidence.

  So far they had not been seen on the street this morning, but it was early.

  With nothing else to do Chantry strolled back to the barn. Again he looked at the body, and for the first time checked something he had observed on his first sight of the body without having it really register. The dead man’s knuckles were lightly skinned.

  Had he hit somebody? It looked like it. The dead man had solid, well-made hands.

  No marks on his face. The fight, if there had been a fight, had been a one-sided affair.

  He unstrapped the dead man’s gun, went through his pockets again…Nothing.

  The buckskin jacket was well-made…Indian-made, and Cheyenne by the style. Now the Cheyenne were a Plains people although they were found sometimes far down into Texas and over against the Rockies in Colorado. The jacket was nicely kept but was not new, which gave Chantry the feeling this man had lived or traveled in Cheyenne country and probably was friendly with them. Otherwise to get a jacket like this he’d have had to trade a pony at least, or a good rifle.

  The Cheyenne jacket and the spurs…well, that was a hint. This rider probably had been in the Rocky Mountain country of Colorado or northern New Mexico or both…Two to three days ride from here…Maybe longer, depending on his horse and his ambition.

  “Big Injun,” Chantry suggested, “you make him a coffin…All right?”

  “Blanket good enough.” Big Injun was abrupt. “Worms eat him, anyway.”

  “I want a coffin for him. Will you make it or do I hire somebody else?”

  “One dollar?”

  “All right.”

  Everything with Big Injun was one dollar. Didn’t he know what twenty-five cents was? Or was he smart enough not to learn?

  Reardon had said the dead man had not had more than one drink, and had left immediately. So he had not gambled.

  Street by street Chantry walked the town, checking every stable and corral. No sorrel horse with three white stockings…no strange horse of any kind. The last stable he checked was Johnny McCoy’s.

  Billy McCoy was standing in the yard spinning a rope, trying to make a circle he could jump in and out of, but not having much luck.

  “Howdy, Marshal! You still huntin’ after that dead man’s horse?”

  “Sure am. You recall what brand he wore?”

  Billy stopped spinning his rope and scowled, thoughtfully. “No, sir. I surely don’t. Guess I didn’t even see it.”

  Chantry looked at Billy again. A western man or boy just naturally looks at brands…he always looks at them. Could Billy be lying? And if so, why?

  “Mind if I look in your barn? I’m checking everyone.”

  “Go ahead. There’s no horses in there. Ours are in the corral.”

  The small barn was shadowed and still. There was no horse there, only a few odds and ends of old harness, a few coils of rope, some old, worn-down boots, long unused, and the usual tools.

  There was some manure at one of the stalls, and Chantry paused, glancing at it again.

  Johnny McCoy kept his barn clean…or Billy did. About once a week it was cleaned out and fresh straw was scattered on the dirt floor. There was manure at only one of the makeshift stalls, but what made Borden Chantry take that second look was the position of it. Either that manure had been dropped by a big horse or one that had pulled back to the end of its tether before dropping it.

  Taking off his hat Chantry wiped the sweatband. It had become a habit when he was thinking…if what he was doing could be called thinking, he reflected irritably.

  Looking carefully around, he checked everything, and everything seemed to be right. Yet the manure worried him. There might have been a lot of reasons for its position that were perfectly natural, but it also might have been left by a tall, long-barreled horse…say one that was seventeen hands high.

  Opening the door a little wider for more light he walked back to the stall and studied it. At a rough place in the boards on the right-hand side he found a few sorrel hairs. Yet…it meant nothing. There might have been a dozen sorrel horses in that stall at one time or another.

  He started for the door when something caught his eye. Among the several ropes hung from nails…three on one nail in one place…was one…He lifted a couple of grass ropes and beneath it hung a rawhide riata, and a long one.

  He heard a slight movement and turned to see Billy staring at him. “Billy?” he spoke gently. “Where’d this rope come from?”

  “I dunno. One o’ Pa’s I guess.”

  “Now, Billy, you know your pa never used a rawhide rope in his life. I’ve punched cows with him…and a better puncher never walked…but I never saw him with a rawhide riata.”

  “Well…I found it.”

  “Found it where?”

  “Yonder.” He indicated a gap in the brush some distance off. “I figured…well…if nobody come huntin’ I’d…well, I’d sort of keep it.”

  “That’s logical, Billy. But that’s a mighty fine rope and somebody would surely miss it. I wish you’d brought it to me first, then if nobody showed up wanting it, it would be yours.”

  “Sure enough?” He glanced enviously at the rope. “I never seen one that long.”

  “That’s a Mexican rope, Billy, or one used by the Californios. They use rawhide riatas…I’ve seen them braiding them. You come by the house someday and I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  He squatted on his heels. “Billy, I think that riata belonged to the murdered man. Would you have any ideas about that?”

  “No, sir. I reckon not.”

  “That sorrel, Billy? Was he ever in this barn?”

  “No, sir. Not that I know of.” Suddenly Billy’s eyes became fearful. “You…you ain’t thinkin’ Pa done it?”

  “No, Billy, I am not. I don’t have any idea what was done or who did it. Your pa’s a good man, Billy. He has his problems, like we all do, but he’s n
o murderer. He might shoot a man in a stand-up fight but he’d never back-shoot him.”

  Borden Chantry got to his feet. “Billy, I’ve got to find that horse. The first thing I have to do is find that horse and get the brand…I’ve had a hint, Billy, that the man may have belonged to a very tough outfit, and if they find he has been murdered they may come shootin’. If that happens a lot of your good friends may get hurt, so I’ve got to find the killer…fast.”

  “Yes, sir. You think that horse was in our barn?”

  “I don’t know, Billy. When was the last time you were in there? The barn, I mean?”

  “I dunno. Maybe the day before yesterday. Ain’t much call to go in, and I been exercisin’ Hyatt Johnson’s horses. He gives me fifty cents a week to take ’em out an’ ride ’em around so they don’t get too frisky for him.”

  “Then a horse might have been here without you knowin’?”

  “Well…maybe. But who’d put one in there without askin’?”

  “Nobody I can think of. Billy, where’s your pa?”

  “He’s inside. He’s asleep.”

  “When he wakes up, you tell him I wish he’d come down to the office. I want to talk to him a little bit.”

  He walked slowly back up the street to the boardwalk, then along the street. Only a few rigs and a half dozen horses were tied along the street. How could a man ride into such a town, get himself murdered and then have his horse disappear?

  Lang was right. He was wasting his time. He’d be far better off hunting turkeys out at the ranch. At least he’d have something to show for it.

  Chantry went to his own home and saddled his Appaloosa. He tried to rotate his horses to keep them all in shape, and it was the Appaloosa’s turn, although he suspected this would be a short ride.

  He found the place where Billy said he had picked up the riata…Sure enough, the tracks of a big horse with a long, beautiful stride.

  For an hour he followed a winding trail through the brush, skirting the town rather than riding away from it, and taking a devious route. Suddenly the rider had come out into a lane, and Chantry swore softly.