The Shopkeeper (22 page)

Sharp looked over my shoulder and whistled. The page was filled with the tiniest and neatest writing I had ever seen. I flipped a few pages, and they all had the same format: three precise columns, two with numbers and one with letters. The first column was easy to identify as a list of dates, and the numbers in the last column had the two decimal positions used for monetary amounts. The middle column of letters was a cipher. I could not make sense of it until I noticed the dates were close together and the financial items small, many under a dollar. These were expenses. Sprague had meticulously recorded every cent he had spent and used initials or abbreviations in the middle column to represent the item he had purchased.

In the back of the book, I found the income side of the ledger. Perhaps it was the front, though, because I had to flip the book over to read the entries. The notebook had no obvious front—Sprague entered costs at one end and then turned it over and upside down to record income at the other end. I counted seventeen entries on the income side, the first dated seven years ago. The man seemed to have had a long career.

As I read down the rows of entries, I saw that the second to the last row displayed the initials SD—Steve Dancy would be my guess. The last initials were JB, which I assumed meant John Bolton. Both of these entries also had a dash mark and the letters SW next to them.

Every entry except the one with my initials had a little penciled dot in front of the line. It appeared that these tiny circles signified completed contracts. The contract amounts in the third column ran between five and twenty thousand dollars. Bolton hit the high mark of twenty thousand, while mine showed only ten thousand. My first reaction, admittedly ridiculous, was to feel resentful that Bolton commanded a higher price than me, but obviously the prominence of the victim would partially determine the size of the fee.

“Can you make out what it says?” Sharp asked.

“I think so.” I pointed with my finger. “These are his contracts, but they’re identified only by initials. Not the best evidence.” I thought a minute. “If we can tie the deaths of people with these initials to the dates in this book, a reasonable jury ought to convict our friend.”

“May I see?”

Sharp studied the entries intently for a few minutes. After he handed it back to me, he said, “I know two men, not countin’ Bolton, whose deaths match initials in that book an’ happened around the right time. My bet is that we can match up the rest of those entries with other murder victims.”

“How were the two you know about killed?”

“Blown to smithereens … by a buffalo gun from long range.” Sharp watched me tuck the little book back into my front pants pocket. “Be careful with that. It’s important. That little book just might save your life.”

“I know.” I tapped the book in my pocket. “But the most important thing about this book is the absence of a little penciled circle next to my initials.”

Sharp laughed. “Yep, guess so.” He turned around and rested his forearms on the rail of the corral. “That book might hang Sprague, but what about Washburn?”

I turned around and assumed the same lazy posture as Sharp. “SW appears next to Bolton’s and my initials, but if that convicts Washburn, it’ll be a conviction based on the scantiest evidence in the history of this country.”

“Then you’re still in danger … unless Sprague testifies.”

“He’ll never testify against Washburn. Besides, I’m no longer looking to put Washburn in jail.”

Sharp did not speak at first, but when he did, his soft tone surprised me. “Steve, be careful.” He pushed away from the fence and looked toward the fort gate. “Let’s get a beer at the tradin’ post.”

Chapter 38

Since it was so late in the day, we decided not to leave Fort Churchill until the next morning. The lieutenant graciously allowed us to use the guest quarters, which comprised nothing more than a barren room with two beds. Captain McAllen and his men slept outside, so Sharp and I each took a bed.

In the morning, the lieutenant invited us to join his unit for breakfast. In typical army fashion, they served large quantities of bad food washed down with an unending supply of extra-strong coffee.

After breakfast, we had a ceremony to officially transfer the prisoner to the custody of Captain McAllen and the Pinkertons. The army insisted on its little rituals. When the ceremony broke up, the lieutenant seemed relieved to be free of Sprague and eager to release his men from guard duty. One of the Pinkertons bound Sprague’s hands in front, so he could grip the saddle horn, and then two soldiers lifted him onto his horse.

McAllen mounted his own horse and sidled up to Sprague. “Please run. It’s a hell of a lot easier to transport a prisoner strapped across the saddle.”

Sprague looked at McAllen. “Captain, we both have obligations.” He turned a nasty stare on me. “Perhaps you should allow me to complete mine before you proceed with yours.” When he got no reply, he added, “No? Pity. Then I shall find another way. I always fulfill my contracts.”

McAllen reined his horse around to bump Sprague’s horse hard enough to almost knock the prisoner to the ground. “I hope you enjoyed your breakfast. I hear army food is a damn sight better than prison fare.”

“The Bolton ranch is ahead of us.” McAllen turned in his saddle. “Our evidence goes well beyond that little book of yours. We’re going to Bolton’s to get the clincher. One of the hands saw you on the trail after you killed Bolton. He says he can identify your horse.”

“Horseshit.”

“This man could probably identify that as well. He’s a renowned wrangler who knows horseflesh. His testimony, along with our other evidence, would have sealed your fate without that notebook. I’d say your hanging is only a matter of getting twelve men together.”

I assumed Captain McAllen was taunting Sprague because he wanted him to believe we had a strong case and that his only salvation would be to testify against Washburn. I had other plans, but I had already decided not to share them with McAllen.

After we had ridden a few miles, Sprague asked Sharp, “How many politicians and judges do you own?”

“I own silver mines,” Sharp said matter of factly.

“Pity.” Sharp ignored him, so he added, “I own plenty. What I don’t own, Washburn does.” He rode silent for a minute. “I hope the trial’s quick. I have a hunting date with our U.S. senator in three weeks.”

“Mr. Sprague,” McAllen interrupted, “I wish you’d keep your thoughts to yourself, or I shall be obliged to hit you across the mouth with my pistol barrel.”

We rode on in silence.

About noon, we stopped along the river to rest the horses and grab a bite to eat. Once we dismounted, McAllen tied Sprague’s ankles together and set him on a rock facing us at the river’s edge. He could either try to swim with his feet and hands tied or attempt to hobble past us.

McAllen had taken possession of Sprague’s rifle. After a less-than-satisfying noon meal of canned sardines spread on hardtack, I asked the captain if I could take a look at it.

Sprague looked so satisfied with himself that I couldn’t help responding. “That was over ten years ago. A long time in the armaments business.”

“Why don’t you hand me over that rifle and some ammunition, and I’ll show you shooting you wouldn’t believe possible?”

McAllen started to say something, but I held up my hand. He probably wanted to threaten Sprague again with a rap across the mouth, but I wanted to hear Sprague talk. The persnickety little man looked like a bookkeeper, which he had once been, yet he exuded confidence and menace like the killer he had become. Sprague hunted men for a living, and there was probably no more dangerous prey, yet he had been successful at it for years. It was as though we had captured some kind of wild beast, and we had a chance to study the animal’s nature before we turned it over to a zoo.

Sprague made a show of looking around. “See that tree over there?” He smiled again. “Sorry, I can’t point, but I mean the one hanging out over the river at the bend. I could shoot that branch off and drop it into the water.”

I took a look. “Could you now? You think I should try it?”

“I’ll bet you ten dollars you could never make that shot. I’ll even give you three tries.”

McAllen got up, and I gave him a nod to show I understood. He walked over to the water’s edge so he could see beyond the bend in the river: the same view Sprague had from his rock. Before McAllen could speak, I said, “People on the other side?”

“Yep,” McAllen said, as he kicked Sprague just hard enough to knock him off his rock and into the mud. “Now, Mr. Sprague, that would have been a pretty mean trick.”

Lying on the ground, Sprague grinned wickedly. “If he’d made the shot, there’d have been no problem.”

I got up and walked over to the two men. “A hundred-grain cartridge would have passed right through that branch and slammed into something on the other side of the river. Kick him again, Captain.”

McAllen instantly obliged me.

Chapter 39

After our break for the noonday meal, we rode hard to arrive at the Bolton ranch before nightfall. As before, Captain McAllen rode up to the ranch house to announce our arrival, only this time, the elder Mrs. Bolton immediately waved us in from the porch. I suddenly felt nervous. Telling the resident baroness that she had to leave her home would not be easy. The first order of business, however, was to secure Sprague in something approximating a jail.

As we rode up, the nasty glare from Mrs. Bolton told me that the captain had explained about our prisoner. As I tied up at the hitch post, she commanded, “Follow me.”

All of us surrounded Sprague, who was bound only at the hands, and followed her to the bunkhouse. She went around back and opened the door to a lean-to. Turning to her foreman, she demanded that he clear out what appeared to be a tack shed. In a few minutes, the space was empty, and another hand came over and threw an old mattress on the dirt floor.

McAllen stepped into the darkness and thoroughly inspected the lean-to. He tested the walls and ceiling, closed the door behind him and threw his shoulder against it, and then kicked around in the dirt to make sure no implements remained that could be used as a weapon or for escape.

Mrs. Bolton bristled at Sprague’s haughty attitude. “My foreman will shoot anyone who brings you anything. For all I care, you can wallow in your own shit and piss.”

Sprague whirled on her corpulent form. “You should know, Madam, that I’ve killed women before. You’d be wise to avoid earning my wrath.”

“You damned piece of shit.” She stepped toward him with venom in her eyes. “You threaten
me
? I might just kill you myself … before daybreak.”

McAllen wedged himself between the two. My first thought was that he was a brave man. McAllen untied Sprague’s hands and shoved him into the windowless shed. Before he closed the door, Mrs. Bolton screamed, “Sleep light. I may come any time to slit your fucking throat.”

The foreman quickly stepped over and snapped a weathered padlock through a rusted metal latch, and then McAllen tested the sturdiness of the closure.

“Don’t worry, that’ll keep the son of a bitch,” Mrs. Bolton assured him. Then she yelled, “Kill my son, will ya? Pray you see light again!”

“That’s my prisoner,” McAllen responded. When she continued to resist, he added, “His well-being is my responsibility, and I intend to deliver him in good condition to the authorities in Carson City.” When she still just stared at him, he upped the ante. “And I want water and food brought immediately.”

She stood arms akimbo. “No way in hell. You don’t rule this ranch.”

McAllen tipped his hat. “Then I must beg your leave.” He turned to one of his men. “Bring the horses ’round.”