Borden Chantry (16 page)

Chapter 17

Y
OU ASKED THAT I should keep an eye on things,” Baca said then. “It was almighty quiet around, Marshal. Your wife took the buckboard out…drove into the country, but she wasn't gone long.”

Bess? Where would
she
be going?

“Anybody else?”

“Well, I didn't see the banker around. I dropped in on Blazer…he was there. And that youngster who's living at your place…the McCoy kid? He was all over town. I never did see such a busy kid.”

Of course, one man could not watch everywhere. And the murderer must have been alert, curious as to why Kim Baca had been released, and therefore wary. And there was always the arroyo behind the town. It was all too easy to slip into that arroyo and simply vanish.

Seated at the battered desk in the office, Chantry tipped back in his chair and closed his eyes. Yet he was not asleep, and did not plan to sleep. Slowly, methodically, he went over the impressions he had, and the little, so very little evidence.

He now had the .52-calibre the murderer had used on some occasions, but he had no record of such a gun. And no one to whom he talked remembered having seen it.

He got up suddenly. “Hold the fort,” he said, “I'll be at the Bon-Ton.”

He went out on the street and stood there, looking up and down, thinking. A vague impression was stirring around in his mind. He knew several people who had some connection with Mora, but how many might have a connection of which he knew nothing?

Revenge was always a possibility as a motive for murder. But the revenge killer usually committed his act where the victim would know who was killing him, and why. Not always, of course.

Chantry considered himself no kind of a thinker, yet it seemed to him that it all came back to some reason that lay outside of the town itself. Somebody, somewhere, wanted to keep something covered up.

Because he or she feared arrest? Or because he or she stood to gain by keeping something under cover?

Most of the dealings—financial and otherwise—were known to everybody in a small town. Not much could be concealed. So who in the town stood to gain anything? Enough of anything to make murder acceptable?

Pin Dover had returned from Mora and shortly after had been killed.

George Riggin had been on the verge of uncovering the killer, and he had been killed…by accident or otherwise.

Joe Sackett had ridden into town from Mora, and he had been killed.

Johnny McCoy had seen or known something, and he had been killed. Johnny had also been to Mora and was acquainted with Dover.

Now Ed Pearson had been killed…because he knew something? Might know something? Or just to get him out of the way so that Borden Chantry might be killed?

There had to be a design, a pattern, somewhere. When you trailed a man or an animal, you had to figure out where that man or animal might be going. And if you could, that was a help.

So where was the murderer going?

Why did people kill? Hate, revenge, jealousy, and for money…those were the obvious reasons.

But who hated Pin Dover? Nobody. Who wanted anything he had? Nobody. A kill for revenge? Dover had been around for years, and if the killer was a local man, why had he waited?

Joe Sackett had been a stranger, so nobody had reason to hate him.

The only fact was Mora…and again Chantry came to the conclusion that all of them had been killed for something they knew—or that the killer suspected they knew.

It must be a question of money.

Putting the thought aside, he returned to Pin Dover. His had been the first killing, and on his return from Mora.

The thought came to him suddenly and he shook it off. Ridiculous!

He walked slowly along the street to the Bon-Ton.

B
OONE SILVA LAY on his back in his cell in his underwear. His fury was wearing off, and good sense was taking over. He had the cunning of a wild animal, knowing what was good for him and what was bad. He lived dangerously, but with an inner wariness that kept him ever on the alert.

Now he admitted, with grudging admiration, that Chantry had taken him fairly. He went over it again in his mind…Should he have gambled and fired?

No. Had he done so he now would be dead…By this time, buried. And he was very much alive. Would Borden Chantry have fired? He asked himself that question and remembered Chantry's eyes…Yes, Chantry would have fired. It took nerve to face a man like that, at point-blank range.

Now at a distance…That would be a different story. Boone Silva had killed a number of men, but he was faster than most, and a much better shot, so his chances were good—far better than average. When he drew a gun on a man, that man was dead.

Sometimes he had tried to imagine a man faster than himself. Silva could not make himself believe such a man existed…or that if he was faster, he could shoot straighter.

Someday, out on the street, he would meet Borden Chantry.

His mind reverted to the job that brought him to town. He had come to kill Chantry. He would get five hundred dollars when it was done.

The arrangements had been made in the usual way. There was a hole in the rock out at Mesa de Maya that was his post office, a place where a select few people knew he could be reached. He had gone to that hole in the rock one day and found a name and a town and a note that meant five hundred dollars when Chantry was dead.

It was all very simple. When he had done his job, he would ride to a certain saloon and would pick up an envelope.

Five hundred dollars was a lot of money. At thirty dollars a month, the going wage for a cowhand, it was almost two years' work.

He thought of Borden Chantry again. They had said he was a rancher, temporarily marshal. That might very well be true, but Borden Chantry was no bargain. Boone Silva wanted, for his pride's sake, to face him in the open and shoot him down. But his animal caution told him that would be foolish—very foolish, indeed. When they let him out of jail he would say, “No hard feelin's, Marshal,” and ride out of town. Then he'd circle around, have a fast horse ready and another one five miles away. And then, with one shot from his rifle, he'd cut Chantry down…and be out of the Territory before they knew what had happened.

Five hundred dollars was a lot of money only if you lived to spend it.

A faint curiosity stirred him. Who was it that wanted Chantry dead?

Usually it was some cow rustler they couldn't pin anything on, or a nester who squatted on some rancher's best water. Silva had an idea this was something different.

He had looked over the town on his way in, sizing up his chances, his easiest escape route, the best available places from which to shoot.

Kim Baca strolled back and straddled a chair, facing the bars. “You treed yourself an ol' he-coon,” he commented.

“Yeah? He ain't so much.”

“Caught me,” Baca added.

Silva rolled up on one elbow. “Then what you doin' out there?”

Baca explained. “Hell, why not? It's better out here than in there, an' he's a square-shooter, Chantry is. Might see me on my way when this is over.”

“‘This'?”

“Been a string of murders,” Kim commented, “one after the other. And somebody's worried the marshal is gettin' close. That's why they called you in…to kill him before he can lay it on them.”

“Who?”

“Figured maybe you knew.”

“I don't know nothin'. Wouldn't tell you if I did.”

“This here marshal. I don't know him much better than you, but he stacks up like a square-shooter. You know as well as I do that he's got a chance to clean off the record by just sticking you with all these killings, but he ain't going to do it. He'll keep you here to keep you out of his hair, and then he'll turn you loose.”

“And then I'll kill him.”

“Be a damn fool if you tried. You an' me know there's many a man around, ranchers, freighters, cowhands and whatever, that are just as good with a gun as some of the marshals and gunfighters. Only they don't have the name, and they don't want it.

“Take me, f'r instance. I expect I'm as fast with a gun as you, but I just steal horses. Not
any
horse…I steal only the best, like that gelding of yours.”

“You lay off that horse, Baca. You lay off, or—”

“Or? You don't scare me a mite, Boone, not a mite. You didn't scare Borden Chantry, either. I'm not going to steal your horse because you're going to need him to get out of town on before folks around here have themselves a necktie party with you wearin' the tie. There's been talk, you know.” Kim Baca was lying cheerfully. There had been no talk. The townspeople trusted in their marshal, and so did he, but it was one way to build a fire under Silva. And there was precedent. More than one western town had become impatient with lawlessness and proceeded to string up several who happened to be handy. And a couple of times they had picked up relatively harmless men who happened to enjoy the company of outlaws. Like that fellow Russian Bill, down in Shakespeare, New Mexico.

Boone Silva tried not to look worried, but he looked around suddenly, like a trapped animal. “I got to get out of here.”

“Don't try it, Boone. As long as you're in here, you're safe. You get out there where the marshal can't protect you, an' you wouldn't have a chance. You set right where you're at, but take it from me. When he turns you loose…leave. Don't get any fancy notions.”

For a half hour then, Baca rambled along on other things, horses, killings, ways of making contact. And after a bit Boone Silva loosened up a little. He did not tell Baca where or how, only that there was a way he could be reached to do a job.

“How many men know how to reach you? I'd be scared one of them would be loose-tongued.”

“Not a chance! Only four men know how to reach me with a deal. And anybody wants me has to go to one of the four, and he passes the word along.”

After awhile, Kim Baca left Silva and walked back into the office. He sat down and put his feet on the desk. It was almost as if he was a deputy…Well, that wouldn't be a bad job, come to think of it.

He was tilted back in his chair when Lang Adams stuck his head in the door. “Bord around?”

“Down to the Bon-Ton. He thinks better with a cup of coffee.”

“I hear he's got Boone Silva in jail?”

“He has…I'm just keeping him out of trouble, Mr. Adams, and out of Chantry's hair while he solves this murder binge.”

“He'll solve it, too,” Lang commented. “Once he gets his teeth into it, he doesn't let go.”

“You're right. Was I the killer, I'd pull my stakes. No matter what he wants out of this town, it won't do him any good in prison or hanging at the end of a rope.

“You know something, Mr. Adams? Folks around here don't know what they've got. That Borden Chantry is the smoothest operator I've seen, and I've seen a few.

“He took me slick as a whistle. No shooting, no sweat. It was cold-turkey. And he did the same with Boone Silva. Nine men out of ten would have turned both of those affairs into shootin' matches, but he didn't. I tell you, he's just a whole lot smarter than folks give him credit for.”

“I think you're right, Baca.” Lang Adams leaned on the doorjamb. “I've heard you're pretty good with a gun yourself.”

“I don't advertise it. When I have to use a gun, I use it. But I'll never draw on any man if I can avoid it. A dead man makes a bad pillow for comfortable sleeping.”

Lang Adams went back to the street. It was only a few steps to the Bon-Ton, yet he stopped in the post office and asked for mail. There was only his St. Louis newspaper, but no note from Blossom…He should ride out there.

He glanced at himself in the post office window as he left. He looked thinner…Was he scared? A lot of people in town were, and many of them were not coming out on the streets at night. Lang Adams knew how they felt.

Borden Chantry was alone at his table near the window. He looked up as Adams stepped in. “Howdy, Lang. Pull up a chair.”

“Stopped by the office. Baca said you were down here.” Lang glanced at him. “You really trust him, don't you?”

“I do. He gave me his word, Lang, and I've known many a horse thief who wouldn't break his word. Maybe elsewhere, but not in this country. And Kim Baca prides himself on it.”

“Folks are getting edgy, Bord.”

“They should be. There's been more killings than in the last Indian outbreak, and nobody in jail yet. But I'll get the guilty one.”

“You think it might be a woman? You mentioned that?”

“Could be. I can't think of more than one or two women in town who could have run with George Riggin's saddle. And the killer did.”

“I meant to ask you about that. Why would George leave his saddle to you? You of all people? You've got some saddles.”

“Oh, sentiment, I guess! George was always like a second father to me.”

“He was a good man. Too bad he had to die that way, but accidents happen to all of us.”

“It was no accident, Lang. I went back there and checked out the spot where that boulder fell on him, and I found where somebody used a lever to pry it loose. At that, it only knocked him from his horse and stunned him. Then the killer walked over him and dropped a rock on his head.”

“I'll be damned! How could you figure that out?”

“I talked to Doc after I looked the ground over. And I found where his body had fallen, and Doc told me he'd been hit twice by that rock. The second time, the rock was dropped on him, on the side of his head as he lay on the ground. There's no way a falling rock could have killed him.”

“Baca was right. He said you were better than we knew.”

Chantry shook his head. “No, Lang, I'm not. But a killer like this is his own worst enemy. Each time he kills he draws the noose tighter, just as he thinks he's killing people that might pin it on him. After awhile he simply offers himself up on a platter.”