Saratoga Read online

  The deputy nodded to the marshal, glanced in Bywater’s direction then went silently out of the office.

  ‘Arch is my deputy,’ Gaines said affably. ‘He’s also my son. His ma was a full-blood Shoshone; she died giving birth. Joe Ringling’s the town carpenter. He knocks up a fine coffin, runs a wagon pulled by a pair of high-stepping fillies that comes in handy for funerals. In case you don’t know, the man you plugged is Gus Allman. His pa’s the town mayor.’

  ‘You’ve calmed down. One minute I’ve got a pistol in my ribs, the next I’m your friend. Does that mean I’m under arrest?’

  ‘It means I’m letting you know exactly what’s going on, which is what I expect you to do for me.’

  ‘Well, sure. But a town mayor carries a lot of weight. This one’s your employer. You’ve sent that youngster running to him with the bad news, and I figure when he gets here you’d like to demonstrate that you’re on top of your job. His boy’s dead: you’ve got the killer behind bars.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘I shot him, yes.’

  ‘Self-defence?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. But you saw me bring him into town. Would a murderer do that?’

  Gaines pinched his nose, took a deep breath.

  ‘I’m in no position to tell you what a killer would or would not do,’ he said, ‘but right now murder is a touchy subject here in Saratoga.’

  ‘Yes,’ Bywater said, ‘so I’ve been told.’

  Gaines frowned. ‘By Gus Allman?’

  Bywater shook his head. ‘No. That feller limited his conversation to threats.’

  ‘Then who? I’ve not seen you here in town, and we’re too close knit a community to allow word of our troubles to spread.’

  ‘You know damn well the importance of this particular killing extended far beyond the town limits.’ Bywater shrugged. ‘What you may not know is that I came over the mountains today; left Denver three days ago.’

  For a long moment there was silence. Then Gaines pushed out his lips, nodded slowly.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said softly. ‘Now I wonder what mention of that town is supposed to tell me.’

  Bywater’s gaze was steady. ‘Denver’s known for the Pike’s Peak gold-rush.’

  ‘That was more than thirty years ago.’

  ‘It made a lot of men rich. Wealth gets spread around, but wise men make sure it doesn’t go away. And a man in his twenties thirty years ago would today be in his fifties. Still young enough to have ambitions. And able to afford them.’

  Silence settled over the room. Deep in thought, Gaines reached for the makings and began rolling a cigarette. Bywater watched him, refused the sack of tobacco when it was extended to him, then waited patiently while the marshal fired up his quirly and sat back in his chair.

  Both of them heard the background clatter of boots on the plankwalk, the murmur of voices, one of those voices suddenly raised in anger. That would be Homer Allman, Bywater supposed. Town mayor. Summoned to the jail by a kid in ragged trousers, then confronted by the shocking sight of his dead son belly-down over his own horse.

  The argument continued for a few minutes. Something thumped heavily against the door, and a voice thick with emotion yelled for Gaines. Another flurry, then the disturbance abated and moved away. Voices faded. A bridle jingled and there was the sound of a horse being led away from the hitch rail and across the street.

  Presently, Gaines sighed. Without looking up from a prolonged study of the glowing tip of his cigarette, he began to speak.

  ‘You ride into town with a dead man, walk in here and start talking in riddles. You stir up memories of the past, and in the same breath suggest a link with the present. It’s done deliberately, and whatever it is you’re hinting at must also be linked to Saratoga – or why else would you be here?’ He looked up, and his blue eyes were clear and untroubled. ‘I haven’t yet asked you your name, but don’t underestimate me: that’ll come, and you’ve told me nothing I don’t already know. What bothers me a little is how much more you know, and how you came by that information. But that’s of no great concern. Because I’m better than most at reading between the lines, we come back to your mention of Denver and all becomes clear—’

  ‘Before you say any more,’ Bywater cut in, ‘let’s you and me go look up a man by the name of Forrest Jackson.’

  Gaines grunted. ‘Now why the hell doesn’t that come as a surprise?’

  Chapter Three

  Bywater and Gaines left the jail, walked down the sun drenched street to the livery barn where Bywater unsaddled Doone, left instructions with a raw-boned man called Ellery Cole for the mare’s care with the ancient hostler and made sure the big black horse was comfortable in a clean stall.

  Forrest Jackson, Attorney at Law, worked out of an office situated on a wide street on the other side of town. The North Platte river flowed through the centre of Saratoga. To reach the western half of the town on the other side of the river, Bywater and Gaines walked down the slope and crossed a flat bridge built from solid timber baulks. Jackson’s premises were directly opposite those occupied by the carpenter and undertaker, Joe Ringling. Glancing down the street, and receiving an urgent signal from his deputy who was waiting outside Ringling’s, Marshal Tom Gaines prudently took Bywater up a back alley running parallel to the lower end of Main Street. They were taking that route, he explained, to avoid possible confrontation with the grief-stricken Homer Allman.

  Jackson let them in through the back door that opened directly onto the alley. He was short, straight, white-haired and dressed in a shiny black suit. Pince-nez spectacles were clamped to an impressive nose. He nodded to Gaines, glanced with a thoughtful half smile at Bywater and led the way through to his front-room office. Sunlight from the street slanted through the window. Motes drifted lazily. Brassware and fine glass glistened. There was the rich aroma of dusty leather book-bindings, of ink and warm sealing wax.

  From behind his desk, Jackson gazed benevolently on the other two men as they took seats opposite him in shadows cast by the sunlight.

  ‘I’ve been expecting this man for several days, Tom,’ the lawyer said, hands flat on the desk. ‘If the manner of his coming caused etiquette to be forgotten, let me tell you who he is. His name’s Temple Bywater’ – he flicked a glance at Bywater, who nodded – ‘and he’s an experienced investigator with the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, working out of their Denver office.’

  ‘That much I worked out,’ Gaines said. ‘And if the reasons for his being here somehow eluded me, he dropped enough hints to put me right. Again, no surprise. From the outset, I knew the killing of Andrew Stone would bring in the big boys. I expected the county sheriff, maybe a federal man – but the Pinkertons?’

  ‘When a man elected senator of a brand new state gets murdered,’ Bywater said, ‘a covert investigation seems like the best bet. The Pinkertons were brought in through Jackson here, but by order of a higher authority. Unfortunately, someone got wind of it. That bushwhacker, Gus Allman, knew a sight more than you do, Marshal. What he knew died with him, but the information he had came from someone.’

  ‘And you’re assuming that someone has to be the man behind Andrew Stone’s murder?’ Gaines said.

  ‘Right. A man Gus Allman must surely have been seen with. This is a small town, so both of you probably know who I’m talking about. But I’m a newcomer, and at a disadvantage. Speed is of the essence. I need background information, and then I need that man’s name and the names of other people I should talk to.’

  ‘You’ll get names, and some of them will be of men Gus Allman associated with,’ Forrest Jackson said, his voice suddenly businesslike. ‘Sadly, I don’t think those names will give you what you need to resolve this affair.’

  He reached behind him, grunting a little with effort, then glass clinked and liquid gurgled in the silence as he poured whiskey from a decanter into three crystal glasses.

  ‘You asked for background, so let’s deal with that first,’ Jac
kson said, nursing his glass. ‘Today’ – he glanced at his desk calendar – ‘is August the first, 1890. The United States constitution was signed three years ago, Washington’s been president for eighteen months and by next year we should have a Bill of Rights – making everyone happy. Wyoming’s been a state for three weeks. Frank Warren will become governor later this year. And we’ve got one senator.’

  ‘All states are allowed two,’ Bywater said, ‘regardless of population. Every senator serves for six years.’

  ‘Right. Wyoming’s first senator lives in Cheyenne – for the life of me I can’t recall his name. Andrew Stone had been elected and would have been the second, but two weeks ago he was shot in the back when out in his yard behind the house. There’s a solid timber outhouse. Stone was swinging an axe, splitting logs to add to the cord of wood he was setting aside for winter.’

  ‘And he’s your link to the past, which is of importance only because it explains Andrew Stone’s wealth,’ Tom Gaines chipped in, for Bywater’s benefit. ‘When prospectors found gold at Cherry Creek in 1858, Stone got caught up in the Pike’s Peak gold-rush. He was still there, accumulating a small fortune, when Archerson Territory became Colorado Territory in 1861 and Denver was incorporated as a city. But he was always restless, always looking for something to do with his money.’

  ‘He waited thirty years, then found it here,’ Forrest Jackson said. ‘He heard about the hot springs in these parts, and was one of the first whites to move in after smallpox drove away the Indians. He was in at the beginning, when Saratoga was established – that was around 1878 – and, ever since, he’s been making the place cosy for miners from the Sierras, visitors from as far away as England.’

  Bywater sipped his whiskey. ‘He married?’

  ‘Left a young widow. A young woman from a poor background.’

  ‘And now she’s rich.’

  ‘You betcha.’

  ‘And yes, that could be a motive for murder,’ Tom Gaines said, ‘though if Elizabeth was after his cash she would have needed help. But that’s nonsense; as far as I’m aware, she was devoted to her husband.’ He hesitated. ‘It’s also possible Stone made enemies in his gold-rush days and those men tracked him down and came a-hunting. But the passage of so much time makes that unlikely; my money’s on the man who came a close second to Stone in that election.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ Bywater said. ‘That would be Homer Allman, mayor of this town. The man whose son shot me out of the saddle with a Winchester rifle.’

  ‘Nice try, but wrong,’ Forrest Jackson said – then blinked. ‘Did he really do that?’

  Bywater nodded. ‘So if Allman wasn’t the man who had his ambitions thwarted, why the hell would he want me dead.’

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe someone else was paying his son.’

  ‘And that brings us to Nathan Wedge,’ Gaines said. ‘He’s the man who lost out in that election by a couple of hundred votes, demanded a recount, and was shocked to see his shortfall increase.’

  All three men sipped their drinks, lost in thought as silence settled over the room. Temple Bywater had listened with interest to everything that had been said, but had heard nothing that pointed to Andrew Stone’s killer. Nathan Wedge had such a strong motive, obvious to everyone, it virtually ruled him out; ordering Stone’s murder would be as good as slipping his own neck in the hangman’s noose. Homer Allman’s son had tried to kill Bywater, and might have been in the pay of Stone’s killer – but Gus Allman was dead. Stone might have been murdered so that the killer could get to his wealth through his pretty widow, but that was a long shot. As was an enemy from the past.

  Tom Gaines was watching him.

  ‘As town marshal I’ve got my own investigation going, but I’d appreciate any help you can give me,’ he said quietly. ‘Talking to us was a start, and I guess your next step will be to go wet your whistle in the saloon, listen to Ike Adams.’ He flashed a look at Jackson. ‘If anything’s been said in this town, you can bet your bottom dollar Ike’s heard it, and remembers – though much of what he says should be taken with a big pinch of salt.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Bywater said. ‘But talking to you two wasn’t a start, it was a waste of time: neither of you has given me the information I requested.’ He watched Jackson, saw the slight lowering of the head, the thoughtful narrowing of the eyes. ‘I want the name of that one eminent person Gus Allman must have associated with. You’re both residents of this town. You must know him, and know him well. And he’s a clever bastard. Somehow, that man found out what Charlie Eames was planning up in the Pinkerton’s Denver office, and he sent Allman out to intercept me. I can see only one reason for doing that: he has something to hide. That something can only be the murder of Andrew Stone.’

  Jackson flashed a glance at the marshal, and when Tom Gaines shrugged and looked at Bywater his manner were strangely guarded.

  ‘The obvious name,’ he said, ‘is Nathan Wedge, the beaten candidate.’

  ‘As runner up, does he automatically get elected in Stone’s place?’

  ‘The finer points of the political processes elude me, but I know he’s got the right man backing him.’

  ‘Bradley Wynne.’ Behind the desk, Jackson spread his hands. ‘Don’t worry about the name, or the man’s position. He has no relevance other than his immense wealth and influence and the fact that he’s solidly behind Nathan Wedge. Wedge is a married man, a respected member of the community. He’s manager of the bank here in Saratoga, and assists regularly in the Forte Steele bank. Been going there a couple of times a month for the past year. So, yes, I can’t see anything standing in the way of his getting elected in place of the deceased Andrew Stone.’

  Bywater nodded. ‘But there’s no second election?’

  ‘Oh no. The names of qualified and eminently suitable men are brought forward, and considered. There are deliberations. A decision will be reached. . . .’ Jackson shrugged.

  ‘Days, weeks?’

  ‘At any time. A matter of days, or less.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s all straightforward enough,’ Gaines said. ‘But what I was about to point out was that although Wedge is the obvious suspect, Gus Allman never got close to him.’

  ‘The two moved in different circles?’ Jackson said.

  ‘Right.’ Gaines nodded. ‘If Allman did gun down Andrew Stone at Wedge’s behest, they met in secret.’

  Jackson was pushing his lips forward, deep in thought.

  ‘Gus lived at home with his pa,’ he said slowly. ‘As town mayor, Homer Allman did have frequent meetings with Wedge. It’s possible the killing could have been arranged that way.’

  Gaines shook his head. ‘That would put Homer in up to his neck, and I just can’t see it.’

  Bywater lifted an eyebrow. ‘You don’t think he’s involved?’

  ‘He’s town mayor, a top job. That’s a lot to put on the line.’

  ‘But there would be a lot to gain if he helped a wealthy man into the US Senate.’ Bywater took a deep breath. ‘So, what about that name?’ He waited, got no reaction. ‘Christ,’ he said, ‘this is like pulling teeth from a man with his mouth tight shut.’

  That brought a grin from Tom Gaines. Then he shook his head.

  ‘Forrest warned you that naming names might not give you what you need. That’s because Gus Allman was an ex-con who left prison six months ago after a five-year-term for armed robbery. He went straight back to his old ways, mixing with gunslingers, hellions, local riff-raff. He did not mix, or talk to, men of standing in this town. If you want names, I can give you Hank Geary and Parker Laing. They were Allman’s close buddies – but they’re gunslingers. They don’t hire men to do their killing; they get hired: if the cash is right, they’d be more than happy to point the gun, pull the trigger.’

  ‘So, for a price, they could replace Gus Allman. Which means I’m still in danger.’

  ‘You were in danger as soon as you were pegged as a Pinkerton operative – you know that.’
/>
  ‘And that’s it? You can’t give me the man who hired Allman?’

  ‘That hiring must have done in secret. The only time I recall Gus Allman talking to a man of authority,’ Gaines said firmly, ‘was when he stood up in court and cursed the judge who sent him to jail.’

  Bywater had gone. Jackson had left his desk to draw the curtains. He and Tom Gaines were sitting in brooding silence, sipping whiskey.

  ‘You weren’t exactly straight with him,’ Gaines said at last.

  Jackson’s chuckle was dry.

  ‘I like that “not exactly”. I wasn’t straight with him, period. The man got nothing he didn’t already know, left here – I hope – without a flicker of suspicion.’

  ‘But he will find out.’

  ‘Bound to.’

  ‘So – what then?’

  ‘I agreed that he’d find out. The question is, when? – and the answer to that will give you the answer to your question: “what then?”.’

  Gaines nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘The later the better – right?’

  ‘I would say so.’

  ‘And to that end, delaying tactics will be used?’

  ‘You talk like a weasel, Tom,’ Jackson said, crystal sparkling in the gloom as he lifted the glass to his thin lips. ‘Bywater will be stopped.’

  ‘Yeah, I thought that’s what you’d say,’ the town marshal said gloomily.

  Chapter Four

  It was close to midday when Bywater left the lawman and the lawyer in Forrest Jackson’s office and made his way back across the river to the east side of town. He recalled passing the saloon as he rode in with Gus Allman’s dead body, and considered going there at once. But he also recalled eating breakfast early up in the hills, and was at once aware of a sound in his belly like the warning rumble of a distant stampede. He looked about him. There was a café alongside the town’s only hotel. The cow-bell hanging above the door clanked as he entered an atmosphere of smoke and grease and ordered beef-steak, eggs and coffee from a man in a grubby apron. Thirty minutes later, sitting back in his chair, he finished off the meal with a second cup of black java and a leisurely cigarette.