Murder for Greenhorns Read online

  Murder for Greenhorns

  Robert Kresge

  A Warbonnet Mystery

  Copyright 2010 by Robert Kresge

  ISBN 978-0-9843024-8-2

  All Rights Reserved

  Published by Warbonnet Productions,

  Albuquerque, New Mexico, USA

  The following persons named in the novel or featured as characters are real: Nate Boswell, first sheriff of Albany County, Wyoming Territory; Tom Dillon, stable owner, Laramie; Mrs. Crout of the Frontier Hotel, Laramie; Mrs. Ivinson, Laramie; Red Cloud, major chief of the Lakota (Sioux); Sam Clemens, author; and Anna (Katharine) Green, mother of the detective novel. All other persons are fictional and are not intended to represent real persons, living or dead.

  To my wife Julie, my “Kate”

  To our son Matt, who rode many a trail with me

  And to our daughter Amanda, who keeps mystery in our lives

  Prologue

  Almost dawn. Time to get ready. The man in the white duster stood up out of his blanket. He secured his bedroll behind his saddle, removed the big rifle from its scabbard, and unwrapped the oilcloth covering. He took the end caps from the telescopic sight and moved into his firing position.

  The man sat on a log and set the rifle in a Y-shaped rest he’d cut from a forked branch. The eastern sky behind him was brightening. Down the hill, across the creek, the dark campsite was coming to life.

  He could hear the stamp of hooves over there, iron horseshoes clinking on the smooth stones that carpeted this bend in Box Elder Creek. But no people stirred yet. The man took a strip of jerky from a pocket and pulled his canteen closer. Anything better would have to wait until the job was done.

  As he glanced back toward the camp, he saw the earliest riser. The older man came out of the scrubby little trees and buttoned up his britches. This pale twilight wasn’t good enough to draw a bead clearly. The older man disappeared in the direction of the horses, then brought back some firewood and got a small blaze going. He placed the coffee pot on the little fire and returned to the horses. Finally, the younger man came out of the trees to the right, yawning and stretching. Sooner or later, they’d all be in the open together.

  The younger man busied himself making breakfast. The smell of frying bacon and coffee wafted across the creek. The rifleman’s well-trained horse didn’t make a sound at the familiar smells. But he did dump another load of manure, too close to the firing position. The man in the duster rose and tied the reins ten paces away. When he came back to his place, the two men were sitting next to the campfire sipping coffee. He was tempted to shoot right then, but only a dim twilight reached down to the campsite. Where was the old lady?

  He’d learned in Laramie that the marshal was waiting for some old schoolteacher and would take this trail north. A freight hauler had mentioned this well-used campsite next to the wagon ruts. He’d kept ahead of the little party and arrived last evening just two hours before them. He’d snorted in surprise when he counted their horses. Instead of just the schoolmarm and the marshal, another man rode with them. Who was he? Was he a threat?

  At last, the first stab of sunlight filtered over the hill, through some willows and box elders, sending shafts of yellow through the campsite. There was the old lady. He’d seen her white hair last night by firelight. The light still wasn’t good enough to chance a shot, but it was good enough to take a look. The man in the duster picked up his rifle again, fished a cartridge from his shirt pocket, and loaded the weapon. He placed it gently in his makeshift rest and scanned the camp.

  As he did so, the little group broke up again. The marshal went toward the horses and the woman moved into the bushes to the right. That left the other man. The rifleman had mentally tagged him as younger, but couldn’t tell much else. This second man walked like a cowboy, slightly bowlegged, and carried himself with the limber grace of a man who’d spent some years in the saddle. By contrast, the other two limped around the campsite, showing either their years or the saddle pains of greenhorns. The younger man had his head tilted over his coffee, hat hiding his face. His clothes looked worn and he carried a pistol on his right hip, not low like a lawman or a gunslinger, but high and practical, like a cowboy.

  A form moved across the gunsight. The man in the duster looked up. It was only the woman returning to her seat. The disadvantage of the narrow view through the scope. Better set the rifle aside for now and use his own eyes until he could line up his shot.

  Finally, the marshal came back from whatever he was doing with the horses. He helped himself to more coffee and looked like he was settling down. Good. The rifleman returned the butt of the weapon to the hollow of this shoulder and looked into the sight again. Damn! The woman partially obscured his view of the marshal. When he raised his eyes from the scope, he saw the younger man pick up three canteens and move away into the willows. He transferred his attention to the pair by the fire, but the old marshal took his cup back toward the horses. The man in the duster swore and looked for the old lady.

  She stooped and took something from her valise, then moved off toward the creek. The marshal walked back, scooped up her saddle and blanket, and returned to where the horses were hobbled. The rifleman decided to keep the woman in view. He saw the edge of the creek where she was headed, by some low-hanging willows. He put the scope on her, then swore again.

  She pulled her hair into a pony tail. Shafts of sunlight spilling across her showed him her hair wasn’t white; it was golden. Not an old lady. Only a girl. The rifleman trained his sights on her face and torso. She unbuttoned her blouse as she came down to the creek. The girl laid it aside and, crossing her hands at her waist, pulled the camisole over her head, and set it beside her blouse. The man in the duster drew breath as she knelt by the stream. This wasn’t a girl. She was a woman. Her full breasts bounced gently as she pulled the camisole free.

  The rifleman watched her more intently now, holding his breath as she soaped a cloth to wash herself. He centered the scope between the young woman’s breasts, and licked his lips, wishing he could see her more closely. Who was she? How could someone so young and pretty be the expected schoolmarm? Whoever she was, she finished soaping and began to rinse herself. But instead of drying off with her towel, she let the sunlight dry her. Her mouth opened and closed rhythmically. Damn! She must be singing to herself. The words didn’t carry across the creek. If only he could hear her—

  The shooter caught himself with a start. He’d been so concentrating on the lovely woman that his finger had begun to tighten on the trigger. He relaxed and released the breath he’d been holding. Ahhh, but she looked fine from here. She must look even better up close. He’d better get his mind back to the job. Where were the two men? He had to have good light and all three riders in sight.

  The woman jumped as if she’d heard his thoughts. She ran a quick towel over herself and put on her camisole. She picked up her blouse and buttoned it as she moved away from the creek. A hissing cloud of steam meant the marshal had poured coffee grounds over the fire.

  There was good light over the campsite now. Time to get to work.

  Chapter One

  Friday, July 22nd, 1870

  Laramie, Wyoming

  Rails carried more than people and goods to the West. Trains blew like a strong wind through old ways of life for both white man and Indian. What arrived on a train could change a man’s life. Or end it. Same for a woman. That’s how Wyoming’s new equality played out.

  This afternoon’s train announced its coming miles before anyone in Laramie could hear it. The long plume of dingy gray smoke hung like dirty cotton in the still, warm air and grudgingly dissipated as the locomotive drew closer. The faint note of the whistle crawled into town just seconds bef
ore the rumble of the engine.

  “Old timers,” those who’d lived here for two years, had told Monday Malone they ceased to regard the train as a novelty and generally paid its arrival no mind. He couldn’t understand that attitude. He’d never lived near a town where trains passed. Trains he saw in Kansas cow towns carried freight in and cattle out. This would be a passenger train. Monday wondered what it would be like to ride on one, watching the world roll by outside your window. He’d heard some of them could go faster than a running horse. The train lurched up to the station, hissing and clanging to a halt.

  Folks on the platform didn’t seem curious, so Monday pretended to be uninterested, too. He propped his lean form against the station, one heel against the wall, and began to roll a cigarette, a trick he hadn’t quite mastered. Sort of like trying to scratch his ear with his elbow.

  Monday glanced up as passengers began to emerge. The black hat that shaded his sandy hair was nearly new, but his faded red shirt, worn leather vest, and patched black trousers had seen better days. The scraped and scarred boots peeking out below his cuffs knew better than to let themselves be seen in public. He pulled his tobacco pouch closed with his teeth and dropped it into a vest pocket. As he turned his attention to licking and sealing the paper, he looked up one last time, and froze.

  A slim young woman in a dark blue dress with shiny golden hair tucked into a bun stepped down, holding a small hat on her head with one hand. She didn’t look around as if she expected to be met. The conductor put her valise on the platform. She smiled and thanked him in a voice muted by the last hisses and clanks of the train. The conductor blushed and removed his hat. He gave her some directions and pointed off to his left, up the street that paralleled the tracks. She picked up her valise and crossed the platform.

  Monday stood stock-still and stared; she was the prettiest woman he’d seen this side of Texas. His tongue was still hanging out sealing the cigarette paper. He pulled it in like a frog. Bad idea. The half-finished cigarette and its load of tobacco came with it. He turned his head, spat twice, and brushed the worst of the mess off his tongue with the back of his hand. As he got rid of the botched cigarette, he looked up for the young woman. She was gone.

  She must’ve followed the conductor’s gesture and gone up the street to the left. He quick-stepped across the platform, dodging passengers and freight handlers. As he passed the end of the station, he was rewarded with a glimpse of blue skirt with a thin white hem vanishing up two steps to the stores on Front Street.

  Oh, Lordy, he couldn’t just follow that girl up the street. Maybe if he trailed her from the back of the buildings, watching her cross between each one. . . . Sure enough, there she went, down the steps from the first shop, across the alley, and up the steps to the next store.

  Monday followed this pattern past two more alleys, adjusting his pace so that nobody who saw him would think he was spying. The young woman paused at the street end of one alley and almost seemed to notice him, but two passing men tipped their hats and stared after her.

  At the next alley, Monday’s quarry stopped, looked over her shoulder, then turned and stepped back to the last store. He waited at his end of the alley, hoping she’d continue up the street. What would he do if she noticed him and spoke to him? He waited, putting one boot up on the edge of a water trough. Then he put his foot down and rocked back and forth from one foot to the other, glancing around to make sure no one could see him.

  All at once, the yellow-haired woman came down the steps with a parcel. Monday turned to cross the alley to keep up with her.

  Splash!

  The young woman stopped, squinted at the cloudless sky, glanced at the street, saw no puddles, and looked down the alley. It was empty except for a horse trough at the far end. She shrugged and moved up the street.

  Down at the other end of the alley, a nearly new black hat floated on the surface of the trough. It rose into the air as a head emerged beneath it, sputtering and dripping. Monday levered himself out and found his footing. Water poured from him. His boots squished when he walked, leaving muddy footprints.

  The next alley separated the last stores on this side from the livery stable. He looked up the alley. No sign of his quarry. He hung his head and moved to the back door of the stable.

  Bewhiskered Tom Dillon came out the back door with some worn tack.

  “Well, Mr. Monday Malone. What you been up to?”

  “I just saw the most—”

  “I can tell what you didn’t see. That horse trough you made tracks from. It’s a warm day, but I try to discourage swimming in order to keep some water for thirsty stock.”

  “Sorry. I’ll get a bucket and fill her back up for you. Could I get out of these wet clothes and dry ’em someplace?”

  “Sure, son. Just go in the barn and peel ’em off. I’ll be back in a minute and spread ’em over the corral rails. May not dry by sunset, though. You got a change of clothes?”

  “Only a spare shirt and union suit. Socks and a blanket.”

  He went into the barn, stripped and put on dry long underwear and yesterday’s socks, wringing out his wet clothes and handing them to Dillon.

  “Looks like they was due for a wash anyway, Malone. Might improve their appearance, if they don’t fall apart from that gentle soak.” Dillon chuckled as he took the clothes to the corral rails and spread them in the sun.

  Since Dillon was letting him bunk in this barn, Monday decided to bite his tongue. At that moment, three sharp knocks sounded on the front door of the barn. The big door creaked open slightly. A woman called out.

  “Mr. Dillon? Is anyone there?” Monday dove into the nearest stall. The door opened, and the young woman in blue stepped in. She stood framed in the doorway. Dust motes danced above her in the afternoon sunlight, haloing her hair.

  “I’m Tom Dillon, Miss,” he said, hurrying forward with a chair. “What can I do for you?” He dusted the chair with his hat. “Won’t you have a seat, Miss. . . ?”

  “Shaw. Katherine Shaw,” she said, taking the chair and offering her hand. “I just arrived from back East and will be traveling to Warbonnet to teach school. They told me in the dry goods store that Marshal Sam Taggart, who is to be my escort, boards his horse here.”

  “Yes, Ma’am. That’s his big bay mare over there. He’s been here nigh onto a week. Heard he’d been waiting to take some schoolmarm north, but I didn’t reckon she’d, uh, well, look like you. I mean. . . .” He trailed off. Monday peeked between the boards of his stall.

  “If you can tell me where to find him, I’d like to let him know I’ve arrived. And I want to hire a horse and saddle from you.”

  “Well, Ma’am, the marshal generally spends his afternoons with the county sheriff. He’s usually over to the Alhambra Saloon ’bout this time. Wouldn’t be right for a lady to brace him there. But he’s stopping at the Frontier Hotel. You could meet him when he takes his supper.”

  “That will be fine. I have a pattern for a split riding skirt and if I find someone with a sewing machine, I’ll be working on that this evening. I ought to purchase a more suitable hat for the trail. The dry goods clerk said I should get some leather gloves as well.”

  “Yes, Miss Shaw. Ivinson’s, over on Second Street and back a few doors, sells hats and gloves. Deerskin will protect your hands better’n anything else.”

  “Thank you,” she said, rising. “I’ll make those purchases and arrange for my trunk and crate of books down at the station. I’ll see the marshal at supper.” She glanced out the open back door where underwear, trousers, shirt, socks and vest hung from the corral rails. “Tell me, what sort of horse might I hire?”

  He took her over to the stall next to where Monday lay hidden. “This here’s a fine young saddle horse, Miss. Well-behaved and gentle. Not too wide in the girth, neither. I can let you have him for, say, ten dollars a week. I’ll include the saddle and tack for no charge.”

  “That seems fair. How would I return him to you?”

 
“Roy Butcher hauls freight and mail ’tween here and Warbonnet every two weeks. He could tie this horse behind his wagon and trot him back here. Joe Fitch would keep him in his stable in Warbonnet until you send him back. If you decide to keep him, him and his gear are worth fifty dollars. You could get the money back to me by Roy or a draft on the bank here.”

  “All right. Thank you again, Mr. Dillon. I don’t know when the marshal intends to leave, but if it’s tomorrow morning, could you have the horse and gear ready by then?”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he said, showing her to the front door. “If that’s what the marshal wants, ask him to send word, and I’ll have both your horses fed, watered, and saddled by sun-up.”

  She was scarcely out the door when Dillon turned at a rustling sound.

  “Dang, boy. You look just like a scarecrow, all that straw pokin’ outta your collar.”

  “You told that Miss Shaw. . . .” Monday broke off to consider the sound of her names. Katherine. Shaw. They both came off the tongue soft. “You told her Marshal Taggart would be in the Alhambra? I gotta get over there and see him.”

  “Well, son, if you got spare britches, better put ’em on. I wouldn’t set foot in the Alhambra with just them holey long handles on.”

  Monday stomped into his wet boots, clapped his hat on his head, and wrapped his blanket around him in a swirl of wildly dancing dust motes.

  “Sometimes you hafta go to the party with what you got on.” He went out the back and made his way behind more stores until he reached the Alhambra’s rear door.

  Except for the bartender, only two other men were in the place, talking at a table near the front. As Monday approached, they turned to size him up. One was in his thirties, with short brown hair and a long beard. He wore a frock coat with a star on the lapel. The other man was older, mostly gray hair, but a dark mustache. He wore a blue shirt and checkered vest. No star.