Borden Chantry (6 page)

Yet there was something about that shot that hit them all, and for a moment they just stared, frightened and wondering.

Borden Chantry got up and went outside. He knew it as well as if he'd seen it happen.

Somebody else was dead.

Chapter 6

H
E LAY SPRAWLED at the door of the stable, his face in the fresh straw, one hand outflung and holding a bridle, the other by his side, empty.

The hands were seamed and gnarled with work, such work as even the months of hard drinking had failed to eradicate. From earliest childhood Johnny McCoy had only known work, and had never shirked his share, only to have the drink catch up to him at last.

Billy stood beside the body when they came running, his face white, his eyes wide and staring.

“Bill,” Chantry put a hand on the thin shoulder, “I'm sorry, boy.”

Even as he spoke he was noting the bullet hole in the side of the skull, his eyes sweeping the area for the place of the marksman.

There was no use running and chasing, for the man would be long gone, and to rush in now with a lot of would-be pursuers would only trample any evidence that might have been left.

There were a dozen men there, and as many women. Borden turned slowly to face them. “Now listen,” he said loudly, “and hear me plain. You're each to go directly to your homes, and stop for nothing on the way. Go directly there and stay in until morning, or settle with me.”

“What about my business?” Reardon demanded.

“One night won't hurt you,” Chantry said coolly, “and I don't want everything tramped up and spoiled. With luck I'll have found what I want by daylight.”

“And what'll that be?” Blazer demanded irritably.

“That's my business,” Chantry replied brusquely. “Just get on home now.”

“And what if we don't?” Puggsey Kern demanded.

Borden Chantry smiled. “Why, I'll throw you in jail for disturbing the peace, for loitering, and as many other charges as I can find to answer the bill. But any loyal citizen who wants this mystery cleared up will do all he can to help.”

“That goes with me,” Lang Adams said. “Anything you need, Bord, you just call out.”

Big Injun was there with the wagon, and they loaded Johnny McCoy into the back. Borden dropped his hand to Billy's shoulder. “Son, you'd better go along to my house. Bess and Tom will be mighty glad to have you with us.”

Reluctantly, the boy went, stunned and silent. As yet, there had been no tears. That would come, Borden knew, when Billy was alone and away from watching eyes.

Slowly, the crowd scattered to their homes, and there they would stay…unless the killer was among them. For what better thing for him to do than run up and join the crowd? One by one he sorted them out in his mind, then shook his head. No…not in that bunch.

Hardly likely. Yet he remained uneasy. He simply did not know, and all his clues seemed to lead to nothing.

Johnny had himself been a suspect, although not a serious one in Chantry's thinking. Yet…he had to be considered. He had stabled the dead man's horse. He had known the man had money.

Now Johnny was dead, and the question was…why was he killed? What had Johnny known that the killer dared not let him tell? And Johnny was sobering up, Johnny who had always been a hard-working, loyal man.

The question now was, did Billy know what Johnny had known? Or what the killer thought he knew? If the murderer believed the boy might know something dangerous to him, the boy himself might be the next victim.

Standing in the very spot where Johnny McCoy had stood, Chantry turned slowly around, studying the angle at which the bullet must have come. Years of using guns, trying to make every shot count, and using a gun always with purpose and never for casual amusement, had taught him a good deal about guns. It had also taught him a great deal about the men who use guns.

This man was shooting to kill, not to frighten or wound. Therefore he must have been confident of his marksmanship, as well as of his position. It was still light, so the man must have been concealed, must have fired, then abandoned his position instantly. He must have abandoned it in such a way that he would not be noticed, or if noticed his presence would surprise no one.

Rarely is anyone unobserved, even when they are most sure they are unseen. There is nearly always an eye to see, and often a mind to wonder.

Hence the unknown marksman had to select a concealed position to which he could gain access without being seen, or if seen it had to be a position where his presence would not require explanation.

Johnny, of course, might have turned as the bullet struck. Might even have been starting to bend down. The bullet holes had seemed to be slightly slanted down as though fired from a slightly higher elevation.

Borden Chantry stood with his hands on his hips, looking around. If the killer had remained in firing position he would now have him, Chantry, under the gun. And he had already been shot at once.

Slowly he turned. There were two second-story windows in the bank building from which a bullet could have come. There was one over the stage station office, allowing for some movement from Johnny after he was shot, and there were two or three barns. These barns each had a loft with doors or windows from which shots might have been fired. All were within two hundred yards—no great distance, certainly.

He prowled about, going from barn to barn, studying distances and elevations. At last he halted and stared around with disgust. What was he trying to do? He was no investigator. Of course, it was like tracking, and he had done a lot of that. Walking back to the McCoy cabin he sat down on the stoop.

It had become dark. Only a few stars were out, and it was clouding up.

Suppose…just suppose the killer
had
done as he at first thought? Suppose the killer had fired his shot, then run down to the body?

If he had done that, then what had become of his rifle?

Borden Chantry got up quickly. His asking people to go home had been in hopes no tracks would be made to cover up those he was looking for. But suppose that had trapped the killer? For if the killer had run down to the body, then he had left his rifle either at or near the spot from which the shot had been fired!

Moreover, he must return and get that rifle before he, Borden Chantry, could find it.

If that was true then before many hours were past the killer must leave his living quarters, wherever they might be and slip through the streets and alleys, get the rifle and get back to his room!

Borden Chantry walked into the street and stood there for a moment, making a mental picture of the town. Yet the more he sized up the situation the less he liked it. There had been no real clue in the position of the body of the original victim, but with McCoy it was different, and it offered possibilities. Too many possibilities.

From where McCoy had fallen he could have been shot from any one of six directions and Chantry could eliminate none of them offhand. The trouble was that a man shot dead does not always drop in his tracks. He might have made a full turn, a half turn, or just turned his head, so the angle of the wound was of slight help, no more.

Sighting from the spot where the body had fallen, there was a direct line of sight to the bank…the rear door of the bank or either of two upstairs windows. There was also a direct line from the back door or window of the Corral Saloon.

Lines could also be laid out to Mary Ann Haley's, the back of the stage company office, the stage company corrals and stable, as well as the back of the restaurant. There were just too many possibilities.

When it came to that, there was a direct line of sight from his own kitchen to the spot where McCoy fell.

Irritably, he shook away the thought. Bess? It was impossible. Yet out of fairness he must suspect everybody.

If only he could come upon some clue to the man's identity.

Borden Chantry walked slowly up the dusty street, and turning aside, walked toward the rear corner of the Corral Saloon. The shot could have been fired from here. Carefully, he checked the area…No fresh tracks that he could make out, no cartridge shell, no indication that anyone had stood there.

He crossed the street to the café and went between it and the post office, then walked along behind the buildings to the rear of the stage office. He had no reason to think Blazer might have shot McCoy, but he could not rule it out, either, so he scouted the area thoroughly, then around the corral and the barn where spare horses were kept for the stages.

Nothing.

The night was cool. It was clouding over, and it would be a dark night. Glancing toward the lights of his own windows he thought he saw his wife's shadow against the curtain. She would be feeding the youngsters about now, his own son Tom, and Billy McCoy.

Two men murdered…and they might be separate and distinctive crimes, but he did not believe it. He walked back between the store and the jail and out on the boardwalk.

The street was empty as the street of a ghost town. The people were cooperating, and that was a help. No cowboys in town during the week, to speak of.

He crossed the street to the rear corner of the bank, and drew another blank. There was no chance of getting upstairs until tomorrow. He glanced past the corner toward Hyatt Johnson's house, a fine, big, well-built house such as befitted a banker. And a house from which the bullet might have been fired.

He was turning away when he saw, beyond a couple of residences, the vast dark bulk of the old Simmons Freight Barn. The Simmons outfit had operated bull trains out of that barn, freighting to the western mining camps, and east and north to the railroad. A year before they had closed up shop and gone out of business, selling out when the railroad built on west. Now the place was empty.

Or was it?

It was by far the largest building in town, yet he had not even thought of it, for it stood empty and was somehow no longer even a topic of conversation. Yet from that building, from either the front of the building or from the loft, it would have been an easy shot—not over seventy yards, at best, from where McCoy fell.

He started to cross to the old barn, then turned abruptly away and went across the street to the café. A light still showed there, and he could see Ed washing up.

He opened the door and stepped in.

“Marshal? Just closing up. You sure killed business tonight!”

“Sorry.”

“Don't be. I can stand the rest. I got me a good book and some drummer passin' through left me a bunch of newspapers from Omaha and St. Louis. I surely do like readin' them papers. It fair worries a body to see what the world is comin' to! Why, the crime in them cities! You couldn't give 'em to me. I'd rather live here where it's safe.”

“Wasn't very safe for Johnny McCoy.”

Ed's face was serious. “It surely wasn't. Marshal, I liked that man. Like I said, he was a warm, generous fella, give you the shirt off his back. If you catch the man who did it, I'd like a hand on the rope.”

“I'll get him.” Chantry spoke with confidence, and surprised himself, for it was a confidence he did not feel. Or did he? Where had that quick reply come from? He was never a man given to making flat statements of what or what not he would do. Yet the words had come as if springing from a deep well of belief within himself.

“I've got to get him, Ed. This is a good town, a law-abiding town, and I took an oath to keep it so. We've had shootings and cuttings, but mostly not among the townfolk, and there's a change of feeling, Ed. The old days are gone.”

“Marshal, I'm going to leave the door open. There's some meat on that tray, along with some bread and butter. There's coffee in the pot…fresh-made. I had me an idea you'd be around most of the night, so I made it for you.

“Yonder in the case there's a half of apple pie. Be stale tomorrow. You he'p yourself. I'm going to turn in now.”

“All right. Mind if I keep one light burning?”

“Figured on it. Night, Marshal. See you tomorrow.”

Borden Chantry carried the pot from the stove to a table along with some slices of meat, bread, and a quarter of the pie.

The light was in the kitchen, and where he sat it was in the shadow. It was dim and quiet, the room smelling faintly of coffee. Straddling a chair, he reached around the back and put a thick sandwich together. Then with his right hand he reached back and took the thong off his gun.

Facing the street from the darkened room, he ate his sandwich and sipped coffee, ears tuned for any slightest sound, eyes for any movement.

The old building creaked slightly as the heat left it. A lone dog trotted across the street, pausing to sniff some object lying in the gutter. Gradually, his eyes became more and more accustomed to the dark, and from where he sat, invisible himself, he could look northeast past the corner of the bank toward Hyatt's house, across the street at the Corral Saloon, lighted but empty, and southwest past the rear of the Mexican restaurant toward Mary Ann's.

The kitchen was on his left, the wall of the building behind him, and beyond that the dark area that divided the restaurant building from where his own home stood.

He ate his sandwich, drank his coffee, and then poured a new cup and tied into the apple pie. He was lifting the second bite to his mouth when his eye caught a faint shifting of shadows near the rear of the bank.

For a moment he was very still. Had he deceived himself? Had something really moved? Or—?

He put down his fork and wiped his hands on the rough napkin. He got up, stepping back from the chair, and on cat feet he went to the door.

Nothing moved.

Yet he had seen something. Was it the old dog? His mind told him no.

The door opened easily under his hand, with only the faintest of squeaks. He stepped out on the boardwalk, crossed it with one more step and started across the street vaguely lit by the light from the Corral Saloon. He swore softly. If anybody was watching, they could not help but see him.

The saloon seemed empty. There was no sign of anybody around. He went quickly to the corner and looked past it toward Mary Ann's…A shadow moved against the curtain, but there was no sound of music. Then he remembered. Mary Ann was ill.