The Bride's Prerogative (10 page)

Bane gave a gasp almost simultaneous with the thud of wood on bone. The barn shook as the big man and the wagon tongue hit the floor together. Milzie scrambled over them. Her hand landed on the spongy expanse of Bane’s stomach, and she yanked it back. The man wasn’t moving.

She hesitated until he pulled in a long, shuddering breath. Relief swept over her. She hadn’t killed him. Clambering over his massive body, she saw a knife lying on the floor just beyond his limp hand. He would have stabbed her if that wagon tongue hadn’t hit him. She scooped up the knife and darted out the back door. The horses lifted their heads and stared at her. Milzie hobbled around the corner of the corral and flattened herself against the wall of the smithy, between it and the livery. She stood panting and listening for pursuit.

CHAPTER 11

C
yrus hustled outside as the stagecoach rolled down Main Street. The driver, Bill Stout, halted the team outside the office door in a flurry of dust. The shotgun messenger, Ned Harmon, jumped down and saluted Cyrus with a touch to his hat brim before opening the door of the coach.

Four passengers stirred inside. Good. Maybe the line would work its way out of the slump they’d had the last couple of years. More people were coming through Fergus this spring than usual.

“Mrs. Brice. Nice to see you back again.” Cyrus offered a hand to the woman exiting the coach. “Watch your step. I trust you had a good trip to Portland?”

“Good to be home, Mr. Fennel.”

“How is your daughter?”

“She’s well, thank you.” Mrs. Brice turned away to see to her luggage. By this time, two miners had climbed down. “Good day, gentlemen,” Cyrus said.

“Fennel,” one replied with a nod. They went toward the boot of the coach for their kits.

“Thank you for taking the stage.”

The last man out was a stranger. He eyed Cyrus as he straightened his jacket. “Is there an establishment in this town where I can get lunch?”

“We don’t have a restaurant as such, but there are a couple of places where you could get a sandwich,” Cyrus said. Again he thought of the abandoned boardinghouse. He wasn’t about to set up one of Morrell’s draggle-tails to run it, but maybe it was time to consider finding a couple or a respectable widow who could keep a few guest rooms open and serve lunch to the stagecoach passengers. To the customer at hand, he pointed down the street. “At the Spur & Saddle, they’re apt to have a pot of stew on the stove. Or at the other end of the street is the Nugget, where it’s strictly cold fare, and then only if you’re lucky.”

The man looked toward Bitsy’s, then toward Jamin’s.

“How long before the stage leaves?”

“Twenty minutes,” Cyrus said. Ned had unloaded all the disembarking passengers’ luggage. He signaled the driver, and Bill clucked to the team. He’d get the horses to the livery so Bane could swap them out. Then he and Ned would wolf down a biscuit or two with a beer at the Nugget and be ready to drive out again.

The passenger checked his pocket watch and marched toward the Spur & Saddle. Cyrus wasn’t sure he liked advertising the saloons. The men of the town had begun to polarize over Bert Thalen’s death. Those who drank at the Nugget on Saturday nights seemed to think Ethan Chapman wasn’t doing his job and should be replaced. Over at the Spur & Saddle, the men seemed more inclined to support Ethan and cooperate with him if he came up with a plan to catch the killer. Personally, Cyrus doubted the new sheriff had any desire to track down the murderer. But he seemed to be doing a fair job of keeping down the shooting and yelling at the Nugget.

Oscar Runnels approached along the boardwalk, carrying a leather satchel. “Am I too late for the stage?”

“Nope. They just went round to change the teams. You’ve got at least fifteen minutes. You buying a ticket?”

“That’s right. I’ve got to go to Silver City today.”

Cyrus went into his office and opened the drawer where he kept the ticket books. Oscar pulled out his wallet, and they made the exchange.

“Good day for traveling,” Cyrus noted.

Running footsteps thudded on the boardwalk outside. Ned Harmon caught the doorjamb and stood panting, blinking in at them.

“What is it, Ned?” Cyrus asked.

“Griffin Bane. He’s layin’ on the floor at the livery, out cold. We thought he was dead, but then he cussed, so he’s not. But someone chucked him on the head a good’un and maybe robbed him.”

“What’s that?” Runnels asked. “Someone’s hurt Bane?”

Ned nodded. “Bill’s with him. I misdoubt he’ll come to ‘fore Sunday.”

“What about the team?” Cyrus asked.

“Team ain’t ready. They’s still in the corral.”

“That’s not good.” Cyrus pushed his chair back and grabbed his hat. “We’ve got to keep the schedule.”

Oscar brought his fist down on Cyrus’s desk. “What are you frettin’ about the schedule for? Send that slacker to fetch the sheriff!”

Cyrus saw the good sense of that and barked at Ned as he strode for the door. “Go round to the jail and see if Sheriff Chapman’s there. If he’s not, check Hiram Dooley’s kitchen. Chapman’s over there at lunchtime some days.”

Ned bolted across the street. As Cyrus hurried toward the corner, he could hear Oscar panting along behind him. The stagecoach stood outside the livery, the tired team hanging their heads. Cyrus entered the big pole barn. Bill Stout was carrying a pail of water in through the back door.

“Where’s Bane?” Cyrus called.

“Yonder.” Bill didn’t stop walking, and Cyrus met him beside the prone figure of the blacksmith. Without another word, Bill tipped the bucket and poured a quart or so of cold water in Griffin’s face.

Griffin sat up spluttering and waving his arms. “Wha … wha—Hey!”

“You all right, Bane?” Cyrus asked.

The big man blinked up at him and rubbed his sleeve across his eyes. “My head.” He clutched it and moaned.

Bill tipped the bucket again. When the first splash hit Griffin’s head, he dodged to the side and swiped at Bill’s kneecap.

“Quit that! I’m awake.”

Cyrus extended a hand. Griffin grasped it and rose with a groan.

“What’s going on?”

Cyrus turned toward the door, where Oscar had paused. Ethan Chapman and Hiram Dooley pushed past Runnels and skidded to a stop beside the three at the back of the barn.

“What happened, Griff?” Ethan put his hand on Bane’s arm. “Are you hurt?”

“My head is killing me.” Griffin put his hand up to the top of his head and pulled it away, holding his fingers up in the light that streamed through the back door.

“You’re bleeding.” Bill set the bucket down.

“I was attacked. Someone was hiding back there near the grain barrels. He jumped out at me and whacked me on the head with something.” Griffin swayed on his feet.

“You’d best sit down,” Ethan said.

“He needs to get the team ready.” Cyrus cringed at the anger in Ethan’s eyes. “I suppose Bill and Ned can do that.” Ned had arrived behind the sheriff and Hiram and now stood panting between Cyrus and the timid Oscar Runnels, who edged closer to the group.

Hiram touched Ethan’s sleeve then jerked his head toward the corral behind the livery. He marched outside.

“Go with Hiram, boys. He’ll help you get the teams switched.” Ethan looked toward Cyrus. “Is Bill driving the next leg?”

“Yes. He and Ned are taking the coach as far as Silver City.”

Ethan nodded. “All right, Griffin, what say you sit down and tell me what happened? See if you can remember anything else.” He pulled a keg over, and Griffin plopped down on it.

“Too bad we ain’t got a doctor,” Oscar muttered.

“I couldn’t see him very good.” Griffin puckered up his face. “He musta been a big fella though. He hit me powerful hard.”

“Bane must have been out cold for half an hour or more,” Cyrus said to Ethan. “He hadn’t even started to get the replacement team ready for the coach.”

“I woulda.” A belligerent gleam flashed in Griffin’s eyes as he scowled at Cyrus. “If that robber hadn’t jumped me, I’da had ‘em ready and waitin’ when your boys got here.”

“Robber?” Ethan asked.

“Well, why else would he have attacked me?”

Ethan lifted his hat and scratched his head. “Maybe you’d best look around and see if anything’s been stolen.”

“That’s a good idea.” Griffin started to rise and sank back down on the keg. “Hoo, boy, I’m a little woozy.”

“How many horses did you have in the corral?” Ethan asked.

“Horses?” Griffin swiveled to look out the back door and groaned again, putting both hands to his head. “Uh … the team of four in the corral on the west side and five saddle horses on the east. And old Sal in the front stall yonder, in case someone came in wanting a mount right away.”

The men looked toward the stall nearest the front door of the livery, where they could see the back end of a chestnut horse. The mare stood placidly, swinging her tail now and then to brush off the flies.

Ethan walked to the rear door and perused the corrals. “Looks like all the horses are accounted for.”

He stepped aside as Hiram came in, leading a big sorrel gelding.

“Hitch him right there, Hi.” Griffin pointed to an eyebolt in the wall with a rope dangling from it.

“I’d best get back to the office and tell the passengers the stagecoach will be delayed a few minutes,” Cyrus said.

He and Oscar walked across the barn floor and out into the sunshine.

“Crazy thing,” Oscar said.

“Yes.”

“Makes me a little skittish, what with old Bert being killed in broad daylight a couple weeks ago.”

Cyrus stopped and eyed Oscar for a moment. Bert Thalen and Griffin Bane had both been whacked on the head. What if the women were right, and the killer was still in Fergus? “You go back and see if they find out anything’s missing. I’ll tell the other passengers the coach will be right along. But don’t you say anything on the ride. You hear me, Oscar? Folks will get unstrung if you spread rumors about killers attacking people all over Fergus.”

“I wouldn’t say anything like that.”

Cyrus nodded. “I think we’d best keep this quiet if we can. Go back and see if the sheriff’s found out anything.”

After Bill and Ned rumbled off with the stagecoach, complaining loudly that they’d had no lunch and taking Oscar along inside the coach, Ethan turned to his friends.

“Now, Griffin, think carefully. How tall was the man who hit you?”

Griffin winced and scratched his chin through his beard. “He was hiding till I got right up close. Then he jumped out. I don’t rightly know.”

“You think he was as tall as you?”

“Could be. I was facing the light from the doorway, and he was over there in the dark.” Griffin looked up at him suddenly. “He smelled.”

“Smelled how?” Ethan asked.

“Like a bear. Foul.”

Ethan considered that. Maybe a trapper had come down out of the hills and thought to find some easy money in town. “You said your knife was taken. Anything else?”

“I keep a little cash in a box over near the feed barrels.”

“What’s it look like?” Ethan asked.

“It’s a biscuit box. Green and gold.”

Hiram had stood by in silence, but now he scurried to the corner stall and returned a moment later with the biscuit tin. Griffin took it and raised the lid. He grunted, staring at the contents.

“Looks like your money’s there.” Ethan nodded at the wad of greenbacks in the tin.

“No, there were some coins in the bottom.” Griffin took out the small bundle of bills and frowned. “I had some change.”

“How much?”

The big man shrugged. “Four bits at least. Not more’n a dollar all told.”

“That’s not much.” Ethan scanned his face, wondering how seriously Griffin took the loss of a few coins.

“Why’d he take the change and not the dollar bills?” Hiram asked.

“Good question,” Ethan said. He hated to imply that Griffin’s memory was spotty, but it did seem odd. “You sure you didn’t take them out?”

Griffin nodded. “I just put them in there yesterday. And a horse-blanket pin.” He looked down into the box again.