John Fitzgerald GB 06 Return of (7 page)

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and a loner and not the type of person who would rob a train.”

Tom shook his head. “Mr. Simpson sure as heck wouldn’t say a word like crutch before being shot,” he said.

“I don’t know about that,” Papa said. “A man facing death is liable to say anything. I remember when Hank Davis was hung in Silverlode after being convicted of murder. The last thing he ever said was. ‘trees.’ No doubt about it. The marshal and hangman heard him-say ‘trees’ just before the trap was sprung.”

Tom shut the notebook. “I give up,” he said.

Papa studied Tom for a moment. “I know there is something you aren’t telling me,” he said, “because you gave up too easily. I think I know what it is-Sheriff Baker will be back tomorrow or the next day. I suggest you leave the train robbery up to him and your Uncle Mark.”

And that for my money was like telling a kid who has just bought an ice cream cone to throw it away.

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TOM SURPRISED FRANKIE and me by going up to bed at the same time we did that night.

“How come you are going to bed an hour early?” I asked as we entered the bedroom.

“Yeah, how come?” Frankie said.

“My great brain has to figure out how it would be possible to recognize somebody who is masked,” Tom said.

“Uncle Mark said it could be a ring on a finger or the clothing the outlaw was wearing,” I said.

“I don’t think so,” Tom said. “Nobody would be dumb enough to wear a ring or clothing they knew would be recognized. I’m going to try an experiment.”

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The Great Brain got a bandanna handkerchief from his dresser drawer. He put it over his nose and tied it around in back of his head. Then he got a hat from the clothes closet and put it on.

“Now, you two take a good look at me,” he said. “How do you know it is me?”

“Who else could it be?” I asked.

“Yeah, who else?” Frankie said.

“If you didn’t know it was me,” Tom said, “how would you guess it is me?”

“From the clothing you arc wearing,” I said, showing him I wasn’t a dumbbell-

“Now imagine that I’m wearing clothing you’ve never seen,” Tom said. “How would you know it was me?”

I stared at him for a couple of minutes. “The only way I could guess it might be you would be from the freckles on your high cheekbones and forehead. But lots of kids have freckles.”

Tom removed the bandanna and hat. “This is a tough one,” he said, “but there has to be an answer.”

Frankie got between us. “I’d know it was you even if you covered up all your face.”

Tom dropped to his knees and put his hands on Frankie’s shoulders. “How would you know?”

“By the scar on your hand,” Frankie said.

Tom removed his left hand from Frankie’s shoulder and stared at it. He had given himself a nasty cut with a knife he was using to top beets from our garden before Frankie came to live with us. It had left a scar on the back of his hand about two inches long. He gave Frankie a little hug.

“Thanks, Frankie,” he said. “Now we are getting some-where.”

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The next day after school we went home and changed clothes. Eddie Huddle came over to play with Frankie. Tom and I sat on the back porch steps. I knew his great brain was working like sixty as he kept staring at the scar on his hand.

“Got it!” he said, jumping to his feet. “I’m going to the barber shop. Maybe Mr. Forester can give me a clue.”

“Can I come?” I asked.

“If you keep your mouth shut no matter what I say,” Tom answered.

Mr. Forester was alone in his barber shop when we got there. He was standing before the back mirror staring at his bald head. Papa sometimes joked about Mr. Forester because the barber bought every new hair tonic he saw advertised that was supposed to grow hair. But he still had just a fringe of hair around the edges and a big bald spot on top. For my money Papa had a lot of nerve, because our attic was filled with crazy inventions Papa had seen advertised and bought. And none of them worked.

Mr. Forester had never been friendly with Tom because The Great Brain had swindled his son Danny so many times. But he was very friendly now believing Tom had reformed.

“Hello, Tom and John,” he said. “I know you aren’t here for a haircut because I gave both of you a haircut just before school started. What can I do for you?”

“We came to ask you a question to settle a bet,” Tom

said.

Mr. Forester frowned. “I thought you gave up betting when you reformed,” he said.

Tom showed him the scar on his hand. “We aren’t betting money,” he said. “J.D, and I got to talking about peo-ple who have scars on their hands and faces. I bet him that

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you could name ten men in town who had scars because you are a barber.”

“I can name you several men who have scars on their races,” Mr. Forester said, “but not on their hands. I have to watch the scars on the faces of men I shave. Hal Benson has a scar on his right cheek, Fred Harvey on his chin, Matt Gillis just under his right eye. Jerry Stout on his cheek, Lem Carter a nasty scar on his throat, and Frank Collopy a scar on his nose. Reckon you lose the bet, Tom, because I can’t think of any more offhand.”

“How about people living on farms and ranches?” Tom asked.

“Let me see,” Mr. Forester said. “Peter Gunderson and Charlie Smedly have cheek scars. And Dave Ecord’s whole face is scarred. Got it from being kicked by a horse. Wonder it didn’t kill him. Gave a shave and a haircut to two more just yesterday, Grant and Hutchinson from the Flying W ranch. Couple of wild ones those two buckeroos. Herb Grant has a scar from a knife fight that split his lips, and Hutch has a scar over his right eyebrow and just above it. Got hit with a broken bottle in a saloon fight one night.” “Thank you very much,” Tom said. We ran all the way to the marshal’s office. Sheriff Baker had returned and was sitting at his desk. He was a very big man, taller and heavier and quite a bit older than Uncle Mark. He had the biggest gray walrus mustache of any man in town.

“Howdy, boys,” he said. “If you are looking for your uncle he will be back in a few minutes.”

“I guess Uncle Mark told you all about the train robbery and murder of Mr. Simpson,” Tom said as we sat down. “Yep,” Sheriff Baker said. “Figure your uncle is right

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about it not being Butch Cassidy and the Wild Bunch.”

We talked about the train robbery until Uncle Mark arrived a few minutes later. He said hello to Tom and me and then spoke to the sheriff.

“Checked the livery stable,” he said. “No horses were rented out the morning of the train robbery. Wouldn’t have done us much good anyway. The outlaws hid the horses be-hind some trees and bushes.”

“Didn’t the engineer and fireman get a look at the brands on the horses when the outlaws took them along?” Sheriff Baker asked.

“Couldn’t,” Uncle Mark said. “The outlaws blindfolded them and told them not to look back when they let them go.”

“Just another thing that indicates it must have been somebody around here who did the job,” Sheriff Baker said. “They were afraid somebody on the train from Adenville might recognize one or more of the horses.”

Tom stood up. “If I can help you find the outlaws will I get the reward?” he asked.

^eriff Baker leaned forward in his chair. “Your uncle has told me some fantastic stories about that great brain of yours,” he said. “You help us catch and convict these outlaws and you can have any reward money there might be.”

“First,” Tom said, “what can you tell me about a man named Hutchinson who works at the Flying W ranch?”

“He is the nephew of Fred Pearson who owns the ranch,” Sheriff Baker said. “His mother died when the boy was just a youngster and his father was killed in an accident soon after. Pearson took the boy in to raise and spoiled him rotten. Your uncle can tell you more about that than I can.”

Uncle Mark sat down at his desk. “Ever since he was old enough to enter a saloon,” he said, “Hutch has been nothing

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but trouble. He started a saloon fight every time he came to town and he began gambling and running up debts. His uncle paid for the damages and the fines and settled the gambling debts for about three years. Then about a month ago I guess Pearson got fed up. He notified the saloon keep-ers he wouldn’t be responsible for any more of his nephew’s gambling debts. And he told Judge Potter and me he would let his nephew rot in jail before he would pay any more fines.” Uncle Mark shook his head. “But I knew it wouldn’t last.”

“Why do you say that?” Tom asked.

“Because Hutch has been gambling and losing heavily at the Fairplay Saloon for the past two nights,” Uncle Mark answered.

“Just one more question,” Tom said, “and I think my great brain will have the train robbery solved. Mr. Simpson would know Hutchinson, wouldn’t he?”

“Of course,” Uncle Mark said. “Hutch has been coming into town with his uncle since he was about sixteen to tally cattle sold to Simpson.” Then Uncle Mark came out of his chair as if he had been sitting on a tack. “I know what you are leading up to but go on.”

“You called him Hutch,” Tom said. “And Mr. Forester called him Hutch. And there is nobody around here with a name that sounds like Butch except him. And Mr. Forester said Hutch had a scar over his left eyebrow. A scar like that could be seen above a bandanna mask. I think Mr. Simpson recognized Hutch by the scar, and what Mrs. Parker heard him say before he was shot was Hutch and not Butch. And Hutch, knowing he’d been recognized, had to kill Mr. Simpson. And if Mr. Pearson isn’t making his nephew’s gambling debts good, that must mean that the money Hutch is los-66

ing playing poker was stolen from Mr. Simpson.”

Uncle Mark turned to Sheriff Baker. “Tom could be right,” he said.

“It is a damn good theory,” Sheriff Baker said. “And while we are at it let’s get Calvin Whitlock to keep a record of all Kansas City bank notes deposited in his bank. If local people pulled this train robbery the money will start burn-ing a hole in their pockets, and they will start spending it. Simpson has always paid for cattle with Kansas City bank notes. About the only time they show up around here is when he is in town. And while we’re at it let’s send the Bruford Brothers a telegram asking them if they can furnish us with the serial numbers of the Kansas City bank notes Simpson was carrying.”

I guess I’d better explain about paper money back in those days. Each bank issued its own bank notes which were redeemable in gold at that particular bank. It wasn’t until 1913 when the Federal Reserve System was established that the Government of the United States started printing its own paper money and banks stopped issuing their own bank notes. Most of the bank notes in Adenville were on Utah banks.

I figured for sure Tom’s great brain had failed him when we entered the marshal’s office the next day after school. Both Uncle Mark and Sheriff Baker really looked down in the dumps.

“I was wrong?” Tom asked as if he’d just lost the ball game.

“No,” Uncle Mark replied- “You were dead right. We found out Fred Pearson hasn’t changed his mind about mak-ing good his nephew’s gambling debts. He thinks Hutch has got a lucky streak going for him at the Fairplay Saloon.”

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Tom got a puzzled look on his freckled face. “But doesn’t that mean the money Hutch is losing came from the train robbery?” he asked.

“No doubt about it,” Uncle Mark said. “Bob Daniels, the proprietor of the Fairplay Saloon, told us that Hutch has lost over two hundred dollars. He still had the money in his safe and it was all in Kansas City bank notes. We’ve got leads on the whole gang. Sam Ludell is sweet on a dance hall girl named Rose at the Fairplay Saloon. He bought her several expensive dresses at Pearl Addison’s Dress Shop and paid for them with Kansas City bank notes.”

Tom nodded. “No wonder he tried to put the blame on Cassidy and the Wild Bunch.”

“That ties Ludell in on it all right,” Uncle Mark said. “And Herb Grant bought a new saddle from Jerry Stout’s place paying for it with Kansas City bank notes. Curly Davis, a cowboy Pearson fired a couple of weeks .ago, has lost more than a hundred dollars playing poker at the Whitehorse Sa-loon, all of it in Kansas City bank notes. Earl Eggerson who runs the dice table at the Fairplay Saloon bought an expensive watch and gold chain at the jewelry store with Kansas City bank notes. The sheriff and I are convinced that Hutch, Grant, Davis, and Eggerson held up the train and that Lu-dell was in on it.”

Tom stared at the three empty cells. “Then why didn’t you arrest them?” he asked.

Sheriff Baker cleared his throat. “Because District Attorney Vickers told us that he can’t convict the men just because they are spending Kansas City bank notes,” he said.

No wonder Uncle Mark and Sheriff Baker looked so down in the dumps.

Tom was shaking his head. “But don’t they have to

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prove where they got the money?” he asked the sheriff.

“The law doesn’t work that way,” Sheriff Baker said. “To get a conviction we would have to have the serial numbers of the bank notes Simpson was carrying in his money belt. We got an answer to the telegram we sent to the Bruford Brothers. They don’t keep a record of the serial numbers themselves. But they did say it has been company policy for the cattle buyers themselves to keep a list of serial numbers since two o( them were robbed. But . - -” he didn’t finish the sentence, just shrugged helplessly.

“But what?” Tom asked.

“Your uncle removed all personal effects from the clothing Simpson was wearing before the body was shipped to Kansas City,” Sheriff Baker said. “He did not find any list. After receiving the telegram your uncle and I searched Simpson’s satchel and suitcase which we are holding for Mr. Perkins to take back to Kansas City. We didn’t find any list of serial numbers.”

“Then what happened to it?” Tom asked.

“My guess is that Simpson just forgot to make out a list of the serial numbers,” Sheriff Baker said.