CHAPTER TWO

 

The town of Spanish Wells sprawled below them as they rode out of the grey shadows of Sidewinder Pass. The settlement had been given its name by half a dozen Spanish Franciscan missionaries who’d travelled east from California several generations ago, trekked through canyon country, dug two wells and built a mission. They’d come to convert the Navajos and the Apaches but with limited success. Now the Spaniards had long gone, the adobe mission had become a Mormon tabernacle but their two deep, stonewalled wells still provided enough water for Main Street’s horse troughs. Mostly, though, the town’s water was now carted from the shallow river that spilled out of the mountains, flowed through Sundown Valley and twisted south into the canyon country.

Having emerged from the pass, Luke and Honani still rode ahead of the dust-caked Wells Fargo stagecoach as the trail crossed a crumbling mesa and began its slow decent. They headed past Pa Whittaker’s trading post, noting the whiskery old timer was still sitting out front smoking a pipe, just as he had been the day they headed east to join the Union army. Old Mr Whittaker raised the same thin arm he’d farewelled them with, greeting them with a casual wave as if they’d only been away for a day.

Leaving the trading post, the riders reached the stockyards, six of them stacked with prime beef cattle. A glance at the branded hides told him most if not all these fat beeves had come from Dallas Zimmer’s Triple Z ranch, the big spread that bordered on Sundown Valley. Luke had never taken to the Zimmer crew. He’d heard that Dallas Zimmer, who’d come from Tombstone City where he’d owned a gambling den in partnership with his brother Cain, had bullied the O’Meara family into selling their land to him well below the market value. As for Zimmer’s lazy, obese son, George, Luke had little regard for him either. From what he recalled, George Zimmer almost lived in the Lucky Deuce saloon and wasted most of his time there playing poker with tinhorn gamblers. His father might be a rancher, but folks used to remark that George had never punched a steer in all his twenty-nine years of life.

The dust-caked cavalcade reached town limits and started down Main Street. It was a quiet Friday afternoon. It must be music lesson time because Luke heard singing from the school and he imagined Sierra Cooper standing out the front of her class. She was an accomplished musician, playing the pedal organ for hymns every Sunday afternoon in the Spanish Wells Gospel Chapel. Luke could hardly wait to see her but he knew she’d be busy at school teaching, then tidying up after the children had left for home. He needed to give her almost an hour at least. He could wait a few extra minutes after four long, lonely years.

With the Navajo riding alongside him, Luke headed further down Main Street. They passed the town’s general store. According to the faded sign over his open doorway, Quaker Dale Fenwick still owned the business. Scrupulously honest, dour Fenwick and his dainty wife, who always wore a grey bonnet, were both well respected. Fenwick would probably be elected mayor one day. Next door to the general store was a clapboard building. Black curtains hung in the front window, the door was shut and a sign told all and sundry that Mister Uriah Kemp, the town undertaker, was open for business. After securing his horse to a hitching rail, Luke knocked on his door.

Kemp opened the door wide, recognizing Luke immediately. Hefty and built like a buffalo, Uriah Kemp was a former lumberman from the northern mountains who’d been enticed to become a mortician when the town undertaker, Clement D. McPherson, offered him a deal he couldn’t resist. ‘Go fetch some logs, build me a cabin and my undertaking business is yours.’ The result was that McPherson had retired out of town, taking with him a sprightly but elderly widow whose husband he’d recently buried. Their brand new log cabin was on Wild Wolf Ridge, an hour’s ride from Luke’s horse wrangling spread. Now Kemp was growing a healthy bank balance as the town’s sole undertaker.

‘If it ain’t Luke Dawson!’ Kemp bellowed his welcome. ‘Back from that dang crazy war!’

A lot of folks thought the Civil War had been futile and crazy: Americans killing their fellow Americans. Some men joined the Quakers in refusing to enlist. There were times when Luke had to admit they had a point.

‘Howdy, Uriah,’ Luke returned his greeting. ‘It’s good to be home.’

The mortician glanced up at Major Wallace and his wife huddled together on the driving seat of the stagecoach. He frowned. ‘Where’s Jones? He’s been driving this stage for ten years.’

‘Jones is inside the stagecoach, Uriah,’ Luke informed him. ‘There are others in there too. There’s the way station owner. According to his books, his name is Brett Behan. Then we’ve brought in an ornery outlaw skunk who, we believe, used to answer to the name of Clanton.’

‘Three cadavers for you to take care of, Mr Kemp,’ the major said soberly.

Uriah Kemp stomped to the stagecoach, wrenched open its right-side door and saw three blanket-clad bodies stacked between the seats. Their stench would make most folks recoil but Kemp was used to it.

‘We’ll help you carry them inside,’ Luke offered.

‘No, it’s my job to look after the deceased until earth covers their pine boxes and headstones are carved and planted,’ Uriah Kemp recited what he’d told countless folk who’d sought his professional services. He bent over and lifted the first body out. It was Jones, the usual stage driver. Shouldering the body, Kemp informed Luke, ‘I know Nat Jones has family. Two brothers, three sisters, and a father who’s still breathing. Live just south of town.’ He announced confidently, ‘They’ll pay me my usual fee.’ He carried the driver inside and returned for the other two. He paused by the parlour’s open door and scrutinised them. ‘As for Behan and Clanton, well, reckon the town committee will fix me up.’

When Undertaker Kemp had finished carrying the corpses into his funeral parlour, Luke remounted his bay horse.

‘I’ll start measuring them for coffins,’ the grim-faced mortician said, rubbing his long hands together.

‘We’ll be riding on now,’ Luke told him.

Uriah Kemp had his front door partly closed as he said, ‘Thanks for bringing them in.’ He added warmly, ‘And like I said, good to see you home.’

‘I’ll be really home later in the day,’ Luke said. He added, ‘Probably catch up with our mutual friend, Old Clem McPherson, tomorrow.’

‘I don’t think so, Luke,’ Kemp said quietly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ve been away at the war, so you wouldn’t have heard about Mr McPherson. Fact is he’s residing in the Spanish Wells cemetery. Third row back from the big pine. Been resting there next to his woman, Mrs Constance McPherson, for two and a half years. Helluva sad day when I buried them both the same hour, side by side. Constance first, then him, both in the best pine boxes I had. It was the least I could do.’ He recalled mournfully, ‘I remember it was teeming with rain too. Everyone got drenched, preacher included.’

‘What happened, Uriah?’ Luke asked tonelessly.

Kemp said nothing for a moment. Finally, he responded, ‘You might as well hear it from me. Mr McPherson and his dear wife Constance were murdered. Both found dead in their bed with bullet holes in their heads. The holes were plumb between their eyes.’

Luke felt a coldness grip him. Clem and Constance McPherson were both his neighbours on Wild Wolf Ridge. They were good, peaceable folks, the salt of the earth, whose triple-roomed cabin had been raised ten minutes ride from his. He remembered them as likeable folks who never caused any trouble, always willing to help out if needed.

‘Who killed them?’ Luke demanded.

Uriah Kemp shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘No one knows. Old Wishbone Clarkson came calling because he hadn’t seen or heard of them for a fortnight, and found them dead. Not a pretty sight, he told me. The sheriff and a couple of men from town rode out and poked around but the killer had left no clues. It was cold-blooded murder, sure enough.’ The undertaker muttered, ‘Some mean, ugly bastard’s got away with it.’

Brimming with anger but also feeling helpless to do anything after all this time, Luke asked, ‘Why would anyone want to kill Old Clem and his woman?’

The undertaker shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘The sheriff found no money in the cabin, Clem’s gold watch was missing and so was Mrs McPherson’s jewellery box, so he reckoned the motive must have been robbery. Everyone agreed with him at the time.’

‘Thanks for letting me know,’ Luke Dawson said. He picked up his reins. ‘So long, Uriah.’

‘Yes, so long,’ Kemp said, still lingering in the doorway.

The town undertaker could have told him more – lots more, in fact – but maybe it was best that Luke Dawson found out for himself. And that would surely happen soon enough, Uriah Kemp told himself. He closed the door now, then reached for his measuring tape and approached his corpses. There was work to be done.

Luke and Honani prodded their mounts into a steady walk as they rode ahead of the stagecoach and their two outlaw prisoners on their way further down Main Street. Half a dozen men lounging on a wooden bench by the town’s two wells and a couple of women leaving the Women’s Sewing and Quilting Circle meeting in the Mormon tabernacle stopped to watch as Luke Dawson drew level with them. The soldier had been away a long time. Onlookers noticed his face looked gaunt, there was a scar running across the top of his left cheek where a Rebel bullet had grazed him, and his hair needed a visit to the barber’s shop, but several men actually recognized him, and one of the women, who used to work in Fenwick’s general store, raised her arm to greet him. He was leaner, his face hardened by war, but he was Luke Dawson sure enough, the man they’d once hoped would wear the town’s badge. Luke had declined the Town Committee’s offer, however, and after he’d left for the war, they’d finally pinned their badge on someone else. One of the boardwalk loungers recalled Navajo Honani. The old timer’s pipe stuffed with tobacco fell from his cracked lips as he blinked at the lance corporal’s stripes clearly visible on his dust-smeared blue tunic.

‘Well, I’ll be damned! The Injun’s come up in the world. He’s a flamin’ officer!’

The two riders headed by the wells, passed the blacksmith’s forge and slowed their mounts by the long garish front of the Lucky Deuce saloon. The enticing smell of redeye whiskey came to them and they heard the tinkle of piano keys.

Luke was reminded it’d been a long time since he’d had a drink.

He rode by the Gospel Chapel where he’d imagined his wedding to Sierra would take place. The church was made of adobe brick, and it boasted a high belfry where a big brass bell pealed on Sundays to summon the faithful to evangelical worship, led by the Reverend Dane Tregonning.

They reached the sheriff’s office, built of red canyon stone and shaded by two ancient pinions. The law office had a single barred window and Luke saw black lace curtains edge slightly apart. Someone inside was watching. Luke dismounted by the notice board, which displayed half a dozen reward dodgers. He noticed that Bill Scurlock, who’d been robbing and killing before he’d left for the war, was still on the run from the law. The reward of five hundred dollars was double what it used to be. Waiting for the Navajo to join him, Luke knocked on the door. They were greeted by a long silence before hearing the thud of heavy boots on the floor followed by the sharp grate of an iron bolt.

The door whined open and the Spanish Wells lawman stood there, his brows knitted into a frown, blinking in disbelief.

Luke had expected to see slightly built Sheriff Seth Pringle peering at them over his black-rimmed spectacles, but instead this man wearing the tin star was big, bulky and much younger. Even though the sheriff was bearded, both Luke and Honani recognized him straight away as George Zimmer, the rancher’s son. Four years ago, George had boasted a young, freckled face and curly red hair. Now, however, his face was marred by two knife slashes, his nose was squashed and his hair hung like rat’s tails. He looked like he’d been in a fight.

‘Howdy, Dawson, so you survived the war,’ Sheriff Zimmer said, without an ounce of enthusiasm in his voice. He flicked ash from his fat cigar before finally adding, ‘Good to see you alive and well.’

‘We both survived, same as many others did,’ Luke said.

George Zimmer offered no greeting to Honani. Instead, he looked past the Indian to the battered stagecoach, his eyes narrowing as he saw the two prisoners. ‘Well, well! What have we here?’

‘They gave their names as West and Thompson,’ Luke said.

‘We were on our way here when we came upon them holding up the stagecoach,’ the Navajo explained. ‘They’d killed the stage driver and way station man and terrorised passengers. So we brought them in.’

Lawman Zimmer looked at the stripes on the Indian’s faded Union army uniform. ‘Hmmm! Lance Corporal, huh?’

‘He earned those stripes,’ Luke affirmed.

Ignoring Luke’s remark, Zimmer said, ‘Reckon I know you, Indian.’

‘We have met,’ Honani said tersely. ‘It was where my people live, the place white men call Sundown Valley.’

‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Sheriff George Zimmer said with a shrug of his heavy shoulders. He folded his arms over his massive chest as his fat lips cracked a grin. ‘If I remember, we had a slight disagreement at the time. It was . . . uh . . . over a woman.’

‘White Lily was already promised to a Navajo buck,’ Honani reminded him. ‘It was not possible for you to have her.’

‘I didn’t plan to marry her,’ the new lawman sneered derisively. ‘I just wanted some fun.’

‘And at the time my father sent me to say no,’ Honani recalled the subsequent confrontation. ‘You were not pleased but we didn’t fight. You just rode away.’

‘Didn’t figure a bloody squaw was worth fighting over,’ Zimmer dismissed the subject. He lumbered past Luke and Honani, then planted his big boots beside the front of the Wells Fargo stagecoach. Puffing on his cigar, he looked up at Major Wallace and his wife. ‘So, folks, what’s your part in this?’

It was Elizabeth who began telling the story, her voice choking and eyes brimming with tears when she came to the part where Clanton had tried to rape her.

Mercifully, Luke interrupted her account, telling the lawman, ‘Mrs Wallace shouldn’t have to tell her story right here on Main Street.’

‘Maybe you’re right,’ the lawman conceded. He ambled past the stage and appraised the two prisoners. ‘I’ll lock these turkeys up and you can all sign statements in the office.’

Ten minutes later West and Thompson were prodded into cells two and three that lined the western wall of the office. Cell one, in the corner behind the desk, was occupied by a white-haired oldster who was fast asleep and snoring like a pig, even at this late hour. ‘Drunk and disorderly,’ the sheriff explained. The lawman slumped into the chair behind his desk, shuffled through his top drawer and produced sheets of white paper.

‘I want a signed statement from all of you,’ Sheriff Zimmer told them. ‘Neat, truthful and accurate: that’s what Judge Grant Hammond will require. Then I’ll charge West and Thompson with robbery and murder and whatever else I can think of.’ He consulted his daybook. ‘The judge arrives this Friday, so I’m expecting a double hanging following the Sabbath.’

George Zimmer walked to the open fireplace as the four witnesses used the pens and inkwells he provided to each write an account of the murders of the stage driver and way station owner. Meanwhile, the sheriff lit a new cigar in the fireplace’s glowing coals and strutted over to cell one, which he unlocked.

Prodding the old timer with his boot, the lawman said, ‘I’ll let you off without charge this once, Monty, but next time you’ll get such a helluva big fine that you won’t be able to afford any more redeye for a month, which’d just about kill you. Savvy, Monty? Now git the hell out of here.’

Mumbling, old Monty stumbled past the four witnesses, wrenched open the door and staggered to a boardwalk bench.

The Navajo finished his statement first. He’d had two years of mission education but he wasn’t a man of letters. Zimmer, however, read what he’d written and nodded his approval. Elizabeth Wallace completed her statement next, followed by her husband and finally Luke. Zimmer accepted them all with a grave nod, puffed on his cigar and escorted the witnesses to the front door.

‘Some, maybe all of you, could be called as witnesses,’ Sheriff George Zimmer declared as they walked out on to the street.

The law office door closed behind them.

‘We’ll be headed for home now,’ Major Wallace said with his wife clinging to his right arm. He added sincerely, ‘Once again, we’re beholden to you both.’

‘Yes, we certainly are,’ Elizabeth agreed.

‘Probably see you in court,’ Luke said.

The two Union soldiers watched Wallace and Elizabeth walk towards their home in the narrow street across from Elva’s coffee house. It was the same street where Sierra lived. By now school should be over.

‘Just need to pay a visit before we ride to Sundown Valley,’ Luke said.

‘No need to explain, Private Dawson,’ Honani responded with a grin. ‘In the meantime, I’ll call into Quaker Fenwick’s general store. My supplies are mighty low, and besides, I want to take some food to my people. Sort of a homecoming present,’ he explained.

 

Five minutes later, Sheriff George Zimmer rose from his desk chair, parted the curtains and let his cold brown eyes rove Main Street. His visitors had all gone their several ways. Only the dusty stagecoach and its horses stood alone and unattended, waiting for the local Wells Fargo manager to come and collect. This could take another hour, as Zimmer knew the bald manager would right now be enjoying the ministrations of his favourite saloon girl, Avis, in her notorious ‘Blue Room’ in the Lucky Deuce saloon. Come to think of it, he could do with a visit there himself. It had been a whole week since he’d indulged himself.

Maybe later this evening, he decided.

‘Sheriff!’ Thompson summoned him.

West rattled the bars of cell two and bawled impatiently, ‘Yeah, don’t just stand there, George.’

Sheriff Zimmer gave them a cursory glance, pulled the curtains back and strolled to his desk, where he re-read the witnesses’ statements one by one. When he’d finished, he shrugged and screwed all the statements up into a single papery ball. Humming to himself, he walked across his office. Watched by West and Thompson, he tossed the ball into the hungry flames that were licking two glowing logs. Arms folded, the lawman of Spanish Wells stood waiting as the paper caught alight, flared and was consumed until all that was left of the written statements were black fragments amidst grey smoke.

He bent over and picked up a battered coffee pot being warmed in the coals. Humming, he poured coffee into three stained mugs. After gulping down a single mouthful of his coffee, Zimmer carried two steaming mugs to his prisoners. Hands wormed through the bars to grab their drinks.

‘You’ll soon be out of here,’ George Zimmer told them, using his shirtsleeve to polish his shiny silver badge. He appraised his two prisoners. ‘I’ll come back at midnight, unlock your cells and set you free.’

‘Hell! Do we have to wait that long?’ West snapped.

‘Yeah, can’t you do better than that, George?’ Thompson moaned.

Sheriff George Zimmer ignored their complaining. ‘I’ll have two hosses saddled and ready in the law office stable out back.’ He advised, ‘Ride slow and quiet and straight out of town.’

‘You don’t need to tell us that,’ Thompson said testily.

‘We’re not stupid,’ West agreed with his fellow outlaw.

‘One more thing,’ the sheriff said, ignoring their mutterings, ‘I’m taking a ride. Soon Deputy Drake’s due back from the barber’s shop and he’ll be in charge while I’m gone.’ He warned, ‘Don’t say a word out of place. Drake knows nothing – I repeat, nothing – and it needs to stay that way.’

‘Sure, George, we’ll keep our traps shut,’ West said.

‘Don’t worry! We’ll just sit nice and quiet, finish our coffee and have a nap,’ Thompson said, yawning.

‘See that you do,’ Sheriff George Zimmer concluded.

Deputy Kel Drake returned to the law office just as Sheriff Zimmer downed the rest of his coffee. The puritanical deputy was well into his fifties, lean but lithe. As well as being a lawman he was a Methodist circuit rider, his silver hair trimmed neatly, because he had a weekend’s preaching duties coming up and his wife had urged him to look his best. He was known as upright and righteous. Unlike his sheriff boss, he didn’t swear, play cards, drink whiskey or mess around with any Lucky Deuce saloon women.

Zimmer wasted no time informing him to keep a close watch on the prisoners until he returned about seven o’clock.

‘I sure will, Mr Zimmer,’ Drake assured him. ‘You can rely on me.’

‘I know that, Kel.’

Leaving Deputy Drake in charge, Zimmer saddled his grey gelding and rode swiftly out of town.

He headed straight for his father’s Triple Z ranch.