Bounty Hunter (9781101611975) (17 page)

“Well . . . not that I know what that reward might be . . . excepting that I can imagine it to be a goodly sum . . . but I would be a liar if I said that the thought had
not
crossed my mind.”

“That's what I
thought
,” Cole laughed sarcastically.

“I get barely more than room and board in Copperopolis,” the sheriff complained. “I been there for years . . . ever since the town was
something
 . . . and I ain't growing any younger.”

“You were looking to sign on with me to bankroll a little change of scenery, then?”

“You could put it that way . . . I reckon,” Morgan admitted.

“I just did,” Cole said.

“I heard you talkin'. When we were sittin' around up yonder, I heard you talkin' about not liking to be setting in one place too long.”

“I've been known to use those words,” Cole said with a shrug.

“Well, you aren't the only one,” the sheriff insisted. “I have spent the last many years committed to exactly the opposite, to being planted firmly in one place, but a man gets to thinkin'. A man gets to wondering . . . A man gets to wondering whether it might be true that you
can
set in one place too long.”

“A man
does
wonder,” Cole agreed.

“So I got to thinkin' that I ought to grab hold of whatever opportunity that might come along to get on to some other landscape.”

“So you rode out to give me a little sales pitch?”

“That I did.”

“I see . . .”

“It ain't entirely about the money . . .”

“It ain't?”

“Well, I'd be a liar to say that ain't a
part
of it,” Morgan clarified. “But I'd be a bigger liar to say that that's
all
there is to it.”

“Itchy feet?”

“A man gets to setting, and he stops wondering,” the older man said, looking Cole in the eye. “If you stop wondering . . . you stop thinking about anything besides what's inside of your own four walls . . . and you stop being alive.”

“That's a pretty drastic view,” Cole replied.

“What I'm saying is that if you get to doin' nothing but setting around . . . pretty soon you ain't good for nothing 'cept setting around.”

“I suppose . . .”

“I figured that at my age, I don't have many more chances to change away from setting around. At my age, the body isn't as limber as it once was . . . even a day's ride like yesterday's makes a man feel mighty stove up. If I don't get around to goin'
now
, I
never
will.”

“Isn't there
anything
left for you in Copperopolis?” Cole asked.

“Don't reckon on nothing that is worth me staying for.”

“What about Mary Margaret?” Cole asked, recalling a wistful look in her eye with regard to mention of the sheriff.

“Mary Margaret?”

“Yeah, Mary Margaret?”

“What about Mary Margaret?” Morgan asked, almost indignantly.

“About her having this sort of dreamy expression when your name came up.”

“Can't imagine that to be.”

“Let me ask you this . . . Are you interested in her at all . . . you know . . . in her as a
woman
?”

“She's got a look about her, I'll give you that,” Morgan said, barely repressing a grin. “But as far as her and me . . . I reckon she'd never give me the time of day.”

“You ever ask?”

“Of course not,” the sheriff exclaimed.

“Why not?”

“A man don't ask a woman nothing unless he's damned sure of a positive answer.”

“Yeah . . . I understand,” Cole shrugged, “but I bet you'd be more likely to get a positive answer from Mary Margaret than you seem to think you would.”

“Do tell.”

“It ain't my place to tell a man that he
hasn't
been too long in a place,” Cole said. “That would be against my nature . . . but I
will
tell you that I think you're wrong to say you got
nothing
left for you back in Copperopolis.”

Chapter 22

T
HE HIERARCHY OF SOCIETY IN ANY COMMUNITY WILL
have its center, its high and its mighty, and it will have its fringe. On the periphery of said fringe are the hangers-on, and the doers of odd and part-time jobs. Beyond that edge are the ne'er-do-wells, whose odd jobs are as often as not beyond the edge of what can be considered lawful.

In the hierarchy of society in Gallatin City, the latter caste certainly included the Porter boys, though they were not alone. Their names would be likely to come up in the same sentence with those of men such as Lyle Blake and Joe Clark, whom one might generously have characterized as losers.

For this reason, Hannah Ransdell did a double take when she saw Blake and Clark seated at the same table in the Big Horn Saloon with Edward J. Olson.

On her daily rounds, whether it be to the post office, or to Mr. Blaine's store for supplies, Hannah's route did not often take her on the boardwalk that passed the Big Horn Saloon. It was an institution that was not patronized by ladies—as the women who were seen inside the Big Horn were not considered to be “ladies” by the women of society's hierarchy who considered
themselves
to be ladies.

So long as she held to the pretense of her place in the hierarchy of Gallatin City society, Hannah avoided the Big Horn Saloon.

This is not to say that the place did not have a certain risqué allure, but she imagined that the allure of the laughter and the tinkling piano might not stand up to the reality of the stench of stale beer and tobacco smoke that often wafted beyond the swinging doors.

But for the company he was keeping today, Hannah would not have thought twice about seeing Edward J. Olson in the Big Horn—the rules of the hierarchy that governed ladies did not apply to gentlemen—but seeing him with Blake and Clark was surprising. What business did her father's “right-hand man” have with these lowlifes?

She wished that she could just stroll into the Big Horn, order a beer, feign surprise at seeing Olson there, and ask him point-blank—but, of course, she
could not
.

She wished too that she could just stroll into the bank and ask her father what his “right-hand man” was doing at the Big Horn in the middle of the afternoon with Blake and Clark—but, of course, she
would not
.

Hannah did not, however, refrain from asking; rather she did so indirectly.

“What errands do you have Edward J. Olson doing for you these days? I haven't seen him in the office for a day or two.”

“Some things out at the ranch,” Isham Ransdell replied without looking up, giving a matter-of-fact answer to a matter-of-fact question. “Getting some men to rebuild the shed so we can bring in more hogs in the spring . . . Pork prices are on the rise again . . . good time to get into hogs.”

“What do you hear from your bounty hunter?” Hannah asked, not commenting on the evasiveness of his reply.

“I've heard nothing since I got that letter postmarked out of Fort Benton,” he said, looking up from his desk. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering. I heard you and Mr. Olson talking about it the other day.”

“Yes . . . we were wondering ourselves,” he replied. “The man said he was headed into Blackfeet country. There's no telling what might have happened out there.”

“Do you reckon that he'll bring them back alive?” Hannah asked.

“One way or another, I hope he brings them
back
,” the banker said. “Could be that they'll
all
wind up under this winter's snow with Blackfeet arrows in them.”

Hannah grimaced slightly at the thought of the handsome bounty hunter with the showings of a nice beard lying dead on the wild and distant plains.

“Do you prefer the Porter boys dead or alive, Father?”

“Well, wanting a man, even a
Porter
, to be dead, is not something a man likes to talk about with his daughter . . . but I will say that justice would be done either way.”

*   *   *

H
ANNAH
R
ANSDELL LEFT WORK AT HER USUAL TIME.
I
T
was her custom to leave within an hour of the bank's closing in order to prepare supper for herself and her father, who usually remained at his desk until around seven.

As usual, the walk home took her past the Gallatin City General Mercantile and Dry Goods. Even all these weeks after the murders, people still called it “Mr. Blaine's store.” If she needed something for the meal, she could always stop in and get it. Today, she had neither reason nor intention of doing so—until she saw Lyle Blake and Joe Clark walking into the place.

The embers of curiosity that remained from her having seen them in the Big Horn with Olson burst into flame. She impulsively followed them. Unlike the saloon, Gallatin City's largest store was frequented by those from all strata of the social hierarchy.

Hannah had no notion whatsoever of what she could or would accomplish by following Blake and Clark, but neither did she have any question that she should.

She inserted herself into a place where she would appear to be examining goods on the opposite side of a large rack from where the men were picking out beans and hardtack.

“Three days' ride, I figure,” Blake said. “Gotta have enough provisions to go up and back.”

Clark disagreed. “I reckon four.”

His partner admonished him “That's 'cause you're a lazy sonuvabitch. Anyhow, I don't reckon on havin' to ride all the way to Copperopolis.”

“You reckon they left by now?”

“Yeah . . . I figure they must have,” Blake affirmed.

“One of 'em's wounded, though,” Clark cautioned.

Hannah wondered who they might be describing. She remembered having heard once of a place called Copperopolis, but she could not recall where it was.

“They're not coming very fast if one of 'em's wounded,” Clark continued.

“I figure we should get to 'em somewhere there on Sixteen Mile Creek,” Blake said.

“We gotta . . . There's too much traffic comin' down from Diamond City once you get as far as the Missouri.”

“You figure we gotta kill 'em all?”

Blake's question was not the sort one should be discussing in public in the afternoon, but the whiskey provided at the Big Horn Saloon, even with its presale watering down, had loosened his tongue considerably.

Far from being appalled by talk of murder, Hannah was only gripped by stronger yearnings of curiosity. Had they had more of their wits about them, they would have seen her craning her neck to hear them.

“Olson said that there is no way the Porter boys can show up alive in Gallatin City,” Clark asserted. “Olson said there's no way they can be allowed to point fingers at them who can't have fingers pointed at them.”

“What about the bounty hunter?”

“Guess he probably knows what Olson don't want told. I guess he's gotta get himself killed too.”

From this exchange Hannah recoiled.

Talk of murder was one thing when it was in the abstract, like the plot of a dime novel, but quite another when the intended victims were the bounty hunter and the Porter boys.

*   *   *

H
ANNAH
R
ANSDELL SAT AT HER DESK, STARING AT THE
notes she kept in her bottom drawer. Her head was spinning. After the conversation she had overheard the day before at the Gallatin City General Mercantile and Dry Goods, she could concentrate on nothing but her secret project.

She had found and followed the paper trail of the acquisition, and she had seen how the death of any member of the foursome would benefit his partners. She had calculated the value and confirmed that it would increase—if not eightfold as Richard Wells had estimated—at least
many
times.

Hannah had discovered that her father's net worth had at least doubled as a result of the murders. Had this been by coincidence or design?

She had dreaded the unthinkable hypothesis of her father's involvement in eliminating his partners on the eve of their jointly held land doubling and doubling in value, and then doubling again.

She had held out hope that it was all mere coincidence, despite the pronouncements of her overactive imagination. There had been no real and true reason to believe otherwise, despite the way it might
appear
.

That is, until she heard of her father's right-hand man ordering the deaths of the men who could point their fingers at Isham Ransdell himself. Lyle Blake and Joe Clark would kill the Porter boys and the bounty hunter, and with this, the fingers would never be pointed.

Her father.

Could it be?

How
could he be involved in this?

Her
own
father.

“Hannah, what's wrong?” Isham Ransdell said as he came into the bank. “You don't look well.”

She had gone to her room before dinner the night before and had left the house before him this morning. He had thought her to be ill, but in reality, she could no longer look him in the face without breaking into tears.

“I'm not,” she stammered, “I'm not feeling well . . . May I go home?”

“Yes, of course,” the banker said.

Once on the street, Hannah walked uncertainly in the direction of her home.

What should she do?

Conventional wisdom told her that murders and murder plots should be reported to the sheriff—but he was dead, gunned down by the same killers who had doubled the value of her father's land.

There was Deputy—Acting Sheriff—Marcus Johnson, but he was on light duty, recovering from wounds suffered in the same shootout that killed the sheriff. She could tell
him
, but what evidence did she have to offer?

None.

In the hierarchy of Gallatin City, what was the place of the daughter who accused her father of ordering brutal killings, and who did so without evidence?

What should she do?

What
could
she do?

She walked aimlessly, tossing the facts over in her mind and replaying the sequence of events.

Suddenly, it dawned on her.

She realized what she could do. She realized who she could tell. There was
one man
she could tell—the only survivor among the Big Four of the brutal assault on the Blaine home!

*   *   *

“
I
S
M
R.
S
TOCKER IN?”
H
ANNAH ASKED THE CLERK IN
Virgil Stocker's law office.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No . . .”

Declining to go away and come back in an hour, she waited in the chair offered, watching the hands on the clock grind slowly around its face.

An hour passed, and then the better part of another.

“Mr. Stocker will see you now.”

Finally
.

The scarring on Virgil Stocker's face was still ugly, red and not fully healed. Hannah felt pity for a man likely to be disfigured permanently. She had seen him only a time or two since the murders, and then only at a distance, so the sight of the injury was jarring.

“Good morning, Miss Ransdell, how are you?” He smiled, standing up behind his desk as she entered his office.

“How are
you
?” Hannah asked, looking at his face. “Are your injuries healing?”

“As good as can be expected, I suppose,” he shrugged. “How is your father?”

With the mention of her father, she could not hold back the tears. The attorney leaped up to pour her a tumbler of water, which she accepted gratefully.

“Thank you for seeing me,” she said when she had regained her composure well enough to talk.

“Of course.”

“I have come to you on a grave matter.”

“What is it?” Stocker asked sympathetically.

“It's about my father . . .” she said, breaking once again into tears.

“Is he all right?”

“I believe that he may have been involved,” Hannah said between sobs. “I think that he may have been behind what the Porter boys did that night.”

“That's impossible,” Stocker said forcefully. “I've known Isham Ransdell for more than fifteen years . . .”

“
I've
known Isham Ransdell for twenty-five years,” Hannah interrupted. “Nobody can be sadder about this than
me
.”

“What makes you think that it was he?”

“The will . . . Mr. Phillips's will . . . I learned that with this land that the partners purchased . . . the partners had right of inheritance.”

“That's correct,” Stocker nodded.

“I've learned that when the railroad reaches Gallatin City, the land will be worth about eight times its original value.”

“It is certainly true that the value will increase as the railroad approaches,” Stocker said thoughtfully. “But the fact that an investment pays off is no motive for
murder
.”