The Shopkeeper (19 page)

I took one hundred dollars out of my wallet and handed it across. “I’ll be sending Captain McAllen of the Pinkertons to see you. Please consider him my agent in any dealings associated with Sprague or Washburn.”

“One other thing. Can you recommend an assistant bank manager that can leave immediately for Pickhandle Gulch? I left things in the lurch, and I need someone right away.”

I turned my head toward the closed door and thought about it. It was unlikely I would find someone with grit to run a bank, and with me in Carson City, the danger in Pickhandle should be minimal. Plus, I had promised Jeremiah. I turned back to Jansen. “Peter will do just fine. Sixty a month?”

“That should prove more than adequate.”

I got up to leave and extended my hand. “I’d appreciate your support for a correspondence relationship between my bank and Commerce.”

Jansen ignored my proffered hand. “No problem. The board will approve the arrangement at its next meeting. Peter’s appointment will clinch it.”

Jansen leaned back, as if the meeting were not over. “I have a question. I hope it’s not too personal, but do you have a will?”

“Excuse me?”

“A last will and testament. A man of your means should have one. Especially since rumor has it that the man who shot Bolton wants to level his sights at you next.”

Nonplussed, I sat back down. I had no will and did not know why it had never occurred to me to write one. I certainly had sufficient motivation. My closest relatives were uncles and aunts, all in New York and well fixed. I did not have the slightest idea who I wanted my estate to go to, and at first I felt irritated that Jansen made me think about it. Finally, I said, “Do you have time to write one up now?”

“I’ll make the time. Perhaps your associate would prefer to wait outside? I’m sure Peter will be safe now that he’s under your employ.”

“Well, an opportunity has come up for you to start a career in banking.” Jansen stood for the first time. “I’d like you to meet Mr. Steve Dancy, president of the Pickhandle Gulch Bank.”

“Before you dismiss the idea, you should know that you’d be working with the Commerce Bank board to establish a correspondence relationship between the two banks. I’m sure that will be just the first step in a close working relationship.” He waited for Peter to digest the implications. “Mr. Dancy is offering sixty a month.”

Peter’s eyes popped open. “In that case …”

When he hesitated to finish the sentence, I said, “Jeff Sharp has his operations in Belleville. He’s promised to supply whatever assistance you may need.”

I could see from his face that that clinched it. Sharp had a small army just a few miles away. After the briefest of moments, he shook my hand again, but this time with more purpose. “I would be honored to accept the position.”

“Thank you. I would like you to leave immediately.”

Peter looked shocked. “I don’t even own a horse.”

I thought quickly. “I’ll equip you with a buckboard, a horse, and gear for the trail. Tell the livery to charge it to me at the St. Charles.”

Peter grabbed my hand again and shook it enthusiastically. “I’ll leave as soon as the gear is assembled.”

“Great—and I apologize for my rudeness earlier.”

“Think nothing of it, sir.” Peter started to leave the office with a bounce but then had a thought. “Are the buckboard and horse mine?”

“No, but you may have them at your disposal as long as you remain in my employ. When you get to Pickhandle, have the bank name painted on both sides.”

“I presume you mean the buckboard, not the horse.”

I turned to Jansen. “I thought you said Peter didn’t have a sense of humor.”

He grinned. “First I’ve seen of it.” Jansen also shook Peter’s hand. “This is a good move for you, Peter. You’ll do right well in banking.”

“Thank you, sir. Well, I have a lot to do, so if you gentlemen will excuse me …” With that, my new assistant bank manager scurried out the door.

“Now, let’s talk about that will of yours,” Jansen said.

By the time I got up to leave, we had been working for over an hour. After explaining what I wanted to do, Jansen had been bewildered at first, then intrigued, and finally amused.

As I opened the door to leave, he chuckled to himself and said, “Mr. Dancy, if Sprague kills you, I have an epitaph for your gravestone: “Here Lies Steve Dancy, Sore Loser.”

Chapter 34

“Well, hell, it appears our little charade is over. You might as well wear your own clothes on our return to Pickhandle Gulch.”

I had just sat down with McAllen and Sharp for our afternoon rendezvous. Before I could even order a beer, McAllen had made this odd pronouncement. I looked at Sam and jokingly asked, “Weren’t you able to get that shirt laundered?”

“Picked it up this morning. Got the suit brushed and pressed as well. But I believe the captain doesn’t think the precaution’ll do much good anymore.”

This puzzled me because Sam and I had been together since breakfast. How would he know what the captain was thinking? Had I missed something? I didn’t want to appear stupid, so I resolved to remain silent until one of them volunteered to tell me what they were talking about.

McAllen was the one to speak up. “Did you see that man on the hotel porch, reading a newspaper?”

“Yes.” As instructed, I had kept alert when we walked from Jansen’s office to the hotel. The only person I spotted lingering had been reading a newspaper on the porch. He looked innocent enough, and the activity was certainly not unusual for a hotel guest.

“That was Bill Sprague.”

“What?” I hesitated, but after thinking about it, I was sure I had not seen another man. “That was Sprague? Are you sure? The man I saw looked like a bookkeeper.”

Sharp said, “That’s him, all right.”

Captain McAllen nodded and then added, “Rumor has it he once made his living totting up columns of numbers but changed professions when he discovered he had a natural knack for marksmanship. He brings a bookkeeper’s methodical manner to long-range shooting.”

I looked toward the door, but he had not followed us into the hotel. “Must take more than marksmanship. I can’t image a man making his living by killing strangers for money. He must lack any conscience whatever.”

Sharp actually looked worried. “When it comes to killin’, he’s about as detached a man as I’ve ever seen. Bet he thinks harder on killin’ time than killin’ a person.” He motioned for a waiter to bring us a round of drinks. After he got an acknowledging nod, he said to me, “Don’t let his looks fool ya—he’s a nasty character. Story’s told that he took a contract on a man’s adulterous wife an’ shot her twice, once through the heart an’ again in the head. A needless extravagance with a .44-100.”

“Ever married?” I asked.

“No … not to anyone’s recollection.” Sharp laughed. “But I get your drift. He might not like women much. Could be … but he’s killed lots of men too, so maybe he hates all humankind—or just doesn’t give a shit.”

“Sounds like an odd man.”

Captain McAllen said, “I heard a story about him. Don’t know if it’s true, but sounds ’bout right. Supposedly, Sprague once competed in a long-range shooting contest. Won it hands-down. But each time before he shot, he consulted this little notebook filled with numbers in tidy columns. The book contained his meticulous measurements for different ranges, wind conditions, and even different temperatures. This was years ago, when he supposedly still wore a green eyeshade to work. Not long after that contest, he put his talent out for hire. Now, I’m told, he carries those measurements in his head and uses his notebook to keep track of his money.” McAllen took a swig of beer. “Yep, I’d say he’s an odd duck.”

I glance toward the front door again. “Is there nothing we can do?”

McAllen shook his head. “He knows we can’t arrest him. Can’t do anything to him that won’t get us in trouble with the law ourselves. That’s why he can sit out there like a real gentleman, reading a newspaper.”

“Captain’s right,” Sharp agreed. “The man’s tauntin’ us. If he wanted, he could keep an eye on us from inside any buildin’ across the street.”

“Did you have any luck with the cigarette butt or the hoofprint?” I asked.

Sharp explained that the tobacconist recognized the butt as the expensive tobacco brand that Sprague preferred, but they had found no one who had seen Washburn and Sprague together. McAllen said that his men’s questioning of the citizenry was causing a buzz in town, and he thought they had made a good start on kindling a big scandal around Carson City First.

I told them how Sam and I had spent the morning. I relayed everything except my last will and testament. That, at least for the present, would remain my business and my business alone. One day, it might be their business, but I pushed that unpleasant possibility from my mind.

“Sprague’s
horse?” I asked.

McAllen lifted his beer glass. “Now that we know he’s in town, we’ll go over to the livery right after we finish these beers. I’ll see if I can get the sheriff to go with us. I want another witness to see the missing nail in the right rear shoe.”

“The man doesn’t look to be the talkative sort.” I turned to Captain McAllen. “You still think he’s not a threat as long as we’re in Carson City?”

“I don’t think he’ll do anything here … especially since he’s made himself so brazenly obvious in front of the hotel. Besides, to my knowledge, he’s never killed close-up.” McAllen nodded his head toward the entrance to the hotel. “No, Sprague’s here to get a good look at you.”

“So we can’t fool him with a change of clothes.” I winked at Sam. “After my beer, I’m going to tell Chestnut the good news. He’ll be—” I bolted upright and strode toward the door. I pulled my Remington .38 from beneath my suit coat and swore at myself for not carrying my .45.

I stepped out of the hotel and turned toward Sprague. He still sat in the same chair, looking as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

I took a half-step toward him and started to raise my gun, but before I had gotten far, I heard shots and felt a hand in the small of my back shove me with enormous force. I went down hard and slammed into the boardwalk with my cheek and knees. More shots. Wood splintered, glass shattered, and men screamed above the roar of gunfire. I rolled as fast as I could and found myself falling off the wooden walkway onto the dirt street. The shots came from somewhere else, but my fear centered on Sprague, so I lifted my head and gun over the boardwalk to shoot him. He was nowhere in sight.

Shots tore up the ground around me, and I realized they came from a building on the other side of the street. I twisted around prone and took aim but held my fire. My .38 probably wouldn’t penetrate the wood front of the building, so I waited for a head to pop up in a window or door frame. Whoever was firing above me had no such limitation, and bullets tore up the wood around the building windows. A flash appeared in one of the windows, and I pulled my trigger twice. I don’t know if I hit the man, but the shooting suddenly stopped, and everything grew still.

“Stay down,” Captain McAllen yelled, but I was already on my feet. After the shooting stopped, the street became calm, and I saw only a blue haze wafting above the points of gunfire on either side of the road.