Authors: James D. Best
Tags: #Western stories, #Nevada, #Westerns, #Historical fiction, #Fiction
The Shopkeeper (21 page)
“You think he’s strapped for cash?”
“Gotta be. He’s going through money fast.”
“Well, I’d sure like to hamper his financing of Steven’s campaign.” He lit his cigar. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you. I’ll return as soon as I can bring other matters to a close at the ranch.”
“What do you intend to do about Mrs. Bolton?” His knowledge surprised me at first, but then I realized Bradshaw made it his business to know everything going on in Carson City.
“I
intend
to escort John’s sweet mother back to Carson City … even if I have to hogtie her and throw her in the back of a buckboard.”
“Don’t underestimate her. She’s smarter than she looks, and she did a fine job of running that ranch when John was away.”
“Are you suggesting that I leave her there to run the ranch for Jenny?”
“No! Heavens, no. That woman’s a beast, and she’ll kill Jenny within an hour of you leaving them alone. Get that woman back here and make sure she gets on a train to San Francisco.”
“My intentions exactly.”
I got up to leave, but before I got to the door, Bradshaw tapped the papers I had left him and asked, “You still think these arrests are the right solution?”
“No. I want a five-cent solution.” He looked perplexed, so I added, “The price of a bullet.”
Chapter 36
By the time I had returned to the hotel, McAllen had Chestnut and my belongings ready to go. As I swung into the saddle, I could feel the two whiskeys I’d drunk earlier. My melancholy clung close, so the others, sensing my mood, kept respectably quiet. I reined around and trotted down the road. Bystanders stopped in their tracks and watched the five of us leave town. A shooting frightens people, but it also makes them curious.
We rode in silence for many miles, and I spent the time trying to figure a way to get Washburn to do something stupid. I must have missed something. The man was smart but vain. He had more hired hands than me, but after my seduction of Bradshaw, I controlled more political levers within the state. I needed to get to him man-to-man; otherwise, this feud could go on for months.
I began to doubt that my political and business machinations could box Washburn in—at least not soon enough to avoid more bloodshed. When I had tried to play the game using New York rules, Washburn had proved himself a smart operator. If I had the time, I knew I could win in the end, but a quick solution would have to be a savage solution. Besides, I had made a promise to Sam.
I needed to quit running away from the code of the West. Men out here fought it out man-to-man with guns. Except for Washburn. That was my problem. He knew I was skilled with a handgun, and he was far too smart to be lured into a direct fight. I had to figure out a way to isolate him and then make him lose his temper, so he would draw on me. And I needed witnesses that he started the duel, because I had no intention of going to jail—or the gallows—for murder.
I used the end of my reins to lightly lash Chestnut into a gallop. I had to find a way to kill the son of a bitch. Dead, he couldn’t meet payroll, and his hired guns would fade into the landscape faster than a pack of coyotes faced with a Winchester. But how to goad him into a fight? I had challenged him once, and he had walked away. Perhaps that had not really been a serious attempt, but it showed that Washburn kept calm in the face of provocation and would not be suckered into a fight where the odds did not stack up in his favor.
I had to make him want to kill me himself—it had to be personal. I needed to make him so angry that he lost control, or … maybe I could possess something that he felt he had to take away from me.
Then I had it. It all depended on capturing Sprague. Get Sprague, dead or alive, and I could force Washburn to fight—straight up.
“Slow down.” McAllen had spurred his horse to catch up with me.
“I thought you were in a hurry.”
“Slow down.”
I started to protest, but he was right. No use lathering the horses. We might need them fresh if we encountered Sprague. I reined in and slowed Chestnut to a walk.
“What were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t thinking.”
“Bullshit.”
“All right, I was thinking that Sprague is somewhere between us and the Bolton ranch. I was thinking that he left in a big hurry and is not provisioned, and he’ll probably stop at the trading post at Fort Churchill. If we get there fast enough, maybe we can capture him. That’s what I was thinking.”
“Damn it.” Captain McAllen whistled for one of his men. “That’s my job, to think through our next step.”
His man had pulled up beside us. “Ride hell-bent for the fort. Tell the commander that Sprague is wanted for a shooting in Carson City. Tell him to detain him. Got it?”
The man was already spurring his horse when he yelled, “Yep!”
We watched him ride away, and then McAllen signaled for his other man to ride up beside us. “Forge to the other side of the river and force anyone you see in the direction of the fort. Throw some shots if you have to but don’t aim to kill.”
“Yes, sir.”
McAllen turned to me. “Good thinking, but you agreed to tell me what you’re going to do. You said it wouldn’t happen again.”
“I was preoccupied.”
“Preoccupation gets people dead.”
“Let it go,” Sharp said in my defense. “It’s a good plan.”
We rode for two more hours before we came into sight of the fort. Up ahead, I could see the Pinkerton slogging back to our side of the Carson River. The flat land between us and the fort presented little danger of ambush. When he rode up, we all stopped and faced him.
“I think Sprague was positioned about three miles back.”
“Did you see him?” McAllen asked.
“I rode noisy and saw someone scurry away when I approached. The lay of the land gave a good sight line to this side of the river.”
“Then let’s hope our man is in the custody of our brave men in uniform,” Sharp said.
“I coulda got off a shot, Captain. If I wanted to herd, I woulda been a cowboy.”
“You did right. Better we get him alive.”
I had a thought. “Will the soldiers turn Sprague over to you, Captain?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. I’m deputized in seven states, including Nevada.” McAllen gave me a rare smile. “One of the benefits of the Pinkerton reputation.”
“I take your point,” I said. “But we don’t have a warrant.”
McAllen patted his breast pocket. “I carry ‘John Doe’ warrants. Like I said, shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Then let’s go find out if we’ve corralled our quarry.”
From a distance, it looked like something had happened at the fort. We were about a half mile out, and I could see clusters of men gossiping outside and soldiers standing around. One soldier was leading a horse with a civilian saddle by the reins away from the trading post toward the gate of the compound. Then I saw a rider galloping toward us, and I soon identified him as the Pinkerton that McAllen had sent ahead.
“Sprague’s in the stockade!” he yelled, before reaching us.
“Hot damn!” This came from Sharp.
We simultaneously spurred our horses and raced to the fort. Everyone else went for the gate, but I pulled up beside the soldier leading the horse. “Is that Bill Sprague’s horse?”
“Don’t rightly know his name, but it belongs to the man we arrested.”
I swung down. “He stole something of mine. May I look in his saddlebag?”
He thought a second. “Go ahead ’n’ look, but ya ain’t takin’ nothin’ without the lieutenant’s say-so.”
“Fair enough. I just want to make sure you got the right man.” I did a quick search, but the bags contained only a rolled-up duster and ammunition. Even the canteen was empty. Sprague had indeed left in a hurry.
“Find what yer lookin’ for?”
“Nope, but he could’ve hid it along the way. We’ll know soon enough. Thanks.”
I walked Chestnut over to join the others at the gate. Everyone had dismounted, and I could hear Captain McAllen telling an officer about the shooting in Carson City. He did a masterful job of making it sound like Sprague might have been one of the assailants. The attack itself was not news, because riders who used the fort as a way station had spread the story ahead of us.
When McAllen finished, the lieutenant turned to me. “What were you doing in that man’s bags?”
“Looking for evidence of another shooting. I’m sure you heard about the Bolton murder. We think this is the same man.” I looked at McAllen and pointedly said, “The bag contained only a duster and ammunition.”
McAllen nodded and then asked the lieutenant, “Have you searched the prisoner?”
“Only for weapons. He was unarmed, except for the rifle on his horse.”
“May we see the prisoner?” I asked.
The lieutenant gave me a quizzical look. “Who are you?”
“A witness.” I decided not to volunteer my name, due to the Cutler episode. “Captain McAllen asked me along to make sure we caught the right man.”
The lieutenant seemed to think a minute. “All right. Leave your weapons with the guard.”
We unhooked and threw our guns and knives on a table positioned between two guards. Fort Churchill looked large. A whitewashed adobe wall surrounded numerous buildings, corrals, and stables. Most of the buildings were also whitewashed adobe, which gave the fort a fresh, cool appearance.
We followed the officer to a small, squat structure in the middle of a yard. Two soldiers with Springfield rifles guarded one of several doors spaced about four feet apart. As we got closer, I noticed each wood door was reinforced with iron straps.
“Only Captain McAllen enters,” the officer said.
“I need to see him as well,” I said. “I’m the one who can identify him.”
“All right. The rest of you wait here.”
He told the guard to open the door, and we all watched him fumble with the keys. When the door swung open, I could see over McAllen’s shoulder that the one-time bookkeeper sat on a cot. In the back wall, a high barred window provided some light. Sprague was dressed in the same charcoal city suit he had been wearing when I saw him that morning.
The lieutenant stood aside for McAllen to enter and then fell in behind me as I walked in. Sprague did not look intimidated. He continued to sit and stare at us as if we were a minor curiosity.
I stepped around McAllen and pretended to squint in the dark. “Stand up,” I said, “so I can see you in the light.”
After a long pause, Sprague slowly lifted a hand and put one finger in the middle of my chest and lightly pushed me until I took a half-step back. McAllen made a move, but I lifted a hand to halt him.
Sprague stood and said, “Excuse me, but I don’t like to be crowded.”
“That’s a relief,” I said. “I thought you might be marking a target.”
The smile was sinister. “I couldn’t possibly know what you—”
I slammed him against the wall with all my weight and jammed my left forearm into his throat. With my right hand, I reached into his breast pocket and immediately felt a small object. I did not resist when McAllen and the officer pulled me away. Sprague choked and wheezed and rubbed his neck. The lack of color in his face meant I had rammed him in the neck pretty hard. Good.
“Step back,” the officer ordered.
“Yes, sir. I apologize.” I held my hand down at my side as Sprague continued to sputter.
Captain McAllen asked, “Did you get the journal?” He evidently did not want to disguise the fact that I had taken something from Sprague. On second thought, I realized an army lieutenant would make a good witness to Sprague having been in possession of the journal, so I held up the small black notebook I had lifted from Sprague’s suit pocket.
No man’s eyes ever went wider in recognition. “Give that back!” Sprague yelled.
“At your trial.”
I turned to the Army officer. “That’s the man. Congratulations. He may not look like it, but you’ve captured the most dangerous and wanted outlaw in Nevada. This will put Fort Churchill on the map and do your career considerable good.”
The officer positively beamed, and my transgression was quickly forgotten. I tucked the little notebook into my front pants pocket and walked out of the cell into a suddenly more beautiful world.
Chapter 37
After we left the cell, McAllen and the lieutenant went off to negotiate the prisoner transfer. Jeff Sharp and I wandered over to an empty corral and rested our buttocks against the middle rail. We chatted for a bit, and when no one seemed to take notice of us, I pulled the notebook out of my pocket.
It was only about two inches by three inches and very thin. The black leather cover looked expensive, like carefully tanned deerskin or perhaps calfskin. Sprague had tied the little book closed with a thin strip of black ribbon. Before I untied it, I decided that I wanted one of these for myself. When my journal wasn’t close, a small notebook that I could carry in my pocket would come in handy.
Sharp fidgeted as I toyed with the notebook, so I tugged on the ribbon and opened the book to the first page. Sharp may have been nervous about the contents of the book, but I had no doubts. I had seen the look on Sprague’s face when he first saw the notebook in my hand. That look was fear. Fear and chagrin—chagrin for making a mistake so huge that it might get him hanged.