Authors: James D. Best
Tags: #Western stories, #Nevada, #Westerns, #Historical fiction, #Fiction
The Shopkeeper (14 page)
“I came to discover the facts around John Bolton’s murder. I understand you witnessed it.”
“Yes, but there’s nothing to tell, really. I was standing about five feet from him when his brains got spattered all over the ranch house wall. I didn’t even hear the shot until after.”
“Did you see who shot him?”
“Were you not listening? I said I didn’t hear the shot until afterwards. The killer was far away.”
She made me feel stupid again, so I pressed on in a different direction. “Was Mr. Bolton on the front porch?”
“Yes. My
husband
was enjoying a cigar and a recess from his mother’s henpecking.”
Mrs. Bolton smiled sweetly. “Tell Mr. Dancy what we were arguing about, dear.”
Her comment started an unsightly staring contest. Jenny looked like a hellcat ready to pounce, while Mrs. Bolton just stared back like an ill-tempered Caesar. I watched the competition for a minute and then said, “Can I trust you two ladies alone for a minute? I need to talk to Captain McAllen.”
Mrs. Bolton broke the duel and gave me her too-cute smile. “We’ll both be right here upon your return … but don’t dally.”
I walked quickly outside and found McAllen and Sharp still at the bench where we had eaten our lavish meal. Walking over to them, I noticed my admittance to the house had lessened tensions considerably. Men on both sides stood wary, but their relaxed postures told me that they thought a peaceful settlement was in the offing.
McAllen and Sharp stood as I approached. “Bolton was on the front porch when he was shot. The rifle report took over a second to reach the house.”
Both men took a sight line from the porch to the horizon. McAllen said, “Things look calm. I’ll take a look, but Sprague’s careful. Probably picks up his cartridge casing.”
“Have you talked to Bolton’s men about the shooting?”
“They didn’t look none too friendly,” Sharp said.
I waved over the man who had let me into the house. He hesitated a second but then approached us. As he walked over, he raised a hand, telling the other men to stay put.
“Yep?” He worked hard to appear unruffled.
“I assume you’re the foreman,” I said.
“I am.”
“Did you or any of your men see Mr. Bolton get shot?”
“Nope.”
“Did you search over there?” I waved my hand in the general direction where the shot must have come from.
“I took a look. Found an impression in a swale where the killer laid down. Over a hundred and fifty yards. Damn fine shot, if you’ll excuse me for sayin’ so.”
“Any cartridge casings?” Captain McAllen asked.
“Didn’t see any, but I coulda missed somethin’. Why’s that important?”
“Sprague carries a Remington Creedmoor, which uses a .44-100 cartridge. Odd casing and not common hereabouts.”
“Sprague?” The foreman took off his hat and wiped his brow. “Goddamn.”
“Not sure, but a cartridge would sure help us figure out what we’re dealing with.”
“Well, hell. Come along, and I’ll show ya where he was shot from. Maybe we can find somethin’.”
“Much obliged, but could I have a word with Mr. Dancy first?” McAllen jerked his thumb in my direction.
“I’ll be over there, keepin’ an eye on the both of ya.” The comradeship that had evolved during our conversation seemed suddenly revoked.
After the foreman had retaken his position on the porch, McAllen asked, “What’s going on in there?”
I grinned. “A catfight.”
“The two gentlewomen givin’ ya a bit of trouble, are they?” Sharp seemed amused.
“Jenny says she’d rather service the whole bunkhouse than stay a single night with the resident witch.”
“You got her back into the house?” McAllen asked incredulous.
“I got Mrs. Bolton’s permission for her to return, but Jenny’s acting as defiant as a mule. I left to give her time to think through the alternatives.”
“How’d you get the old battleaxe to change her tune?” McAllen asked.
“With a less-than-truthful bluff. But let’s leave that for the trail. I want to get back inside to see if Jenny’s come to her senses.”
“What if she hasn’t?”
“Then I guess we ride hard and get back as soon as we can.”
Sharp asked, “Do ya think things are settled down enough for me to accompany McAllen an’ the foreman?”
McAllen answered. “If there’s a cartridge out there, I’ll find it.”
“I’m a miner. I know how to spot things in rocks.”
McAllen looked around. “All right. I think we’ve passed any crisis here. I also want to find the spot where he tethered his horse. Might not have been as careful there.” McAllen returned his attention to me. “We might be awhile.”
“Don’t be too long,” I said. “I want to make headway toward Carson City before dark.”
With our tasks defined, we went our separate ways. I hoped Jenny had softened her attitude, because I hated to think of her in the bunkhouse for several more nights. As I reentered the frilly parlor, both women were seated with their hands folded in their laps. A good sign, I hoped.
“Your foreman volunteered to show Captain McAllen the spot where the assassin positioned himself for the shot. We want to search the area for the cartridge casing. That’ll help prove who killed him.”
In a tone that did not invite debate, the senior Mrs. Bolton said, “Sean Washburn killed my son.”
“No doubt he hired the man who did it, but we need proof to call in the law.”
She gave me one of her
I’m not evil
smiles. “You’re handy with a gun. If you’re so interested in playing the champion, revenge my son.”
“Mrs. Bolton, if I get the opportunity, I will. But so far, I’ve never even met Washburn.”
“He’s a huge, pompous brute with flowing gray hair. You can’t mistake him.”
“Gray hair?” I had assumed he was younger.
“He turned gray early and decided to make it an asset. He likes his hair to billow out behind him when he rides.”
“Sounds vain.”
“A vainer man you cannot find. He wears gray suits and rides a gray horse that stands at least fifteen hands. He makes quite a picture.”
“I shall keep an eye out for him.” I turned to Jenny. “Have you reconsidered?”
“Yes. Mrs. Bolton bribed me.”
I was suddenly wary. “With what?”
“A hot bath, my personal effects, and a promise that you’ll take me to a stagecoach stop on your return.”
I looked at the matron, and she actually winked at me. I supposed she had decided to treat Jenny with a little deference because my mission in Carson City might fail. If Jenny got hold of the ranch, Mrs. Bolton would probably find the bunkhouse under-decorated. I tried to make my voice firm when I said, “I think she should add travel money to the offer.”
“My personal effects include a few items that will bring a good price. I don’t want her money. Only what’s mine.”
“Very well. I’ll tell the men to saddle up, and we’ll be on our way.”
I started to leave, but Jenny stopped me with a question. “What do you want for your heroic efforts?”
This surprised me, and I could only stammer, “Nothing. What do you mean?”
“I see the way you look at me. I’m beholden, but you may only lie with me once.”
“That’s … you’ve misunderstood my intentions.”
“Don’t act so innocent. I know why you did this. When I get to Carson City, I’m starting a new life, and I’ll not be leaving behind debts.”
I was flabbergasted. She spoke so casually about something so intimate. Then I realized she had probably never experienced intimacy. “You are not in my debt, and if you were, I wouldn’t accept payment in that fashion.”
Jenny’s posture stiffened. “One fuck. That’s it. I won’t allow you to keep me as your whore. When I leave here, it’ll be as a free woman. No man’ll ever buy my favors. If that’s not good enough for you, ride out and don’t come back.”
I glanced at Mrs. Bolton, and she looked unusually pleased with the exchange. I bowed my head and said, “Good day, ladies. I shall return, and Mrs. Bolton’s conditions are completely satisfactory. I need no further remuneration.” I started to leave, but my anger got the better of me. “And you may keep your favors for someone you fancy.” I snuggled my hat back on my head. “Besides, a fuck at Ruby’s only costs two dollars.”
I exited the house to the sound of my own boots and Mrs. Bolton’s laughter.
Chapter 25
After we left the ranch, I rode for nearly an hour in utter turmoil and dejection. Turning aside any attempt at conversation, I tried to think things through but could not get a grasp on my feelings. Why was I so infatuated with this girl, and why did her dismissive remarks bother me so much? She was an ignorant and sullied farm girl nearly half my age. Not exactly the type of woman I could show off to New York society. What did I expect? An affair? I certainly would never marry the girl.
My infatuation had started the first time I saw her in Jeremiah’s general store. She was vibrant and fetching, and her personality effortlessly filled a room. But that was before the Cutlers and the bunkhouse. She had also closely witnessed her husband’s gruesome murder. No wonder she no longer radiated joy and innocence. Now she proudly displayed a hard disposition and a tart tongue, a tongue she had doubtless learned to wield from the mistress of the house.
As I thought about it, I had to admit that my initial image of Jenny might have been false from the start. On the other hand, if it had been accurate, then her guileless and charming nature probably had been doused, perhaps beyond rekindling.
Calming a bit, I realized she had spoken with an elocution that belied her lack of education. She must be smart—and certainly strong-willed. Her defiance of Mrs. Bolton, although shocking in its consequences, made me admire her all the more. It made no sense, but Jenny Bolton still held a grip on me, and there was no way I could shake it loose.
Riders became more numerous, along with an occasional wagon and even soldiers. McAllen became concerned because the cramped terrain provided hiding spots, so he positioned one of his men on the far side of the river, and I could hear another thrashing through the brush to our right. McAllen feared our little detour gave Sprague plenty of time to catch up if he chose to chase us down.
Looking around, I became aware of my surroundings and realized I had been so preoccupied with my thoughts that I had forgotten to be scared. Bless Jenny for small favors.
Our route ran along a river bordered by picturesque pastures and meadows. Sam must have sensed that I had returned my attention to the trail, because he said, “That’s the Carson River.”
“Pretty,” was all I could muster.
“This here’s called the Kit Carson Trail. Blazed by the great scout himself.” When I didn’t respond, Sam added. “Ya know, the Pony Express used this route.”
“How long ago?” I asked to be polite.
“Almost twenty years. Telegraph put ’em out of business.”
“Would you have wanted to be a rider?’
“Hell, yes. I’ll take any job where they pay me to ride fast. That horse you’re on may not be as sure-footed as Chestnut, but he runs like the wind.” Sam laughed. “I love to give chase to outlaws. Most times, we gotta walk, but on occasion, I can cut him loose and ride hell for leather.”
“I’m afraid you’re a bit large to have ridden for the Pony Express.”
“Yep, they liked little men. But, damn, it musta been fun.”
I like to ride a horse at full gallop and even jump, but riding all day at breakneck speed didn’t sound like fun to me. The path grew a bit broader, so I gave my horse a nudge and trotted up beside McAllen. Sam immediately moved up as well and took a position on my outside.
“Did you find anything at the shooting site?” I asked.
McAllen answered while keeping his eyes roving. “Wondered if you’d ever ask. Nothing at the shooting site. We found where he tethered his horse about three hundred yards further out, but he had swept it clean as well.”
“Nothing then?”
“Oh, we picked up his trail out a ways. Good hoofprints. The horse is missing a nail in the right rear shoe.”
“But no casing?”
“No.” McAllen reached into his pocket and handed over a piece of paper. “That’s a drawing of the hoofprint, signed by the three of us as witnesses.”
“Doesn’t seem like much,” I said.
“It’s not—not by itself, anyway. But maybe we got something else. Sharp found a cigarette butt off to the side of the trail.”
“Can that help?”
“Possibly,” McAllen said. “The paper’s white, and Sharp says there’s a fancy tobacco shop in Carson City. If the tobacconist can testify that the butt is the brand Sprague uses, it’ll help corroborate his presence.”
I knew white cigarette paper was more expensive, and thus less common than brown, but it seemed awful thin.
