The Shopkeeper Page 16

  “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.

  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.”

  “I’ll be eating my meals at the St. Charles Hotel before the first snowfall.”

  Captain McAllen did not respond; he merely wheeled his horse around and turned east along the Kit Carson Trail.

  “That’s the wrong direction,” Sprague said. When McAllen ignored him, he yelled, “Goddamn it, where are we going?”

  “This way,” McAllen simply said.

  “Damn you. Carson City’s behind us.”

  “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.”

  “Worked often with SW, have you?” I asked. I wasn’t above a little taunting of my own.

  “Nope, never liked Smith & Weston ri
fles. Heard they make a fine pistol, though.”

  “Your book lists Sean Washburn as your client.”

  Sprague turned in his saddle to give me a smug look. “I believe you’re mistaken. Better take another look.”

  “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.

  I was working the action, when Sprague said, “That’s the best rifle in the world.”

  “It’s a fine rifle,” I said, “but I’m not sure I’d rate it the best.”

  “The Paris Exposition did. They voted the Remington Creedmoor the finest rifle in the world.”

  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.