Colorado Sam (9 page)

 
   Breakfast, the shave from Mr. Ming, and talking with Alana Birdsong had worn him out, but Nathan was determined to stay awake for Laura Payne's visit. Mr. Ming, however, had another surprise waiting for him.

   The Chinese servant nudged the door open a few inches and inserted his head into the narrow opening. “Man here to see Master.”

   Expecting a female caller and not an unannounced male, Nathan's hand slid beneath his pillow. He pulled the six-gun free, laid it in his lap, and covered it with the threadbare comforter. The ever-watchful Sam came to his feet, nose testing the air. 

   “Who is it, Mr. Ming.”

   “He says Mr. Ira Westfall send him.”

   “Show him in,” Nathan said, maintaining his grip on the hidden pistol.

   A man with a countenance as dented and creased as an ancient tin plate filled the doorway. The stranger's skull, capped by an undersized, sweat-stained bowler hat, was misshapen. The irises of his eyes were the size of shotgun pellets, and the ragged moustache underscoring his oft-broken nose had the texture of hog bristle. His lips were thick and cracked, and he had no chin whatsoever. Worn and patched clothing, their last contact with soap and water having occurred in the distant past, if ever, did nothing to improve his appearance.

   A distrusting Nathan didn't miss the slight bulge beneath his visitor's left armpit, the same bulge Ira Westfall exhibited when the ex-policeman wore a shoulder holster. All in all, right down to his scuffed shoes, the stranger was as unkempt and downtrodden as the levee rats that infested the St. Louis waterfront, except that he carried a revolver, not a knife or club, which distanced him from the ordinary thug.

   The sniffling Sam drew taut as strung wire. The stranger saw this and said softer than falling rose petals, “Ain't no cause for your dog to set upon me, or for you to draw that pistol. I'm here to deliver a message, not get shot or chewed to pieces.”

   “Ira Westfall sent you?”

   “He did. I rode the rails straight here.”

   Saying something was one thing, proving it another. “Describe him,” Nathan challenged.

   The stranger compressed his thick lips to smother his irritation. “Round as a barrel, droopy moustache, sad eyes, fists big as hams. They call him “Walrus” behind his back.” 

   Nathan eased his grip on the hidden pistol. He couldn't have described Ira Westfall any better himself. 

   “Stay, Sam. Stay.”

   The stranger's posture loosened along with Sam's. “Thanks, beasts such as him make a man queasy.”

   “You got a name?”

   “Dawes, Burt Dawes.”

   “Mr. Dawes, what's the message you've brought me?”

   Being addressed as “Mr. Dawes” flustered Burt Dawes somewhat. “Ira sent me to tell you the bastards shot your parents ain't from St. Louis. They're from elsewhere.”

   Nathan's ears perked. The old copper had learned what he already knew, but by different means. Had his efforts identified the murderers? How Nathan wished the old copper were standing before him instead of his messenger. 

   “Where's Mr. Westfall?” Nathan demanded, voice louder than he intended. “Is he still in St. Louis?”

   “Naw, he's in Denver. He sent me on ahead.”

   “He's coming here to Alamosa?” 

   “He didn't say exactly when,” Burt Dawes said. “But he's a-coming.”

   Nathan swallowed hard to dampen his impatience. “Please forgive my poor manners. Have a seat, Mr. Dawes,“ he offered, pointing to Constable Allred's chair.

Burt Dawes shuffled sideways, pellet eyes glued to Sam. Not until he was certain the huge black dog wouldn't object to his moving closer to Nathan's bed did he remove his bowler hat and seat himself. 

   Nathan let his visitor settle onto the constable's chair. “Mr. Dawes, if I'm not asking you to break a confidence, would you share with me what Mr. Westfall has uncovered about my parent's killers?”

   Burt Dawes's tongue licked his hog-bristle moustache. “Don't see why not. It ain't anything Ira won't tell you himself, sooner or later.”

   “I'm all ears, Mr. Dawes.” 

   “First off, I want you should call me Burt. That ‘Mister' stuff makes it sound like I'm some top dog, which I ain't. That okay by you?”

   Nathan nodded and Burt Dawes proceeded to spin his tale. “You gots to understand Ira Westfall can grab a snake crawling on thin air if he's of a mind to. He was mighty upset about your parents, and we were on the hunt afore the night ended. Wasn't nothing to be learned at your daddy's house, cause not a soul saw anybody coming or going, not before or after the shots. One of them distant neighbors of yours claimed there was hoof beats behind the stable right after, but he didn't spot the rider for the trees back there. That's when Ira decided our only hope of learning anything quick was to try and roust out whoever it was banged away at you that same evening.”

   Burt Dawes took on wind. “By dawn Ira had every dock rat on the river shaking like oak leaves in a big wind and running for cover. It was Gus White's misfortune he didn't run off with the others. We found him beneath a stairwell in the alley across the street from your daddy's warehouse. Ira yanked him to his feet so rough I feared he broke his neck. Gus was a scout for the Seventh Calvary in the old days, and while he's stared at the bottom of many an empty bottle, ain't nothing wrong with his memory, if he's sober. 

   “Once he was fully awake, he informed Ira that he was drinking under them stairs the previous evening, not drunk yet, just getting woozy when a horse sneezed. He cocked an eye open, and there was a rider armed with a rifle dismounting smack dab in front of him. It was dark enough under them stairs the moonlight didn't give Gus away, and he wasn't about to get himself kilt butting into somebody else's troubles. So he stayed still as stone like he did spying on them blood-thirsty Sioux.”

Burt Dawes rubbed his oversized Adam's apple. “Gus said the rider tied his horse to a drain spout and crept to the end of the alley. It got right quiet for a spell and Gus dozed off. The first gunshot lifted him clean off the ground. Next thing, he hears a horse pounding the cobbles and another gunshot. Just after the third shot the rider ran back to his horse, cursing every step. He untied his horse, jumped aboard, and galloped off.”

   “Did Mr. White identify the rider, Burt? Did he see his face?”   

   “Naw, he was wearing a slouch hat and Gus couldn't make him out by moonlight. Ira near exploded when Gus told him that.” 

   Burt Dawes' guffaw rivaled the bray of a mule. “Never would have guessed Gus had such a bent for humor, nosiree. He let Ira get wound up and steamin' under the collar like a yard engine afore he raised his hand innocent as a child in school. ‘Might be helpful for you to know,' Gus says, ‘that he was ridin' a horse with a McClellan saddle.' Ira laid a stare on Gus that like to wilt his legs and snapped, ‘So'?” 

   Burt Dawes took on a new load of wind. “Gus got his dander up then and spouted off like he was the teacher and Ira was the student. He reminded Ira that Frank Butler stocked old McClellan cavalry saddles at his livery stable that he rents out to customers he doesn't trust. Gus suggested that if Ira were to trundle on down to the Butler Livery right then, maybe he'd stop wasting time he couldn't afford to lose. That was, if he was serious about finding the shooter afore the trail got cold.”

Burt Dawes shifted about in his chair and balanced his bowler hat on the opposite knee, actions that hinted he wasn't accustomed to making lengthy speeches. Nathan, though, was coming to realize Burt Dawes was not a typical St. Louis levee rat. Appearances and nervousness aside, given his grammar and speech, Ira Westfall's messenger had spent considerable time in a school at some point in his life. 

   “So, off we went,” Burt Dawes continued, “Ira cursing somebody, either himself or Gus White, for two miles. His mood hadn't lightened a bit by the time we reached the livery. Now Frank Butler's bulky as a draft horse and don't answer to nobody but God and his sparrow of a wife. He wasn't the least happy we were interrupting his morning coffee with nosy questions. Ira flashed his determined look, the one that warns he's prepared to bite the head off a railroad spike, and Frank backed off enough to talk peaceably.

    “It didn't take much prompting for Frank to allow he'd been renting horses equipped with McClellan saddles to two strangers dressed like drummers every day for a week. One was skinny, red-haired, gimlet-eyed, and his drummer's suit fit him tight everywhere. The bigger of the two was built stout, had dark hair, a scar shaped like a question mark in the corner of his left eye and acted as if his shoes were too tight. Both of them carried sample suitcases. Frank said they seemed no different from the countless other salesmen he'd done business with over the years, except these two were after riding horses, not a buggy. Frank claims the average city drummer can't mount a saddle horse without being given a hand up. These gents were experienced horsemen.”

   “Did Mr. Butler learn their names?”

   “Well, they went by Corbin Smythe and Cousin Hobie, or so the skinny one said from the git-go. He seemed in charge according to Frank. We now had names and some notion what they looked like. Problem was, they'd returned those horses in the night and if they were our killers, they probably wouldn't be coming back to the livery again. Me, I figured we was at the dead end of the alley. St. Louis is a mighty big place and I'd no idea where to start searching for our two missing drummers. Ira, he figured differently. He asked Frank Butler whether they arrived afoot or by hired cab. Frank said afoot and we were on the way out of his office faster than you can shell a pole bean. 

   “Ira calculated our drummers, being horsemen, had eaten and slept within walking distance of the livery, and I swear I didn't have any sleep or eats myself for the next two days and nights. We visited every hotel, boarding place, public washhouse, drinking pub, and dining hall on the waterfront. I wore blisters the size of half dollars on my feet traipsing behind Ira. Truth is,” Burt Dawes conceded, smacking his thick lips together, “I was scared to quit on him.

   “My socks were bloody by the time Ira uncovered a trace of them. We'd been to O'Reilly's hellhole of a pub downriver from the livery twice already, but Ira insisted we ask there again. Seems the barkeep we met on our third visit had been sick the other times. Slick Harrop, his name was, and he remembered our drummers because of the scar in the corner of the bigger one's eye. It was him that made Slick mad by saying O'Reilly's whiskey was skunk poison compared to what he was served at Farrell's Palace in Denver. Slick said the smaller fellow got mighty upset with the bigger one for not minding his tongue, and they left soon as they emptied their glasses. That's all Ira had to hear and we was on the train to Denver. My feet been thanking Slick Harrop ever since.”

   Burt Hawes paused, considering what he would say next. He'd been very forthcoming and precise in recounting everything that had transpired in St. Louis, and Nathan felt compelled to spare him the details of what would prove a fruitless search of Denver. “Ira hasn't located them yet, has he, Burt?”

   “No, he hasn't,” Burt Dawes said.  

   “Well, he won't, no matter how long he stays in Denver,” Nathan said, “because they're here in Alamosa. They're the ones who tried to bash in my head.”

   Burt Dawes' pellet eyes glistened like wet jewels. “I don't mean to be disrespectful,” he said. “But are you certain of that?”

   Nathan told Burt Dawes how his attacker had inadvertently revealed his identity, although Nathan had never seen a solitary piece of him in the dark stable. Burt Dawes listened with rapt attention. When Nathan finished, he came to his feet, glanced at Sam, and slowly drew a grimy yellow envelope from his coat pocket. 

   “I must notify Ira soon as I can get to the telegraph office,” Burt Dawes said, gingerly laying the grimy envelope on Nathan's bed. “Ira said you was to have this.” 

   Still watching Sam, Burt Dawes slipped from the room without so much as a goodbye. A curious Nathan, wrought-up as could be from his conversation with Burt Dawes, ripped open the yellow envelope. Inside was a Western Union telegram addressed to Ira Westfall, in care of the Hayden Hotel, Denver, Colorado:

 
“Please be advised initial audit of Tanner Supply Company reveals Payne Merchandise is fifty thousand dollars past due for mining equipment and boilers purchased for sale to the Pedigrew and Shelly Mining Conglomerate, Creede, Colorado. Stop. Documents located here indicate Seth and Lucius Tanner both made inquiries of Eldon Payne regarding these delinquent invoices. Stop. Further inquiry by you or young Nathan would be most helpful. Stop. Devlin Kellerman, Attorney-at-Law.”

 
   Nathan whistled through his teeth. The sum due his father's company equaled half the amount Roan Buckman had offered for all of Payne Merchandise. It was an unusually large amount for a single customer to owe any business other than a bank. Was there a valid reason why Pedigrew and Shelly had withheld payment to Payne Merchandise? If there was, why hadn't Eldon Payne reported it to his uncle or his father? Or had Pedigrew and Shelly paid Payne Merchandise and Eldon Payne was withholding thousands of dollars rightfully owed Tanner Supply? Either way, such a serious business lapse by Eldon Payne generated suspicion and doubt. Was he stealing monies from his own business? And though it sounded far-fetched, were the missing funds somehow involved in his sudden association with Roan Buckman?