The Shopkeeper Page 17

  “Is killing just a matter of being a good shot?” I asked.

  “You would know better than me. I hear you kill pretty quick and easy.” He smiled. “Does your conscience bother you?”

  I decided to take the conversation in a different direction “Tell me what you could hit.”

  Sprague made a show of looking around. “See that tree over there?” He smiled again. “Sorry, I can’t point, but I mean the one hanging out over the river at the bend. I could shoot that branch off and drop it into the water.”

  I took a look. “Could you now? You think I should try it?”

  “I’ll bet you ten dollars you could never make that shot. I’ll even give you three tries.”

  McAllen got up, and I gave him a nod to show I understood. He walked over to the water’s edge so he could see beyond the bend in the river: the same view Sprague had from his rock. Before McAllen could speak, I said, “People on the other side?”

  “Yep,” McAllen said, as he kicked Sprague just hard enough to knock him off his rock and into the mud. “Now, Mr. Sprague, that would have been a pretty mean trick.”

  Lying on the ground, Sprague grinned wickedly. “If he’d made the shot, there’d have been no problem.”

  I got up and walked over to the two men. “A hundred-grain cartridge would have passed right through that branch and slammed into something on the other side of the river. Kick him again, Captain.”

  McAllen instantly obliged me.

  Chapter 39

  After our break for the noonday meal, we rode hard to arrive at the Bolton ranch before nightfall. As before, Captain McAllen rode up to the ranch house to announce our arrival, only this time, the elder Mrs. Bolton immediately waved us in from the porch. I suddenly felt nervous. Telling the resident baroness that she had to leave her home would not be easy. The first order of business, however, was to secure Sprague in something approximating a jail.

  As we rode up, the nasty glare from Mrs. Bolton told me that the captain had explained about our prisoner. As I tied up at the hitch post, she commanded, “Follow me.”

  All of us surrounded Sprague, who was bound only at the hands, and followed her to the bunkhouse. She went around back and opened the door to a lean-to. Turning to her foreman, she demanded that he clear out what appeared to be a tack shed. In a few minutes, the space was empty, and another hand came over and threw an old mattress on the dirt floor.

  McAllen stepped into the darkness and thoroughly inspected the lean-to. He tested the walls and ceiling, closed the door behind him and threw his shoulder against it, and then kicked around in the dirt to make sure no implements remained that could be used as a weapon or for escape.

  Sprague said, “I want water and a decent meal.” He peeked inside. “And a chamber pot.”

  “We’ll water and feed your horse,” Mrs. Bolton answered.

  “I expect you to take care of my needs as well.”

  Mrs. Bolton bristled at Sprague’s haughty attitude. “My foreman will shoot anyone who brings you anything. For all I care, you can wallow in your own shit and piss.”

  Sprague whirled on her corpulent form. “You should know, Madam, that I’ve killed women before. You’d be wise to avoid earning my wrath.”

  “You damned piece of shit.” She stepped toward him with venom in her eyes. “You threaten me? I might just kill you myself … before daybreak.”

  McAllen wedged himself between the two. My first thought was that he was a brave man. McAllen untied Sprague’s hands and shoved him into the windowless shed. Before he closed the door, Mrs. Bolton screamed, “Sleep light. I may come any time to slit your fucking throat.”

  The foreman quickly stepped over and snapped a weathered padlock through a rusted metal latch, and then McAllen tested the sturdiness of the closure.

  “Don’t worry, that’ll keep the son of a bitch,” Mrs. Bolton assured him. Then she yelled, “Kill my son, will ya? Pray you see light again!”

  Captain McAllen stepped toward the foreman and held out his hand, palm up.

  Mrs. Bolton was the one to speak. “What the hell do you want?”

  “The key.”

  “That’s my shed,” she said.

  “That’s my prisoner,” McAllen responded. When she continued to resist, he added, “His well-being is my responsibility, and I intend to deliver him in good condition to the authorities in Carson City.” When she still just stared at him, he upped the ante. “And I want water and food brought immediately.”

  She stood arms akimbo. “No way in hell. You don’t rule this ranch.”

  McAllen tipped his hat. “Then I must beg your leave.” He turned to one of his men. “Bring the horses ’round.”

  I had seen this strategy before: do things the captain’s way or watch his backside. The engagement held my interest. Would she submit, as I had, or remain stubborn? I did not need to wait long.

  “No damn chamber pot.”

  “Agreed.” McAllen gave her this victory.

  She made a flippant gesture to her foreman, who reached into his pocket and handed over a key. I thought the confrontation over, when she said, “Hardtack and jerky only.”

  I was grateful to see McAllen ignore her taunt and give instructions to his men for guard duty. At the height of the argument, I had feared McAllen might leave, and I would be left alone with the shrew to reveal the contents of the Bolton will.

  With the quarrel settled, we left the shed to tend to our horses. As we walked away, Sharp whispered, “We’ll probably have to hogtie both of them for the return trip.” McAllen lifted two fingers to halt any more quips.

  After we had watered, fed, and groomed the horses, a ranch hand came over to tell us that we were all invited to the main house for supper. Now I could find out if the Bolton cook was the one to blame for this overweight family. I also felt relief that I didn’t need to face Mrs. Bolton right away.

  Before we washed up, McAllen and I inspected the wall behind where Bolton had been shot. There was a hole about waist high, and McAllen used his knife point to probe the wood until he extracted a bullet.

  He held it up with two fingers to show me. “Looks like a .44 … and in pretty good shape.”

  I held out my hand, and he dropped the bullet into my open palm. I turned it a couple times and said, “It’s a .44. Another small nail in his coffin.” I had another thought. “That comment about him killing women, could that be construed as a confession?”

  “Doubt it. His lawyer’ll say it was an idle boast made in response to cruel provocation.” McAllen thought. “Probably got a damn good lawyer too. What’d you think about his boast of owning judges and politicians?”

  “As you said, the man has had an unusually long career. He may have bought some, but my real fear is that he’s done dirty work for other prominent citizens. If so, then they sure wouldn’t want him testifying in open court.”

  “That’s my thinking,” McAllen said. “Sharp told me about the entries in that book. Think we can tie any political types to the client initials?”

  “I can’t—don’t know the people—but I’ll bet Bradshaw can.”

  “Did you check for his initials?”

  “Yep, first thing. He’s clear. At least in that sense.”

  “We’ll ask for his help, then.” McAllen paused and then said something that may have been hard for him. “Steve, that was good thinking to go after that ledger.”

  “The trick may be to lead people to believe there are names and not just initials in the book. Probably scare the hell out of some muckamucks.”

  “I’ll talk to Sharp. Don’t talk to anyone else about the ledger. Just the three of us.” After I nodded, McAllen held out his hand, and I dropped the bullet into his palm. He then said, “I’ll take the book as well.”

  “You have your prisoner; I have the book. I want to study it and make a copy. When we get to Carson City, I think the original should go to Jansen.”

  McAllen looked like he wanted to argue, but inst
ead he just dropped the bullet in his pocket and went to wash up for supper.

  Chapter 40

  When we entered the dining room, Mrs. Bolton was talking with her foreman. No Jenny. I noticed that the table was set for five, which meant that either Jenny or the foreman would not be joining us.

  “Gentlemen, I’ve set a fine whisky and glasses on the sideboard,” she said. “Please fix yourself a drink. Mr. Dancy and I have a little private business before we eat.” As the rest of the men went to the sideboard, she said pointedly, “Please join me in the parlor, Mr. Dancy.”

  Evidently, I was wrong. No last meal for the condemned. Perhaps I had underestimated her cussedness. Probably not. I took a deep breath as I followed her out of the room and into the parlor. Following her backside, I could not take my eyes off her bouncing buttocks.

  “Where’s Jenny?” I immediately asked, upon entering the parlor.

  “Finishing her packing. She’ll be ready to go at first light.” She held out her hand. “May I have the document?”

  “Yes, but I’m afraid I was too late.”

  The veneer of pleasantness disappeared. “What the hell do you mean?”

  “John’s attorney, Mr. Jansen, had already delivered John’s last will and testament over to a magistrate.”

  “You bastard! You lied to me.”

  “Mrs. Bolton, I told you about the risk in timing. News traveled fast. John was a prominent citizen.”

  “Prominent citizen? You ass. John was one of the most powerful men in Nevada. Soon, my son would have been the most powerful.”

  “Probably, but I’m afraid that now he’s dead.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the thick envelope. “And he left clear instructions that have already been filed with the court.” I extended the envelope toward her. “This is for you.”

  She just stood there, as if touching the document would make it real. I became convinced that she had had arguments with her son, and he had thrown his intentions in her face. I walked over to where she stood and held it out to her.

  “What does it say?” she asked, still refusing to accept the envelope.

  “Read it yourself.”

  She hesitated another moment and then ripped it out of my hand and tore it open with a vengeance. Large-denomination bills spilled out all over the floor. “Money?” She looked perplexed. “Is this some kinda fucking bribe?”

  “Read the will.”

  “And what the hell is this?” She stooped over and picked up a train ticket. After a glance, she collapsed into her easy chair. “San Francisco. My God!”

  She sat, stunned, for a moment and then screamed, “You bastard! You bastard! You stole my ranch.” She jumped to her feet. “Well, you won’t get away with it. I’ll fight you till my dying breath.” Shaking a finger in my face, she snarled. “No one—not you, not anyone—will take this ranch from me.”

  “Your son already did.”

  “We’ll see about that.” She raced to the fireplace, struck a match, and touched the flame to the unread will. While she twisted the document to keep the flame from burning her wrist, she started cackling so violently I feared she might be losing her mind. “That little whore took my son, but by God, she won’t get my home.”

  “That does no good,” I said, evenly. “There are at least two more copies … and don’t burn the money. I understand San Francisco is an expensive town.”

  “I’m not going to San Francisco.”

  “You won’t enjoy the bunkhouse.”

  She took a menacing step toward me. “That whore can’t run this ranch. Jenny’s just a child. She doesn’t have the balls to handle these men.” She waved toward the door and snarled, “They work for me. They’re my men, and I own ’em.”

  “Do you think you’ve earned their loyalty? That they’ll mutiny for you? Back you? I don’t think so. The hands work for who pays them.” I let that sink in a bit and then added, “Jenny has control of the bank accounts and title to all the property. You don’t have the money to pay them.”

  Her smirk looked wicked. She bent down and gathered up the bills on the floor and thrust the wad of currency in my face. “I have this.”

  “Yes, you could buy a small army with that but only for a short time. Jenny can outlast you … and my Pinkertons will protect her.”

  She sneered. “I notice you have one less than last trip.”

  I had tried to be a gentleman and absorb her abuse, but her venom had touched a sensitive spot. “Did it ever occur to you that your son didn’t run to Jenny, but away from you?” Her face told me I had pierced her shell and hurt her deeply. “You’re a reprehensible human being. John meant to hurt you. This is his vengeance from the grave, and he did a tight legal job of it.” I watched her face turn from rage to something that could almost draw pity. Almost.

  “You’re through here,” I said.

  She walked over to the window and turned her back on me. She stood at the window for many minutes, looking, I presume, at a view of her ranch that she had studied many times. As I watched, her shoulders slowly slumped, and when she turned back toward the room, she had completely wilted.

  “What’s to become of me?” she asked softly.

  “I’ll escort you to Carson City in the morning. That ticket will take you to San Francisco.”

  For the first time, she looked at the money, rifling it like a bank clerk. “This is only ten thousand. It’s not enough for the rest of my life.”

  “Ten thousand is a great deal of money … if you’re careful.” A thought struck me. “You may take only personal items, like jewelry. Your bags will be searched in the morning.”

  “You—” But the wind had gone out of her.

  “Call Jenny in.”

  She said no, but her voice sounded despondent, not belligerent.

  “Then I’ll traipse through the house until I find her myself.”

  We stood our ground and stared at each other for the longest time. Finally, she walked to the door and called the foreman into the parlor.

  “Joe, please ask Jenny to join us.”

  Chapter 41

  When Jenny walked into the parlor, she was dressed in a formfitting green dress with a high neck. The material had a slight sheen like silk, and the color accented her emerald eyes. Her hair was neatly tied in a bun, and she wore a single strand of pearls. Altogether, she looked more like a grown woman than at any other time.

  Her eyes held steady, but the sparkle seemed dimmed. Despite her standoffish manner, I found her just as enchanting as when she effervesced and squealed with merriment.

  “Mrs. Bolton, Mr. Dancy.” As she spoke, she nodded at both of us, but then she gave Mrs. Bolton a queer stare. I am sure she noticed that the haughty manner was gone and that Mrs. Bolton’s facial expression and posture radiated defeat.

  Defeat? I had to keep in mind that this tigress could revive in a heartbeat and revert to her natural instincts for cannibalism and thuggery.

  I turned to Jenny. “Mrs. Bolton has something to tell you.”

  I wanted to further humiliate the baroness by forcing her to tell Jenny about the will. The ferocity that returned to her eyes told me I had been right. To at least some degree, she had been playing possum, her mind calculating the grit of her enemies. Just as I had to fight Washburn with his weapons of choice, I had to utterly subdue the old witch or face her again after she refreshed her resolve.

  After giving me the evil eye, Mrs. Bolton smiled sweetly and said, “Jenny, my dear, it seems John has bequeathed the ranch to you.”

  “And?” I said.

  She whirled on me. “And what?”

  “And what else? Tell her.”

  It took all my willpower to withstand her glare without comment. She turned on Jenny and stepped toward her until her face was inches away.

  “You get it all. Everything. I get a few lousy dollars and a train ticket out of here.”

  Jenny looked stolid. “When does this occur?”

  “Now,” I answered. �
��In the morning, I’ll escort Mrs. Bolton to Carson City and put her on a train to San Francisco.”

  I pulled the thin envelope from my pocket and handed it to Jenny. “This is your copy of John’s will.”

  She used her fingernail to open the envelope and looked at it. Then she extended the document out to me and asked me to read it to her.

  Mrs. Bolton started to sit down in her easy chair, but I interrupted her. “I don’t think we’ll be needing you any longer, Mrs. Bolton, and I know you need time to pack your things. Your presence will not be required at dinner, so we won’t detain you any longer.”

  “I want to hear you read the will.”

  “Read your own copy.”

  “You know damn well—” She stopped, then tossed her head regally and curtsied. “Very well. I shall leave you two parasites to pick over my son’s carcass. Good night.”

  And with that, she lifted her chin, held up her skirt with both hands, and strode out of the parlor. I thought I had finally escaped her wrath, until I heard the door slam like a clap of thunder.

  After the echo had died away, I said, “Shall we sit?”

  Jenny glanced around uncertainly, walked over to the easy chair, and flared her skirt as she assumed the seat belonging to the lady of the house. “Please read me the will.”

  “Do you read?” I asked.

  “No.”

  With no further comment from her, I began to read. After I finished, Jenny sat silent for several minutes. Then with no comment to me, she went to the door and called for Joe, the foreman. Before he entered, she had resituated herself in the easy chair.

  Joe came in looking as apprehensive as any man I had ever seen. His eyes flitted between us, and he chose a standing position in the middle of the room.

  “Yes, ma’am?” He looked confused, but the slamming of the door and the sight of Jenny in Mrs. Bolton’s chair must have told him that there had been a sea change.

  Without preamble, Jenny said, “Joe, I am now the owner of the Bolton Ranch. Mr. Dancy, let Joe read the will.”