Borden Chantry (3 page)

“That's right,” Chantry agreed, honestly. “I never did.”

“Then understand this. I have a business here, a fair-sized investment in the town, but if those boys come looking I am going to crawl into the nearest hole and pull the hole in after me.”

“Who are they?”

“I've said enough, and I pray to the good Lord that I am wrong, but Marshal…find your killer, and find him quick.”

Chantry thanked Reardon and left.

What he needed now was a chance to sit down, to think a little. Despite himself, Reardon's remarks had worried him. That was all he would need, a bunch of hard-nosed riders coming in looking for a murderer. He'd seen such crowds before, and had seen some of the shootings that resulted. Usually the town won, but men died and property was damaged, and it was not the sort of thing he wanted to happen.

At the Bon-Ton he took a pot of coffee and a cup and went to a seat by the window. He sat down, filled his cup, and leaned back in his chair. All he still had was a tall dead man who had ridden a sorrel horse with three white stockings.

A man suspected of being a dangerous man to tackle, a man who did not seem like a drinker yet had been drunk…or apparently so.

At least, he had something to start with. If he could just find that horse!

Forty years ago this had been Kiowa country and then the buffalo hunters had come. There was a good spring here, so some of the hide-hunters had camped nearby. And later some suppliers had come in and opened a trading post for the hunters, building the place out of the board-stiff, iron-hard hides.

Within a few months a stage stop had been added to the trading post and saloon and the cluster of dugouts and hide-shelters. One of the buffalo hunters squatted on a waterhole a few miles south and brought in some cattle. Then some copper ore had been found and a small mine started working. So the town had come into being.

Hyatt Johnson's father had been one of the original buffalo hunters. George Riggins, the old marshal, had been another.

The door opened and Lang Adams came in. Seeing Borden, he came around to his table. “Well? How's the crime detection business?”

“Slow,” Borden replied irritably. “Have some coffee.”

“You worry too much.” Lang filled his cup. “After all it's only a job.”

“Yeah,” Chantry replied shortly, “but it may mean my scalp. It may mean the town.”

Lang looked at him sharply. “The town? What does that mean?”

Chantry repeated what Reardon had said, and in reply to a question, added, “That's all I know, but you and I both know there's some outfits around that are as loyal to one another as some of the Scottish clans. You step on one of their toes and they all holler. Well, it looks like somebody stepped on a toe.”

“I wouldn't worry about it. It's unlikely anybody will ever know what happened to him, and probably nobody cares.”

“I care. It happened in my town.”

“You take it too seriously,” Lang said. “Look, the man is dead. More than likely he deserved shooting. I know how you feel, but what are you going to gain? You won't get paid a dollar more, and if anybody does come looking, just say you don't know anything about it.

“The man was a stranger. It is likely that if he was murdered it was by somebody who followed him here, somebody who may have come just for that reason. And when it was done, he simply left.”

“Maybe…And again, maybe not. One thing I do know, Lang. If he's still around here, I am going to find him. And when I find him, he will go to jail…Or hang.”

Chapter 3

B
ORDEN CHANTRY WAS a puzzled man. He wanted very much to do his job right, but he had never been any hand at puzzles…Trails, yes. He could work out a trail, and sometimes that took some doing. Well, why not work this out the same way? The idea gave him confidence.

Time Reardon had said the stranger had been carrying a well-filled poke…So where was it? Time had noticed it, and it was likely that others had. Suddenly Borden was aware he had seen nothing of Puggsey Kerns or Frank Hurley, two of Reardon's associates.

To say they were thugs was understating the case. George Riggins had both men in jail from time to time but had been able to prove nothing that would permit keeping them there. If a drunk was robbed in the vicinity the chances were one or both had a hand in it, and it was likely they had been involved in some stage holdups out of Cheyenne, but there was no evidence.

So far they had not been seen on the street this morning, but it was early.

With nothing else to do Chantry strolled back to the barn. Again he looked at the body, and for the first time checked something he had observed on his first sight of the body without having it really register. The dead man's knuckles were lightly skinned.

Had he hit somebody? It looked like it. The dead man had solid, well-made hands.

No marks on his face. The fight, if there had been a fight, had been a one-sided affair.

He unstrapped the dead man's gun, went through his pockets again…Nothing.

The buckskin jacket was well-made…Indian-made, and Cheyenne by the style. Now the Cheyenne were a Plains people although they were found sometimes far down into Texas and over against the Rockies in Colorado. The jacket was nicely kept but was not new, which gave Chantry the feeling this man had lived or traveled in Cheyenne country and probably was friendly with them. Otherwise to get a jacket like this he'd have had to trade a pony at least, or a good rifle.

The Cheyenne jacket and the spurs…well, that was a hint. This rider probably had been in the Rocky Mountain country of Colorado or northern New Mexico or both…Two to three days ride from here…Maybe longer, depending on his horse and his ambition.

“Big Injun,” Chantry suggested, “you make him a coffin…All right?”

“Blanket good enough.” Big Injun was abrupt. “Worms eat him, anyway.”

“I want a coffin for him. Will you make it or do I hire somebody else?”

“One dollar?”

“All right.”

Everything with Big Injun was one dollar. Didn't he know what twenty-five cents was? Or was he smart enough not to learn?

Reardon had said the dead man had not had more than one drink, and had left immediately. So he had not gambled.

Street by street Chantry walked the town, checking every stable and corral. No sorrel horse with three white stockings…no strange horse of any kind. The last stable he checked was Johnny McCoy's.

Billy McCoy was standing in the yard spinning a rope, trying to make a circle he could jump in and out of, but not having much luck.

“Howdy, Marshal! You still huntin' after that dead man's horse?”

“Sure am. You recall what brand he wore?”

Billy stopped spinning his rope and scowled, thoughtfully. “No, sir. I surely don't. Guess I didn't even see it.”

Chantry looked at Billy again. A western man or boy just naturally looks at brands…he
always
looks at them. Could Billy be lying? And if so, why?

“Mind if I look in your barn? I'm checking everyone.”

“Go ahead. There's no horses in there. Ours are in the corral.”

The small barn was shadowed and still. There was no horse there, only a few odds and ends of old harness, a few coils of rope, some old, worn-down boots, long unused, and the usual tools.

There was some manure at one of the stalls, and Chantry paused, glancing at it again.

Johnny McCoy kept his barn clean…or Billy did. About once a week it was cleaned out and fresh straw was scattered on the dirt floor. There was manure at only one of the makeshift stalls, but what made Borden Chantry take that second look was the position of it. Either that manure had been dropped by a big horse or one that had pulled back to the end of its tether before dropping it.

Taking off his hat Chantry wiped the sweatband. It had become a habit when he was thinking…if what he was doing could be called thinking, he reflected irritably.

Looking carefully around, he checked everything, and everything seemed to be right. Yet the manure worried him. There might have been a lot of reasons for its position that were perfectly natural, but it also might have been left by a tall, long-barreled horse…say one that was seventeen hands high.

Opening the door a little wider for more light he walked back to the stall and studied it. At a rough place in the boards on the right-hand side he found a few sorrel hairs. Yet…it meant nothing. There might have been a dozen sorrel horses in that stall at one time or another.

He started for the door when something caught his eye. Among the several ropes hung from nails…three on one nail in one place…was one…He lifted a couple of grass ropes and beneath it hung a rawhide riata, and a long one.

He heard a slight movement and turned to see Billy staring at him. “Billy?” he spoke gently. “Where'd this rope come from?”

“I dunno. One o' Pa's I guess.”

“Now, Billy, you know your pa never used a rawhide rope in his life. I've punched cows with him…and a better puncher never walked…but I never saw him with a rawhide riata.”

“Well…I found it.”

“Found it where?”

“Yonder.” He indicated a gap in the brush some distance off. “I figured…well…if nobody come huntin' I'd…well, I'd sort of keep it.”

“That's logical, Billy. But that's a mighty fine rope and somebody would surely miss it. I wish you'd brought it to me first, then if nobody showed up wanting it, it would be yours.”

“Sure enough?” He glanced enviously at the rope. “I never seen one that long.”

“That's a Mexican rope, Billy, or one used by the Californios. They use rawhide riatas…I've seen them braiding them. You come by the house someday and I'll show you how it's done.”

He squatted on his heels. “Billy, I think that riata belonged to the murdered man. Would you have any ideas about that?”

“No, sir. I reckon not.”

“That sorrel, Billy? Was he ever in this barn?”

“No, sir. Not that I know of.” Suddenly Billy's eyes became fearful. “You…you ain't thinkin' Pa done it?”

“No, Billy, I am not. I don't have any idea what was done or who did it. Your pa's a good man, Billy. He has his problems, like we all do, but he's no murderer. He might shoot a man in a stand-up fight but he'd never back-shoot him.”

Borden Chantry got to his feet. “Billy, I've got to find that horse. The first thing I have to do is find that horse and get the brand…I've had a hint, Billy, that the man may have belonged to a very tough outfit, and if they find he has been murdered they may come shootin'. If that happens a lot of your good friends may get hurt, so I've got to find the killer…fast.”

“Yes, sir. You think that horse was in our barn?”

“I don't know, Billy. When was the last time you were in there? The barn, I mean?”

“I dunno. Maybe the day before yesterday. Ain't much call to go in, and I been exercisin' Hyatt Johnson's horses. He gives me fifty cents a week to take 'em out an' ride 'em around so they don't get too frisky for him.”

“Then a horse might have been here without you knowin'?”

“Well…maybe. But who'd put one in there without askin'?”

“Nobody I can think of. Billy, where's your pa?”

“He's inside. He's asleep.”

“When he wakes up, you tell him I wish he'd come down to the office. I want to talk to him a little bit.”

He walked slowly back up the street to the boardwalk, then along the street. Only a few rigs and a half dozen horses were tied along the street. How could a man ride into such a town, get himself murdered and then have his horse disappear?

Lang was right. He was wasting his time. He'd be far better off hunting turkeys out at the ranch. At least he'd have something to show for it.

Chantry went to his own home and saddled his Appaloosa. He tried to rotate his horses to keep them all in shape, and it was the Appaloosa's turn, although he suspected this would be a short ride.

He found the place where Billy said he had picked up the riata…Sure enough, the tracks of a big horse with a long, beautiful stride.

For an hour he followed a winding trail through the brush, skirting the town rather than riding away from it, and taking a devious route. Suddenly the rider had come out into a lane, and Chantry swore softly.

The trail was gone! Wiped out in cow tracks.

He drew up, pushed his hat back on his head and studied the situation. This was another indication that the murderer, if it was indeed the man who was riding the sorrel, had been familiar with the town and its people. For he had come toward this spot, knowing that it was along this lane Old Man Peterson drove his dairy herd, the herd that supplied milk and butter to the town.

Each morning and each evening that herd went along this lane, successfully wiping out any tracks that might have been left.

Yet this again made Chantry puzzled. Whoever had done it had gambled the tracker would quit here, or had not known how a good tracker works…a mistake Johnny McCoy would not be likely to make.

For Borden Chantry simply rode out of the lane where the cattle had traveled and rode as closely parallel to it as possible, owing to the crowding brush. Unless the rider of the sorrel was going into Peterson's home corral he had to turn off somewhere. And on the other side there were barns, corrals, the backs of yards belonging to people of the town.

Taking his time, studying the ground as he rode, Borden Chantry worked his way in and around the brush until suddenly he saw the tracks where the sorrel had turned off. Riding through thick brush he had even left a few hairs on the stiff branches of the brush. A little bored by the obviousness of it, Chantry fell in behind and followed the trail at a canter…It dipped into a dry wash, up the other side after a hundred yards or so, then through a scattered forest of juniper and up to shelving rock where the rider had held to the rock as much as possible.

Obviously he was trying to leave no trail, but Chantry held his pace. The white hoof scars made by iron shoes upon the rock were obvious enough. Suddenly he lost the trail, swung in a wide circle and picked it up again.

The trail merged with another, made by a track that looked familiar, then they separated…The first track was older. Since the last shower, but older.

And then, as if lifted upon a magic carpet, the trail of the sorrel disappeared!

No tracks…nothing.

A wide circle left and another right…still nothing. He retraced his steps to where he had lost the trail. There was a place where the horse had stood, had moved about a bit, then vanished.

Stepping down from the saddle and standing beside his horse, he studied the ground. The wind was cool, stirring his hair at the forehead. He brushed the hair back and looked back toward town, only a few miles away, but out of sight.

There was a faint smell of dust and crushed cedar. How did he ever get himself into this fix, anyway?

What had somebody said? If he started getting too close he might get shot himself. And the worst of it was, he had no idea who would be shooting at him.

His thoughts suddenly reverted to Kim Baca, the horse thief he had gone after. At least, you knew where you stood with horse thieves…Which brought up another idea. What was Kim Baca doing in this area, anyway? It was out of his bailiwick entirely.

That was something he should ask about…just out of curiosity, and the answer might give him some further clue as to how the outlaw mind operated.

He studied the ground again. Now what could have happened here? There were no magic carpets in eastern Colorado in this day and time. Nor did horses disappear into thin air.

Yet this horse had vanished…how had it vanished? If it left this place it had to walk. Nobody could fly it out, nobody could carry it. He saw no brush marks, as if a trail had been brushed away…something always pretty obvious but sometimes attempted.

There was no sense moving on. Sometimes a man can just wear himself out moving around when he is just a sight better off to stay put and ponder. That was how he came to see that thread. It wasn't more than an inch or two long and it was hung up under a prickly pear, but it was a thread from a tow sack. What some folks call burlap. There it was, plain as shootin'.

Whoever had been riding that horse had gotten down and wrapped its hooves in burlap.

Now that horse wasn't going to go far with those contraptions on its feet, and it didn't.

About a quarter of a mile further he found a place where the arroyo bank had caved, and as he pulled up on the Appaloosa a coyote went slinking away down the canyon.

There below him was a heap of rock and dirt that had fallen from the rim some ten feet above. It had either caved or been caved.

Leaving his horse standing. Chantry dug in his heels and went down the slide. Pulling loose a large rock he toppled it off to one side, then scraped at the dirt. As the dirt came away a bit of sorrel hide was revealed.

It took the better part of an hour to get enough dirt moved, what with more caving, and to get at the horse's side, then to uncover it to look for the brand.

It was gone.

The brand had been cut away in a neat circle, taking off a piece of hide about eight or nine inches in diameter.

The brand was gone, and with it all chance of identifying either horse or man.

Borden Chantry swore softly, bitterly. Then he started to rise and one leg cramped and he staggered. It was all that saved him.