Town Tamers (22 page)

I
t was common knowledge that every Friday night Arthur Studevant attended the theater. Just as it was that the Gray Ghosts always went with him, and that he always had a new pretty lady on his arm.

Studevant had a mansion on the outskirts of Ordville, but he spent more time at the Studevant Hotel. His suite comprised the entire top floor.

On this particular Friday, three figures stood in the shadows of a recessed doorway and watched Studevant’s fancy carriage clatter off down the street.

“There he goes,” Noona said. “It’s too bad we can’t just shoot him and be done with it.”

“And wind up at the end of a rope?” Asa said. “No thank you, girl.” He moved out of the doorway, the Winchester at his side, hidden by the Macintosh.

Byron came last, saying, “We might be recognized without our masks.”

“You took off your straw hat and have a jacket on,” Asa said. “Keep your chin down and your head low until we get there.”

They crossed where the street was darkest and walked around to the rear of the hotel. The back door had a sign that read S
TAFF
O
NLY
.

The desk clerk was reading and didn’t hear them start up the stairs. They encountered no one until the fourth floor, when a man dressed for a night on the town hurried past without so much as a glance.

Two lamps lit the top floor hallway. Asa had Noona extinguish one while Byron blew out the other.

“Masks,” Asa said, and they donned them.

“Remember, gal,” Asa said to Noona. “Not a word out of you or they’ll know you’re not male.”

“I know what to do, Pa.”

Asa knocked, and when a balding gent in a starched black uniform answered, Asa pointed the shotgun at his face.

“One yell, and you’re dead.”

“My word,” the man blurted.

“You are?”

“The butler, sir. Jeems is my name.”

“Back up,” Asa said. “Arms high.”

Jeems dutifully obeyed. “You’ve only just missed Mr. Studevant. I’m afraid if you’re here to rob him, you won’t find much of value.”

“Liar,” Asa said. He pressed the muzzle against Jeems’s chest and forced him back until he bumped into a chair. “Sit.”

Jeems sat.

“You know what to do,” Asa said to the others. “I’ll keep our friend company.”

Byron and Noona each drew knives from hip sheaths and went into different rooms. Shortly, from out of the rooms came ripping and tearing sounds.

“What are you up to, if I might inquire?” Jeems asked.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Asa said.

“You’re those highwaymen I read about, aren’t you?” Jeems said. “The ones Mr. Studevant has taken a personal interest in.”

“Has he, now?”

“I should point out he’ll be incensed by this intrusion. I’ve been in his employ for fifteen years and know him well.”

“You might want to go to work for someone else.”

“I couldn’t do that. No one else would pay as handsomely.”

“Were you here the night he raped that girl?”

“I’m aware of her accusation, and he did no such thing,” Jeems said indignantly. “But no, I wasn’t. He’d given me the night off.”

“Wonder why,” Asa said.

“It’s a shame about the young lady,” Jeems continued. “Doing herself in like that.”

“She did what?”

“It was in the newspaper.” Jeems motioned at several on a polished mahogany stand. “That Miss Baker hanged herself. Tied a rope to a rafter in her house. Her poor mother found the body.”

Asa sidled to the stand. Covering the butler, he picked up the top
Gazette
. He didn’t have to look any farther than the first page.

“Did you know her?” Jeems asked.

Without thinking, Asa answered, “Met her once.”

He folded the newspaper and slid it into a pocket.

Byron emerged, laughing. “Done with this room,” he said. “It’s too bad we can’t burn the whole hotel to the ground.”

“A lot of other people stay here,” Asa said.

“We could go door to door and warn them to leave.”

“No.”

Byron gestured at the room he’d just vacated. “This doesn’t hardly seem enough.”

“There’ll be more,” Asa said. He had partly turned and wasn’t covering the butler.

“Might I interject a comment, sir?” Jeems asked.

“What is it?” Asa said. He’d just as soon the man be quiet.

“I’d very much like both of you to drop your guns,” Jeems said, “or else.”

The “or else” became apparent when Asa glanced over his shoulder and discovered a derringer trained on him.

A
sa wanted to kick himself. He’d been careless, and now look.

“I’d put that down were I you,” Byron said. “You’ll only get one of us before the other gets you.”

Jeems kept the derringer pointed on Asa. “But who is to die and who is to live? That’s the question.”

“You’re a butler, not a gun hand,” Byron said. “Why are you doing this?”

Asa slowly slid his right foot along the floor. If his son could keep Jeems talking, he might get close enough to club him with the shotgun. Better that than a shot, which would bring the management and others on the run.

Jeems surprised him by noticing. “Stand perfectly still, sir. I’m an able shot.”

“Why die for an animal like Studevant?” Byron asked.

Jeems didn’t answer. Instead he stood and said, “I’ll have to ask the two of you to place your rifles to the floor. Nice and easy, if you please.”

“Don’t do this,” Asa said.

“I’m afraid I have to,” Jeems said. “Mr. Studevant might fire me if I do nothing, and I do so like this job.”

Asa looked past the butler and gave the slightest of nods. He tried one more time. “We have no wish to harm you. It’s Mr. High-and-Mighty who has a reckoning coming.”

“Is that why you’re doing this? It’s part of some vendetta?”

“The derringer,” Asa said. “Hand it over.”

“Not in a million years.”

“Very well,” Asa said. “Do it.”

“Do what?” Jeems asked.

By then Noona was behind him. She’d crept out of the other room unnoticed and as silently as a Comanche slunk up. Now, without any warning, she raised her Spencer over Jeems’ head and brought it crashing down.

The butler stiffened and gasped as his eyelids fluttered. The derringer fell from fingers gone limp, and a moment later Jeems lay on the floor next to it.

“You did good,” Asa said.

“I felt sort of sorry doing it,” Noona said. “It’s not him we’re after.”

“He made his choice.” Asa helped himself to the derringer. “Now let’s finish up. Destroy everything you can without making much noise.”

Noona stepped to a painting of an aristocratic woman from perhaps a century ago. Drawing her knife, she slashed the canvas from top to bottom and side to side. “I’d sure like to see his face when he sees what we’ve done.”

“He’ll be fit to be tied,” Asa predicted.

They spent the next fifteen minutes cutting and ripping. More paintings, the furniture, even the huge four-poster bed that Arthur Studevant slept in. Byron took particular delight in slashing the canopy to ribbons.

In one room Asa found a writing desk and paper and ink. It gave him an idea. He sat down and called Byron over. Together they crafted a short letter that began with,
Dear Editor
.

A groan from Jeems prompted Asa to bind and gag him, and they were done.

They stepped to the door and admired their handiwork, with Noona saying, “He’ll take this like a bear takes being poked with a stick.”

“We want him to,” Asa said.

“The important thing now is that the rest of the town finds out,” Byron said.

“Let’s skedaddle,” Asa said. “Masks off.” He removed his and poked his head out. The hallway was empty. Holding the shotgun under his Macintosh, he hurried to the stairs.

On the third floor they encountered a couple going up, but the man and woman were arm in arm, fondling, and only had eyes for each other.

Once outside, they hugged the shadows. Half a dozen side streets and two alleys brought them to their next stop.

The
Ordville Gazette
operated out of a brick building that fronted on Main Street. The press was on the bottom floor, the offices above.

“Look at him,” Noona said when they peered in the wide window. “He sure is dedicated.”

Richard Fiske was setting type. He wore an apron and a visor and his fingers were stained with ink.

“Preparing tomorrow’s edition,” Byron guessed.

“Let’s give him something for the front page.” Asa had cut a slit in the note he’d written so that all he had to do was slide the paper over the knob and it would hang there. He knocked and quickly retreated around the corner.

They heard the door open and a voice call out, “Yes? Who’s out here?”

A few heartbeats more, and, “What’s this?”

Asa grinned, and he and his pride and joys melted into the night.

M
arshal Abel Pollard was summoned to the Studevant Hotel the next morning shortly before eight. He had barely settled into his desk with his usual cup of coffee. when one of the Gray Ghosts showed up and said that Arthur Studevant demanded to see him
now
. He took Agar along.

Pollard could never tell the Gray Ghosts apart and asked, “Are you Dray or Cray?”

“Cray.”

“In all the time you’ve been working for Mr. Studevant,” Marshal Pollard mentioned, “I never did hear where you two are from.”

All Cray said was, “Didn’t you?”

Pollard simmered. First the summons, now this. The Ghosts never showed him any respect. For that matter, they never showed anyone any respect except Arthur Studevant.

“I bet you’re from the South,” Deputy Agar said. “That accent you have.”

“Do we?”

“And those names of yours,” Agar said. “They’re Southern, ain’t they?”

“Are they?”

“You’d think it was a secret or something,” Agar said testily.

A lot of shops and stores had just opened or were about to. Boardwalks were being swept and a haberdashery owner was washing his front window. Newspapers were being hawked on street corners by boys no older than twelve, a little army of them that Richard Fiske hired at pennies a day.

“Did you hear that?” Deputy Agar said. “It’s a special edition.”

No, Pollard hadn’t. He was fuming about the Gray Ghosts and Studevant and hadn’t been paying attention to what the boys were bawling about. They always yelled exactly what Fiske told them to, no more, no less.

The boy on the next corner was hollering, “Special edition! Read all about it! Revenge for death of Laura Baker!”

Marshal Pollard stopped, fished out a coin, and bought one. He didn’t care that Cray gave him an impatient glance. Unfolding the paper, he couldn’t believe the headline:
Raid On Studevant Hotel! Suicide Claimed As Motive!

Deputy Agar was looking over his shoulder and said, “Oh, my. A raid?”

“That bastard Fiske likes to stir things up to sell his papers,” Pollard growled. “Sensationalize” was how Arthur Studevant once put it.

“He’ll stir up a lot with that,” Agar said.

A small crowd had gathered at the hotel and were staring up at the top floor. A hush fell over them as they parted for the Gray Ghost without them having to say or do a thing.

“They sure are scared of him,” Deputy Agar whispered.

“They should be.” By Pollard’s tally, the pair had killed seven men at Studevant’s bidding that he knew of. He suspected the total was a lot higher.

The hotel staff was bustling about like so many agitated bees.

Cray conducted the marshal and his deputy to the top floor where the other Gray Ghost stood guard outside the suite. Without comment, Dray opened the door for them and motioned for them to go in.

“Oh, hell,” Pollard said on setting eyes on the shambles. It looked like a madman had swept through the suite with a scythe.

Arthur Studevant was standing in front of a slashed painting, his hands clasped behind his back.

“I came right away,” Marshal Pollard said.

For maybe half a minute Studevant just stood there. Then he said, “I was out for the evening. I took a young lady to the theater and then we went to her place where I stayed the night. Normally I would have brought her here, but she didn’t want rumors to start.”

“It’s good you didn’t,” Deputy Agar said. “You might have run into the vandals who did this.”

“Vandals, my ass,” Studevant said. “Have you two seen the paper?”

“We have,” Marshal Pollard said, and wagged the one he’d bought.

“Read the letter to the editor out loud.”

“Beg pardon?”

“You heard me.”

Pollard unfolded the newspaper and cleared his throat. “‘Dear Editor,’” he began. “‘We are outraged citizens who say enough is enough. There is a serpent in your midst, and his name is Arthur Studevant. A young woman has hung herself because of him. She said that he raped her. Why was he not arrested for his foul deed? Why was he not put on trial? Her soul cries for vengeance. Who hears her besides us?’”

“That’s some letter,” Agar said.

“What do you make of it, Abel?” Studevant asked.

Pollard hated being put on the spot. “Suppose you tell me what to make of it.”

Studevant turned and took the paper and glared at it.

“The writer is educated. He uses ‘serpent’ instead of ‘snake’ or ‘sidewinder.’ He has a sense of drama. Notice his questions at the end to appeal to the emotions of his readers? And he’s not working alone.”

“The ‘us,’” Marshal Pollard said.

“Do you know what I think?” Studevant asked, and didn’t wait for an answer. “I think we’re seeing the handiwork of our so-called highwaymen.”

“That farmer bandit in overalls?”

“Who was always so polite and well-mannered, and didn’t talk like any farmer.”

“I never thought of that,” Deputy Agar said. “I wish I was as smart as you, Mr. Studevant.”

“I wish you were smarter than a stump,” Studevant said, “but no matter.” He crumpled the newspaper and gestured at the slashed painting. “Do you see that? It was by a French master. I paid five thousand dollars for it. The total for everything they’ve destroyed will be fifty thousand or more.”

Agar whistled.

“This is a deliberate campaign, Abel. Those sham stage robberies, and now this.”

“To stir up people against you?” Pollard said.

“I suspect there’s far more to it than that,” Studevant said. “The trouble they’ve gone to. The planning they must have done. No, I suspect that they are out to destroy us. And I very much want them dead before they achieve their goal.”

“I’d shoot them for you if I knew where to find them,” Pollard said.

“Do what you can. In the meantime, I’ll be using my own resources. I’m bringing in a specialist.”

“A what?” Agar said.

“His name is Cyrus Temple. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”

“Isn’t he the hombre folks call the Tracker?” Pollard recollected.

“He is. I’m paying him a great deal of money to track down the farmer-bandit and his companions so I can rip their hearts from their bodies.”