Holmes on the Range (34 page)

Once I was within sight of HQ, I reconnoitered from high ground. A glint of sun drew my eyes to the castle, and I saw Brackwell out by the western side of the house, alone. He appeared to be practicing his quick draw again, for he was wearing all his cowboy finery, including both his shiny six-guns. The remaining Hornet's Nesters were around the corner from him, loading up a buckboard parked near the front steps. In the wagon's bed was a slowly growing mountain of luggage.

Our guests were preparing to depart.

I spied the McPhersons' men in the corral doctoring cows but caught no sight of Uly or Spider themselves. I had a good idea where they were, though—somewhere nearby, waiting. If I was going to make it to the castle without getting bushwhacked, I'd need one hell of a diversion.

I was crouching in the brush trying to dream one up when it just came riding down the trail for me. Two men on horseback passed no more than a hundred feet from where I was hiding. As soon as I recognized them, I horsed myself and galloped after them.

Just as I got up behind them, two more riders appeared—Uly and Spider. They took up positions on either side of me, escorting me in toward the castle just as I was escorting the other two men: the Peacock and Jack Martin, deputy U.S. marshal.

I'd made it back too late. Brackwell had lost his bet.

And what's more, Old Red was about to lose his only chance to clear up all the mysteries around the Bar VR—and get us out of there alive.

Or, Justice Appears to Be Not Only Blind, but Deaf and Dumb, as Well

M
artin and the Peacock
didn't even notice they had a caravan until they brought their horses down to a trot and heard us riding on their tails. The Peacock turned back toward us first. As usual, he was dressed up fancy, wearing a red silk shirt and striped trousers and boots adorned with ornate stitching—though the gleam of all this finery was dulled under a layer of trail dust.

“Boss,” he said to Uly. Then his gaze slid over to me, his blue eyes going frigid cold despite the gloating grin on his face.

I could feel another stare on me, this one scorching hot, and I turned to face Spider. The look he was giving me said he'd soon finish what he'd started. The look I gave
him
invited him to try.

“McPherson!” Martin spat as he swiveled around and saw us. “You better tell me you got Hungry Bob Tracy hog-tied in that bunkhouse up ahead or I'm gonna be mighty pissed.”

“Ain't nothin' in there but smelly blankets and hungry lice,” Uly replied cheerfully.

Martin began swearing about his long ride to nowhere for nothing. As he ranted, I put the spurs to my brain, desperate for a way to slow things down until Old Red could arrive.

I got a little help from Brackwell, though he didn't mean to offer it. We were right up on the castle by then, and he and all the hands came out front to meet us. The sight of the young Englishman in his masquerade-ball getup was enough to bring Martin's cursing gurgling to a halt.

“This here's Mr. Brackwell. His old man's the baron of some such,” Uly offered by way of explanation.

“The Earl of Blackwater,” Brackwell said, straining for a dignity his clothing wouldn't quite allow him.

“You don't say,” Martin replied, looking skeptical, as if he suspected that anyone attired in such a fashion probably belonged in Hungry Bob's old cell.

Uly sent one of his men off to fetch Edwards and the Duke, then turned back to Brackwell.

“Looks like you're out two hundred pounds,” he said, not bothering to drip honey over his voice. Obviously, he'd decided Brackwell wasn't worth sucking up to anymore.

Brackwell took it quietly, like a fellow who's not unaccustomed to people making sport at his expense.

“I'm sorry,” I told him. “We tried.”

“What happened to you?” Brackwell asked, reminding me how rough I must look—I was caked in dirt, and a smear of crusted blood stretched across my forehead. “And where's your brother?”

I glanced at Spider and found him still staring at me. He gave me a wink, and I knew it was a dare.

Tell 'em
, he was saying.
Tell 'em
. . .
and then just try and prove it
.

“Trouble with my horse,” I said. “Gustav'll be along shortly.”

“Aha! So you're here at last!” the Duke called out from the castle's front steps. He looked equal parts pleased and worried, no doubt because
Martin's arrival signaled both a victorious conclusion to his bet with Brackwell and the possible appearance of yet another meddler—this one wearing a badge. Edwards tagged along behind the old man like a bespectacled bulldog on its master's heels.

Old Dickie was apparently more in keeping with Martin's idea of a nobleman than Young Brackwell, and the deputy marshal quickly hunched his back and removed his hat. Though he remained astride his horse, Martin somehow seemed to be looking
up
at the old man.

“Would you be the Duke, sir?”

His Grace nodded and favored Martin with a smirky smile, obviously relieved to have finally found someone in the West who could kowtow properly. Some range-country lawmen make an art of kissing royal ass, as the cattle barons can be picky indeed about when, where, how, and for whom law and order are maintained. Martin seemed to be of this lickspittle breed, and it soon became clear that the only thing he planned on investigating was how to affix his lips to the Duke's posterior.

“It's a real pleasure making your acquaintance,” Martin said. “I wouldn't have bothered comin' out here if not for you and your party. As you know, there's been some concern about an escaped lunatic. Based on what I've been told, I doubt the. . .uhhh. . .
problem
y'all have is tied up with our madman. But I thought it best to ride out and see for myself. It's not every day Montana is blessed with such distinguished guests, and I could hardly take any chances with your well-being, now could I? In fact, just to be on the safe side, I'd be happy to escort your group back to Miles City for the Stockgrowers' sit-down once we've cleared this all up. Folks are already arrivin' from far and wide, and you'll want to—”

“We won't be staying for the Stockgrowers Association meeting,” the Duke cut in, obviously irritated by Martin's windiness. Since the deputy marshal had so quickly revealed himself to be an utter toady, the old man clearly wouldn't have to bother offering him such sops as courtesy
or respect. “We will be returning to Chicago on the earliest available train.”

“Oh,” Martin said, looking confused. I couldn't blame him—I was thrown myself.

Each year, the biggest cattlemen in Montana send representatives to the Stockgrowers Association meeting in Miles. I'd assumed the Duke's arrival at the VR just days before the convention couldn't be a coincidence. But now he was going to hop a train back East without bothering to attend?

“So if you would examine the body. . .,” the Duke prompted, plainly anxious to hustle Martin in and out so he could move on to more important concerns—such as securing a promissory note from Brackwell.

“Of course. If someone would be so kind as to lead me to it.”

“I'll show you, Deputy,” Uly said, flashing Martin a smile the lawman didn't return.

Those of us on horseback dismounted, and soon the McPhersons were leading Martin toward the outhouse. The rest of us formed a small herd and followed quietly.

“Ain't you gonna say anything to Martin about what's been goin' on out here?” Swivel-Eye leaned in close to whisper.

“Let's see how things play out first,” I replied.

That satisfied Swivel-Eye—he gave me a grim nod and walked on in silence. But
I
wasn't satisfied. I had no idea what I would say should it befall me to speak up. The McPhersons were but one worm in a whole squirming can, and I'd been counting on Old Red to sort them all out. I stole a glance off to the south but saw no sign of anyone approaching.

These worries were chased from my mind by a pungent odor that singed my nose hairs as we approached the outhouse. The unsettling hum of tiny wings vibrated through the door.

“We didn't want to muss anything up before an experienced lawman
could arrive,” Uly explained genially as he pulled off his bandanna and pressed it up over his nose and mouth. “So we left him just as we found him.”

I followed Uly's lead with my neckerchief, as did the others. Naturally, Edwards and the Duke substituted silk hankies for bandannas.

“Alright then,” Martin said glumly as he stepped forward and wrapped his hand around the door handle.

Even with the inside latch broken off, the door still stuck a bit, and Martin had to do some tugging to get it free. When it flew open, two things emerged: a swarm of flies and a stench so fierce it ate straight through my bandanna and clamped its jaws around my lungs.

Most of us cursed and turned away, but Martin actually found the fortitude to step in to get a good look—though he wasn't happy about it.

“Good God almighty,” he spluttered, the words almost buried under the flies' deafening buzzing.

“So—what do you think, Deputy?” Uly asked from a safe distance away.

“Well, he's got himself a gunshot wound to the head, alright.”

I was beginning to get the feeling that Jack Martin wouldn't be taking Sherlock Holmes's place as the world's greatest living detective.

“So it would be suicide,” the Duke coughed from behind his hankie.

“It sure ain't how Hungry Bob's known to do things,” Martin replied. “He's more the stabbin' and hackin' kind.”

“Yes, yes. It's settled then,” the Duke persisted. “The man killed himself.”

Martin saw which way the wind—or at least the Duke—was blowing, and he bent himself in the appropriate direction.

“Ain't no other way to look at it, I reckon.” Martin stepped back and slammed the door shut. “Well, this surely was a damned waste of time.” He offered the Duke an apologetic smile. “Beggin' your pardon for sayin' so.”

“No, quite right, quite right,” the old man replied, already drifting
away from the outhouse. The rest of the crowd drifted with him, with one exception—me. “It was obvious from the very beginning. Still, certain parties had to be satisfied.”

“Now, look,” I said, knowing I had to hold my ground even if I had no idea what to hold it with. “There's good reason to think Boo was done in by foul play.”

The Duke snorted.

“ ‘Foul play'!” Edwards said, rolling his eyes. “The man sounds like a penny dreadful!”

Uly and Spider backed him up with a round of guffaws.

“I ain't in the mood for monkeyshines, Big Red,” Martin said.

“I'm serious, Jack.” I turned to Brackwell and the Hornet's Nesters, hoping they'd back me up. “You saw how my brother talked it through yesterday. Help me out here.”

But Brackwell appeared to have resigned himself to defeat—he wouldn't even meet my eyes. Swivel-Eye looked game but tongue-tied, Anytime merely looked pissed (as always), and Crazymouth wouldn't have been much help even if he had started talking, which he didn't.

“Why'd he kill himself with a hideout gun if he had a .45?” I asked, turning my appeal directly to Martin. “And how come he ain't got powder scorch on his hand? And . . . ummmm. . .he's wearin' spurs. . .and. . .well. . .”

Edwards said something to Martin I couldn't catch, and the deputy marshal responded with a hearty chuckle. Then the Duke turned and began walking away—and the rest of my audience followed him. The sight of it was so agitating that every other clue Old Red had unearthed suddenly flittered right out of my head. I let loose a loud “Hey!” but no one was listening any longer.

I abandoned the outhouse then, following everyone around to the front of the castle. It was either that or make a run for my horse and simply skedaddle—which is precisely what I would have done if it weren't for my brother. I owed it to him to stick around as long as I
could, even if every minute I remained was another minute the McPhersons could plot my demise.

Not being men to dillydally, they got right to it. As I rounded the corner of the big house, Spider turned to me with a grin and asked if I'd join him in the corral.

“I've got some branding that needs to be done,” he said, “and I can't do it without you.”

I juggled different responses in my mind, ignoring him being the wisest—and thus the least satisfying. For all I knew, Gustav was already dead, and this was my last chance to see justice done. So what the hell? I'd kept a rein on my anger the last few days. Maybe the time had come to let it run free.

“You and your bastard brother can go straight to hell,” I said.

Spider's grin grew wider.

“Do I have your permission to fire this man, Your Grace?” Uly asked. He was moving as he said it, taking slow steps that brought him closer to me while putting distance between himself and Spider. When I drew, I'd have to choose either him or his brother to go after.