The Killing Season (53 page)

“Franklin ... Monroe ... the wounded man said. ”Sheriff ... of ... Santa Fe. My brother ...”

“What about your brother?”

“Virg ... Virgil ... shot me ...”

“Why?” Nathan asked.

“He ... robbed a bank ... and I ... came after ... him. Ma ... made me ... promise I'd ... take care of ... him. Kid brother ... wild. I ... caught up ... to him ... got the drop. Swore he'd go back ... with me ... take his ... punishment. Caught me ... off guard ... shot me ...”

He coughed once, and blood came out. Nathan tried to give him more water, but he was unable to take it. He lay back, coughing, wheezing, until at last he became silent, for he had strangled on his own blood. Nathan removed his hat and stood there a moment. He had no tools, no means of burying the man, but he couldn't leave him to the coyotes and the relentless, circling buzzards. He took one of his blankets and covered the corpse. The shallow arroyo would have to do, and the only available cover was stones. Nathan started gathering them, as large as he could carry, and it took him a good three hours to cover the dead man to the extent the predators couldn't get at him. Only when he had finished did he realize he had failed to search the man's body, and he wasn't about to remove all the stones. He knew the man's name and the name of the brother who had done the killing, and that it had been the result of a bank robbery in Santa Fe. Killing a man over stolen money was bad enough, but it seemed especially heinous when that man was one's own brother. Nathan circled the area until he picked up the tracks of the killer's horse, and not surprisingly, they led north. It was entirely possible that Virgil Monroe was on his way to Dodge City. There, Nathan could tell his story to Sheriff Harrington, who might be able to arrest the killer and recover the stolen money. Nathan's sympathy was with the dead lawman, and if the murdering kid brother got the rope, it would be no more than he deserved.

“I'll check the liveries first,” Sheriff Harrington said, “and see if there have been any strangers in town today.”

“I'll ride along with you,” said Nathan. “After that bunch of immigrants I already took south, I'm in no hurry to get back to Hagerman for more.”

They learned nothing at the first livery, but at the second, Sheriff Harrington found what he was looking for.

“Gent rode in here this mornin' on a pretty well used-up roan,” the liveryman said. “I rubbed the hoss down and grained him.”

“Did he leave anything here?” Harrington asked. “Saddlebags, bedroll ...”

“Nothin' but his saddle,” said the liveryman. “Took his saddlebags an' rifle with him.”

“I reckon we'll try the hotels and boardin' houses,” Harrington said, “but I doubt this gent will sign in under his own name.”

“He might,” said Nathan. “He had no way of knowing I'd learn of what he's done, and then ride into Dodge practically on his heels. Let's try the Dodge House first.”

“I don't want no trouble here, Sheriff,” the desk clerk said.

“Wiggins, if the hombre we're lookin' for is here, he is trouble,” Harrington replied. “Has anybody signed in this morning?”

“One,” said Wiggins grudgingly. “We don't get many until the evenin' train ...”

“Let me see that register,” Harrington said.

The scrawled signature read “Franklin Monroe.”

“The no-account varmint signed his dead brother's name,” said Nathan. “Is he here?”

“No,” Wiggins replied.

“I'll need a key to his room,” said Harrington, “unless you're going to insist on seeing a search warrant.”

“I suppose not,” Wiggins said.

He produced a key, and when Nathan and Sheriff Harrington reached the room, the sheriff knocked on the door. There was no response from within, but Harrington stood to one side as he inserted the key. Slowly he turned the knob, and when the latch let go, he kicked the door open. The bed hadn't been disturbed. Lying across it was a Winchester and saddlebags. Swiftly Harrington unbuckled the flaps of the saddlebags. In one side there was a clean shirt, two pairs of socks, and an extra tin of shells. The other side yielded only a strip of paper, but printed on it were the words, Bank of
Santa
Fe.

“If a dying man's word means anything,” Nathan said, “we're justified in tracking down this varmint.”

“We've about eliminated everything except the saloons,” said Harrington. “This gent, with money in his pockets, will be looking for a place to spend it. That usually leads to a poker table or a whorehouse, and at this time of day, I'd consider a poker table the most likely.”

They tried the Long Branch and found no game in progress, but their luck improved when they reached the Oasis. A four-handed game was underway, and while Nathan knew few of the residents of Dodge, he detected a slight reaction from one of the men when he saw Harrington's badge. He sat with his back to the wall, and dropped his hand below the table. The move wasn't lost on the sheriff.

“Take your hand away from your gun,” said Harrington, “and stand up, Monroe.”

“I never seen you before in my life, and you ain't got nothin' on me.”

Sensing trouble, his three companions slid back their chairs and got out of the way. Monroe was left alone. Slowly he got to his feet.

“Now,” Harrington said, “unbuckle your gun belt and let it fall to the floor.”

“No,” said Monroe. “You got nothin' on me.”

“We have the words of a dying man,” Harrington said, “and he accused you, Virgil Monroe, of shooting him.”

“I ain't told you my name.”

“You don't have to,” said Harrington. “Your actions spoke for you. Now, unbuckle the gun belt and we'll mosey over to the jail. That coat you're wearing looks a mite heavy in places, and I'm wondering why.”

Slowly Monroe unbuckled the gun belt and allowed it to fall to the floor. The sheriff had not drawn his gun, and Monroe moved just enough to place Harrington between himself and Nathan. Only Monroe's right arm moved, as he palmed the sleeve gun. Nathan saw it coming, but for just a crucial second, Sheriff Harrington was between him and Monroe. The derringer spoke once and Harrington stumbled, slumping to the floor. Nathan drew his Colt and shot Monroe just as the killer squeezed off the second shot from the derringer. The lead burned a raw furrow along Nathan's left arm, above the elbow. Monroe was slammed against the wall and the sleeve gun clattered to the floor. The barkeep and the three men who had been gambling with Monroe had gathered around. Nathan knelt beside the dying sheriff, leaning close to hear Harrington's last words.

“A man's ... too old to ... wear the badge when ... he forgets ... the ... sleeve ... guns....”

Those were his final words. His eyes blurred and with a lump in his throat, Nathan got to his feet. The shots had drawn men from Delmonico's, across the street. One of the new arrivals was Foster Hagerman. He stared, unbelieving, at the dead man who had long been his friend. When he spoke, it was to Nathan.

“My God, what happened? Why?”

With some difficulty, Nathan explained. Others who had gathered around turned their hostile eyes on Nathan, and finally one of them said what the rest were thinking.

“Damn you, our sheriff was gunned down over somethin' you dragged in. Somethin' that wasn't no concern of his.”

“He believed it was,” said Nathan. “You'll find the man who shot him has all or most of the money stolen from the Bank of Santa Fe. He's also guilty of having shot a lawman from Santa Fe, who was pursuing him.”

“There'll have to be a sheriff appointed,” Foster Hagerman said. “Brady, go fetch the acting mayor.”

“A damn shame the sheriff had no deputy,” said Nathan.

“I agree,” Hagerman said, glaring at some of the men who had gathered around. “He'd been asking for one, but the town council's too damn cheap to pay a man. This comes at a bad time. Mayor Wright died last Sunday. The acting mayor is Rufus Langley, and he had to be drafted.”

Nathan wasn't impressed with acting Mayor Langley. He arrived wearing the white apron of a storekeeper and the manner of a man who clearly wished he were somewhere else. Hatless, dressed in town clothes, he appeared to be in his fifties. He looked around, obviously uncertain as to what was expected of him.

“Rufus,” said Hagerman, “since the town council saw fit not to hire a deputy, you're going to have to appoint a sheriff until an election can be held.”

“What about you?” Langley suggested.

“Don't be a damn fool,” said Hagerman. “I work for the railroad.”

“So do I,” Nathan added.

“Brady,” said Langley, “go to the funeral parlor and have Creeker come for these dead men.”

“The man who killed Sheriff Harrington should be searched,” Nathan said. “He should be carrying all or most of the money stolen from the Bank of Santa Fe.”

“All we got on that is your word,” an onlooker said. “Search him yourself.”

“Go ahead,” Hagerman said. “You're more qualified than the rest of us.”

“Only if you count the money and Mr. Langley takes charge of it on behalf of the town,” said Nathan. “It should be returned to Santa Fe.”

“Search the man,” Langley said. “If he's a thief and the money is there, I'll see that it's returned to the bank from which it was stolen.”

Nathan removed the bulky coat from the dead man, discovering the lining had been ripped and crudely resewn. He ripped the lining loose and shook out the bundles of bills, each packet bearing a Bank of Santa Fe identifying band. Nathan made no move toward the stolen money, allowing Langley to gather it up and place it on a table. Men crowded close.

“Stand back, all of you,” Langley shouted. Removing his store apron, he used it to bundle up the packets of bills.

“I don't know that I'd trust him with all that,” said Foster Hagerman quietly.

“I want nothing to do with it,” Nathan said. “It is my fault Sheriff Harrington's dead. I brought him face-to-face with a thief and killer. It wasn't his responsibility to make that arrest.”

“He didn't think of it as a responsibility,” said Hagerman. “As a lawman, he saw it as a duty. The same duty that drove you into a near-fatal fight with Chapa Gonzolos and his band of outlaws. You
think
like a lawman. Someday, in some town on the frontier, you'll die with your boots on, going against impossible odds, for what you believe is right.”

“If you're done fortune telling,” Nathan said, “let's get out of here. I aim to go to the funeral parlor and put some money toward arrangements for Sheriff Harrington.”

“The town will see to that,” said Hagerman. “He was well thought of, and I doubt the hombre replacing him will fill his boots.”

“I considered him one of my friends,” Nathan said, “but I never knew his first name.”

“Few people did,” said Hagerman. “If your name was Percival, would you be usin' it?”

“No,” Nathan said, “and I'd leave a will, begging them that done the burying not to chisel it into the stone.”

“There'll be a stone,” said Hagerman. “I'll see to that. Do you want to go ahead and get your room at the Dodge House, or do you want to go to my office and talk? There'll be time for the funeral later this afternoon, and if I'm not busy, I'll hole up somewhere and dread that.”

“So will I,” Nathan replied, “so let's talk. I want to tell you about the Dismukes.”

“I've heard enough about them,” said Hagerman. “Three days after you took the trail south, I learned they were wanted by the law in Missouri.”

“They're out of reach of the law,” Nathan said. “They let their hell-raising get ahead of their better judgment.” He then told Hagerman what had become of the troublesome Dismukes clan.

“I don't know when there'll be another bunch going south,” said Hagerman. “Maybe not until after Christmas.”

“Then I can't promise you I'll hang around here until then,” Nathan said. “I'll be where you can reach me, and I'll see it through until spring, but no longer.”

 

Sheriff Harrington's funeral was well-attended, and it was evident the lawman would be missed. Empty howled mournfully while the grave was being filled, and Nathan led him away. It was a dreary, lonesome time, and the far away wail of the westbound's whistle added to the effect. Death had won another hand ...

The morning after Sheriff Harrington's funeral, Nathan had just ordered breakfast at Delmonico's when Foster Hagerman came in. Without waiting for an invitation, he hooked a chair with his boot and sat down at Nathan's table.

“Won't you join me?” Nathan asked.

“Thanks,” said Hagerman. “I have a proposition for you, and I wanted to catch you in a good mood.”

“I'm not in a good mood,” Nathan replied.

“Then before your bad mood gets any worse,” said Hagerman. “Since you're at loose ends for a while, I want you to take the sheriffs badge.”

“No,” Nathan said.

“Just temporarily, until we can find someone else. Do it for the town.”

“Why should I?” said Nathan. “All this town's ever done for me is accuse me of getting its sheriff killed.”

“Then, by God, do it for me,” Hagerman said. “I've influenced the AT and SF to spend a bundle, touting the safety of the railroad and the railroad towns, inviting people to come west. If Dodge is allowed to backslide into a lawless cattle town, I'm going to come off looking like a damn fool.”