Borden Chantry (13 page)

“Right. But he's a horse thief, not a killer. Not that he couldn't if he had to. He's faster than most.”

What he should do, he reflected, was get a tablet and write it all out. Who his suspects were, what there was to make him suspect each, and where they were at the times of the shootings.

Suddenly, he flushed, embarrassed that he had not thought of that. Where, for example, had each of them been when Johnny was shot? When he was slugged?

He was a fool. Old George Riggin would have been smarter than that.

Riggin…only then did he remember the thin notebook he had taken from the hidden saddle pocket.

It might hold all the answers.

Chapter 13

H
E SAID NOTHING about the book. It was the usual little notebook, the sort many ranchers called a tally book, and in which they kept count of cattle out on the range, or notes on range conditions. Most men carried such things in their heads, but if you ran a lot of stock such a tally book was handy.

Supposing George had actually named a name? Supposing that book held the solution to the crimes? Was that what he wanted? Or was he afraid of what he might find there? After all, he knew everybody in town, was friendly with them all, even Time Reardon…And the killer had to be one of them.

He turned it over in his mind, sorting out the little he had learned, trying to find a pattern.

The killer, he thought then, would be nervous. The killer knew him although he did not know the killer, and the killer would be watching his every step, seeing when he got close, laughing when he drifted away from the truth. Yet there was another point to be considered. The killer might be getting nervous.

What was the old saying?
The guilty flee when no man pursueth?
Supposing the killer believed he was closer to a solution than he was? Of course, that had already happened, for the killer had tried to kill him…or warn him off.

The boys came in for supper and he glanced at Billy, who hastily averted his eyes. Now what was the matter with him? Acted as if he was guilty of something, but that was silly. Next thing, he'd be suspecting Bess…or Tom.

There was much talk as usual, but his mind was elsewhere. His thoughts reverted to Boone Silva. Silva could be riding into town any time in the next few days, and he would choose his time carefully. Borden Chantry had one small advantage…Boone Silva would not realize that he was expected.

It might make all the difference in the world.

When supper was over he watched the boys help Bess wash and dry the dishes, then he took a cup of coffee and went into the parlor.

Bess looked around in surprise when he opened the door, for the parlor was rarely used except to receive the preacher or some other notable, but tonight he wanted to be alone.

“I've got to study on this,” he said.

“Of course,” she agreed. It was not the quietest place with the boys around, but he enjoyed their presence nonetheless.

As he went through the door he picked up Sackett's saddlebags. Seated on the sofa, he rested them between his feet and unbuckled the straps.

He hesitated a moment, some inner delicacy making him uncomfortable at thus invading the privacy of another man's belongings. He was himself an essentially private man, friendly but reserved, standing a cool sentry before the doors of his personal life. He had equal respect for the privacy of others.

Suddenly, his hands froze where they were. That strap…the one he had just unbuckled…had been fastened in the next to the loosest hole, and that wasn't logical. A man carrying anything in saddlebags would cinch them tight so nothing would be lost. Yet if someone had gone into the bags, and had been in a hurry to strap them up, they might have been left just so.

He shook his head irritably. Who around here would do a thing like that? Bess…certainly not. Tom? No. Billy? He thought about that. No, Billy was an honest boy and he knew him as such. There had been countless times when Billy might have picked up something around town, but he never had.

He reached into the saddlebag and took out a small sack of .44's, a square of pemmican and a small sack of cold flour, an emergency ration often carried on the trail in earlier days. There was a tight coil of rawhide string, perhaps ten or twelve feet of it, such as a man might carry for rigging snares, use as piggin strings, or a variety of ways around a campfire or on the range. It was something handy to have, often useful.

In the other bag there was little else. A spare bandanna, a small packet of letters, some writing materials, and some odds and ends that might have been carried by any man riding across country.

The letters, all but one, were addressed to
Joe Sackett
. That one was addressed to
Tyrel Sackett
.

Two were from a girl in Santa Fe, the very formal letters of the time, yet betraying a deep interest…The first was obviously a love letter. The second was almost identical to the first in tone, telling the small happenings of every day, urging him to come for a visit, and expressing anxiety about his “trip,” obviously this one, from which Joe Sackett would not return.

There was a quiet sweetness in the letters that was touching, despite the formal language.

Borden swore softly, bitterly. Somebody would have to write to her, and he thanked the Good Lord it would not have to be him. When a man was killed the circle of ripples on the pool widened to affect many others than himself. It would seem so light a thing, the death of one man, yet who knew how wide the effect might be?

The letter addressed to Tyrel Sackett was simple enough.

Deer Ty:

Met a feller name of Heine Kellerman. Used to prospect around. He wos inn camp the time the cholery used up the boys an Mary Ann Haley stood by us all, nursin us throo it. Tells me she's down eastern Colo. way, almighty sick with lungfever. Him an some of the boys done collected muny to send her. Figgered youd be wishful of puttin in an seein it taken to her.

Con Fletcher is riden down from Leadville with sum more muny in his poke.

Cap Rountree

That must have been the letter that began it all. Or, at least, began Sackett's part in it. Whatever was going on—if there actually was a connection—had started before that, with the death of Pin Dover. Yet why was
he
killed? Maybe for something even before that.

Returning the letters to the saddlebags he strapped them up again. Nothing there, except that he might have had an identification right off if Hyatt had given them up, for Joe Sackett's name was here, in several places.

The worst of it was, he no longer had any excuse for not notifying the Sackett family. Their address was now in his hands. The identification was positive.

Once notified, the Sacketts could be here within four or five days, maybe a bit longer, and he had no solution to lay in their laps.

They had a reputation for strict honesty, but for being hard-nosed about one of their own being killed. And he wanted no interference until he had something to offer.

George Riggin had been killed when he seemed to have reached a conclusion, or was close to one. He got up suddenly and drew tight the curtains. Then he sat down and took out Riggin's tally book.

On the first page, obviously an old list, were some brands and the number of head found with each. They were out-of-state brands, and evidently a count of cattle picked up on the range, found with rustlers or something of the sort. There was on the next few pages a day-to-day arrest records for drunks, brawls, domestic squabbles and the like. It was routine stuff.

On the fourth page:
DOVER, PIN, Investigation of Murder.

No known enemies…Deceased had two dollars in his pocket…no known criminal associations. Reputation for honesty. Good average hand. Has a woman in Trinidad, going on eight years. No gambling losses or wins of more than a few cents in several years. Jealousy, robbery, and enemies ruled out. No rustling in area. His horse wasn't taken. No tracks near body. Saturday night drinker. Good-natured drunk. Local work; worked two summers for Borden Chantry, three for Blossom Galey. Employed by Blossom Galey at time of killing. Last previous job in Mora for S-Lazy S-S.

The Sackett brand…there was the tie-up, but what did it mean? Joe Sackett had come to town on a simple, peaceful mission. Pin Dover had quit one job in Mora, ridden north, and gone to work on a place where he had worked before, and probably within the past few months or over the years many a cowhand had done just that. It was the very pattern of existence for them.

Shortly after his return he had been shot.

Borden Chantry shook his head, then went back to the tally book, keeping his place with a finger on the line he was reading.

Maybe: Pin Dover was killed because of something he had done…something he knew…something he had seen.

Maybe: something seen or known about somebody here? Worry absent when he was gone? Worry increased when he returned?

Or something he learned while he was gone?

Ed Pearson had prospected near Mora; he once herded sheep near Mora. Pin Dover punched cows at Mora.

Hyatt Johnson said to have been implicated in Land Grant fights at Mora…this only rumor…No evidence so far.

No connection between Blossom Galey and Mora.

Dover's body found where old trail crosses Two Butte Creek. Position of killer found 150 yds to n.w. Small knoll, some brush. Timbered area, good for escape, close behind. Fnd. cartridge shell .52 calibre in rabbit-brush nearby. Some evidence killer searched for same.

Crispin metallic cartridge shell…used by some units in War Between the States.

Know of no such rifle or cartridge in area. Used in Gilbert Smith weapon.

Chantry put the book down on the sofa beside him, and sat back to think. Methodically, he went over every detail of the killings. His was a careful mind. He had never considered himself an intellect, just a commonsense sort of man, and that was his only approach. He owned no special knowledge, no remarkable skills. He hoped, by continually re-examining the few odds and ends, that somehow a pattern would emerge. He knew enough of tracking both men and animals to know that most conform to a pattern…that few have originality or deviate from accustomed paths. A deer, for example, will rarely stray more than a mile from the place of its birth.

The murderer seemed to be a local man, with local knowledge, and he had to work within the framework of that knowledge. And if there was a cause for killing, it must spring from some source that was locally inspired, or that might affect him…or her…locally.

Hyatt had attempted to withhold information. He also had been in a position from which he could have killed Johnny McCoy.

Was there any connection between Pin Dover and Hyatt? Between Pin Dover and Blossom Galey, beyond that he was working for her?

Who had been in the barn that night aside from the murderer and himself?

Who owned a rifle of a kind to use that .52-calibre cartridge?

In occasional hunts and turkey shoots, Borden was sure he had seen every rifle in the area, but could recall no such gun.

George Riggin had not told anyone about the .52-calibre rifle, and Chantry decided to do the same. It was a clue…although a flimsy one.

The only person he could think of as likely to have such a rifle was Ed Pearson.

A thought came to him suddenly that should have occurred at once. The rifle that fired the shots at him had not had the heavy boom of a .52, but of a lighter, more modern weapon. So the murderer had more than one rifle.

That was not unusual, for nearly every ranch house within miles had two or more rifles and probably a shotgun, to say nothing of the houses here in town. It was the custom of the country, developed from the need to hunt for food and protect the hearth and home, but also from the feeling that freedom won with the gun might have to be kept with the gun. Here, as in Switzerland, the militia was the people.

Mora…it all came back to Mora. Yet might that not be a blind alley? That might be pure coincidence.

He had surmised the killer was a local man, working from local knowledge. He was also sure that something he had done had worried or frightened the killer into attempting to kill
him
. It might have been the discovery of the brand on the dead horse that started it, but it was evidence enough that the killer was watching.

So why not give him something to watch? Why not offer the killer some bait and draw him from under cover? Suppose Chantry let word get around that he had a source of information, and then he saddled up and rode out? Would he be followed? And if he was followed, would that not be first-rate evidence as to the killer?

Yet that meant setting himself up as a target, deliberately putting himself in the way of being shot at, perhaps killed.

He got up, put the tally book in his pocket and started back downtown. Bess called after him, and he turned. She stood in the door, staring after him. “Borden? Will you be long?”

“Not long. I have to talk to somebody.”

He went into the jail and nodded to Big Injun, then opened the door to the space where the cells were. Kim Baca came to the bars. “How long am I going to be locked up here?” he demanded. “If they're going to try me, why wait?”

“The judge will be along. He's comin' this way.” Borden put his hands on the bars. “Kim, how much of a man are you?”

“What?” The outlaw's face flushed. “What kind of talk is that? I'm as good as any damn man, an' I'll have you—”

“Is your word any good? I've heard that it was.”

Kim stared at him, puzzled and wary. “My word's good. I never broke my word for anybody.”

“Kim, we've got an open an' shut case against you. We can send you over the road with no trouble. You know that, don't you?”

“I'll get me a good lawyer.”

“It won't help much, but you could help yourself by helping me. If you were to help me, my word to the judge might carry weight.”

“What kind of help?”

“I'm going to have to leave town, Kim. Somebody in town wants to kill me. When I go, I want you to watch and see who follows me, at least who leaves town.”

“How can I watch from in here? I can't see much from that window.”

“Didn't figure you could. You're going to give me your word that you won't try to escape, and I'm going to turn you loose.”

“You're
what?
”

“I'm going to put you on what they call parole. You can set around outside, eat in the café, have yourself a drink, but you can't leave town. All you've got to do is see who rides out of town and keep your mouth shut.”