Stone of Vengeance (6 page)

Jeff selected the kind of café he always chose, homey, with friendly waitresses and plenty of strong black coffee.

An older woman hurried over to their table, saying respectfully, ‘What can I get for you two officers?’

Kate’s gaze lifted from the booth with its worn, red
upholstery
and caught the reflection of Jeff and her in the mirror behind the counter: representatives from Belle County sheriff’s department in uniform, doing their job. She liked the image, the way people looked at them when they walked into a room. She loved stops like this after a long, hard day, the endless cups of coffee and the companionship of people – she had to admit it – like Jeff, whose concerns were the same as hers.

For a moment she felt a sense of pride. Her parents had been wrong: she loved her job in a way that she never would have loved teaching or any other profession.

‘What will you have, Kate?’

She hadn’t heard Jeff order, yet she knew he had asked for a hamburger, well done, and fries. ‘The same.’

‘Jeff, why did you take up police work?’ she asked after the waitress had left. ‘You’ve never told me.’

‘My dad was a cop. I wanted to follow in his footsteps. He was and is my hero.’ Jeff cupped the rim of his coffee mug.

‘Bet you didn’t stop to think about the gruelling hours and the poor pay.’

Jeff gave one of his slow smiles. ‘That’s why my last girl broke up with me. Gave me an ultimatum: the job or me.’

‘And you took the job?’

‘Why not? She was costing me money; the job was paying me.’

‘It’s not fair for someone to ask you to choose between your work and them.’

‘Guess I’ll have to marry another cop.’ Jeff looked up, his eyes meeting hers, then glanced quickly away.

No, he wouldn’t be thinking about her. The two of them would never work out romantically. She could sum Jeff up in a few brief words: always stubborn, often annoying, never boring. But he could probably sum her up in the exact same way. In fact, if they weren’t both such obstinate donkeys, always pulling in the opposite direction, they would make a great team.

‘You’re smiling. What’s the joke?’

‘You wouldn’t want to know,’ she replied.

When they reached the outskirts of Rock Creek, Kate asked, ‘Has today made you change your mind about anything?’

‘No,’ Jeff stated. ‘I still don’t think Jennie had anything to do with Kingsley’s murder. Swen knew Kingsley was about to bring a suit against him for rustling cattle so either he or his hired man took him out. Swen’s motive was plain and simple: self-protection and revenge.’

‘It’s all too simple,’ Kate replied. ‘I just know we’re missing something. And Jennie might be a part of it.’

‘I think the car in front of her apartment places her in Casper.’

‘The car was there, but what about her? And who was the man she was seen with on Monday at six o’clock?’

‘Let’s just go ask her,’ Jeff said. Instead of turning toward the sheriff’s office, Jeff swung the patrol car onto the blacktop leading to the Kingsley ranch. The brilliant, glowing yard light made the house look more than ever like
some stately Southern mansion. Jennie met them at the door as if she had always owned the Rocking C.

She welcomed them warmly. Her ruffled blonde hair, the jeans and oversized sweatshirt, lettered Casper Rodeo, made her look years younger.

Although she appeared puzzled by their late evening appearance, she seemed more than willing to answer their questions.

‘I followed Ann’s advice,’ Jennie told them. ‘I stayed in Rock Creek until about eight the next morning, then when I still couldn’t reach Charles, I headed right out.’

Kate studied her as she spoke, trying to measure the effects of her words. ‘Ann said she saw you about six Monday evening and that some man was in the car with you.’

A somewhat perplexed frown cut between Jennie’s eyes, as if this turn of events had not been anticipated. ‘That would be my boss, John Talbart,’ she told them. ‘I remembered some unfinished business and thought I should discuss it with him before I left town.’

‘Trouble is,’ Jeff returned, ‘Mr Talbart claims he wasn’t in your car that evening.’

Jennie flashed a quick, disarming smile. ‘He would say that. John has a very jealous wife. He gives her no reason at all to doubt him, but he would never admit to seeing any woman after office hours. What does it matter anyway?’

‘We are trying to help you establish an alibi.’

‘Knowing where I was at six o’clock wouldn’t be much help,’ Jennie said, ‘not when my husband wasn’t killed until midnight. What do you really want to know?’

Kate didn’t hesitate. ‘Were you seeing someone besides Charles Kingsley?’

‘Definitely not.’

Jeff looked relieved. ‘We’re very sorry we bothered you so late,’ he said.

Jennie walked with them to the entrance, waving as they pulled away. Jennie remained motionless, framed in the
brilliant
glow of light, and for a moment Kate had the strange illusion that Sam Swen, Charles Kingsley’s arch-enemy, was standing in the doorway beside her.

S
aturday arrived, Kate’s day off. In fact, her turn had come to have the entire weekend free. Glad to be just plain Kate Jepp again, she slipped into jeans and a comfortable pullover sweater. Despite the fact that she was on her own time, she couldn’t drive the Kingsley case from her mind or that curious invitation to Tom Horn’s hanging on the wall behind the dead man’s desk. It kept arising, as if intricately connected to the crime, despite the fact that, ironically, it had not been stolen.

The image of that handwritten letter, signed by the sheriff of Laramie County in 1903, prompted Kate to stop at the local museum to find out all she could about this relic from Wyoming’s bloody past.

Even though the museum’s curator, Jake Pierson, didn’t recognize her, Kate had noticed him at the funeral, offering kind consolation to Mary Ellen. He strode forward, his greeting friendly: ‘Welcome to the Belle County Museum.’

Once more, his longish tied-back hair and the fringed buckskin jacket he wore put her in mind of Bill Cody.

‘I’m interested,’ she said, ‘in the history of Tom Horn.’

‘That makes us two of a kind, then,’ he replied. The affable smile that remained on his lips suggested a person of vast interests, one who would have no trouble identifying with people, past or present.

Kate followed him towards a huge portrait of a man who looked bold and swaggering – larger than life – even on canvas. Pierson stared up at the painting, empathy reflecting in his pale, intelligent eyes.

‘Tom Horn started out as an army scout,’ he said. ‘Brave too, rode alone into an Indian camp and negotiated Geronimo’s surrender. After that, he spent time as a Pinkerton detective, chasing bank and train robbers.’ The curator’s alert eyes shifted to Kate. ‘Unfortunately, he worked both inside and outside the law. His name should “live in infamy” as President Roosevelt would have said, as a fierce gunman and hired killer.’

Kate studied Tom Horn’s handsome face; he didn’t look like any cold-blooded murderer. ‘Men like him are hard to figure out, aren’t they? Maybe that’s why today we’re still fascinated by his story.’

‘He’s a legend, all right,’ the curator agreed with great respect, ‘a symbol of the Old West, its code of honor and its cruel justice. Even today some find him admirable, his deeds justified.’

Tom Horn’s strong air of mystery, the square set of his shoulders, and the tilt of his head made Kate think of men like Sam Swen and Ty Garrison. Independence,
individuality
, fearlessness: heroes and those who lived outside the law often possessed the same qualities.

‘I’ve always been drawn to outlaws,’ Jake Pierson mused, his gaze returning to the painting.

‘Me too, but not from a historical perspective.’

He turned toward her, looking at her closely. As he did, recognition glinted in his eyes. ‘I knew you looked familiar. I saw you at Kingsley’s funeral, didn’t I? Just failed to recognize you out of uniform. When you came in, I took you to be a student looking for information for a paper.’

‘I do need information.’

‘About Tom Horn?’ Pale eyes became impish as he quipped, ‘Is he a suspect?’

‘In a way. What else can you tell me about him?’

Jake Pierson hesitated a moment and she sensed his
attitude
toward her had undergone a subtle change. ‘Sam Swen’s the local expert on Tom Horn, not me.’

Taken by surprise at his remark, she didn’t pursue it, only said. ‘You’re doing fine.’

‘I’ve written several articles about the man myself, ‘Pierson went on, a bit reluctantly now. ‘Around 1892 Horn began working for the Wyoming Cattle Grower’s Association. He had been hired as a horse breeder, but his real job was to track down rustlers. One day, Horn lay in wait for a man named Kels P. Nickell, a rival rancher who had been targeted for death.’ Pierson’s voice lowered slightly. ‘By mistake, he ended up shooting Nickell’s fourteen-year-old son. The boy was tall for his age and had taken out his father’s wagon.’

‘A tragic error.’

‘That’s why Tom Horn was hanged. But many people today still swear by him.’

‘Not very brave hiding in the bushes and taking pot-shots at unarmed men,’ Kate remarked.

‘Depends which side you’re on. Horn classified cattle rustlers with wolves and coyotes and considered himself a benefactor for stamping them out. To people like Sam Swen, that makes him a genuine hero.’

‘Why did he place under the heads of his victims that … stone of vengeance?’

‘I see you’ve been talking to Swen,’ Jake Pierson replied with a laugh. ‘Swen’s the one who coined that phrase, you know. He’s the man who began calling Tom Horn’s
trademark
the “Stone of Vengeance”.’

Kate had without thinking used the same term herself. In the stillness she recalled how Swen had told her that Tom Horn was only doing the law’s job, and the memory caused a chill to go through her.

‘Something wrong?’ Pierson asked.

‘No. I was just wondering how they caught him.’

Pierson gave another of his short laughs. ‘They wouldn’t have, if Horn hadn’t got drunk one night and started boasting. When they put him in jail he broke out, but he didn’t get far on foot. Innocent or guilty, he spent his last days writing his memoirs and weaving the rope they used to hang him.’

‘In Charles Kingsley’s study there’s an invitation to Tom Horn’s hanging.’

Jake paused in a moment of sadness. ‘Too bad about Charles. I hope they find the person who shot him.’

‘We’re trying.’

‘Charles Kingsley and Swen were sworn enemies, did you
know that?’ he asked. ‘I only met Charles once, but he seemed like a really nice fellow. Of course, I’m more acquainted with Mary Ellen. She volunteers here, you know.’ In a kindly manner he said, ‘Poor Mary Ellen. She seems so lost and lonely sometimes. Working here does her the world of good.’

‘Have you been in Rock Creek long, Mr Pierson?’

‘No. I just came to town about five months ago. I was a friend of the recent curator’s so when he retired, I took over his job.’

‘I suppose you’ve seen Mr Kingsley’s Western artifacts?’

‘Mary Ellen insisted on showing them to me once. Quite a collection.’

‘I’m thinking that the killer might have broken into the Kingsley ranch intending to steal these items. A robbery in progress, that Kingsley interrupted. Do you have any idea what that invitation to Tom Horn’s hanging would be worth?’

The curator hesitated. ‘That little bit of paper is probably the most valuable item in Charles’ collection.’

‘How much money are we talking about?’

‘That depends,’ Jake Pierson replied. ‘I’d say under certain circumstances, it could bring between fifty to eighty
thousand
.’

Kate drew in her breath. ‘That much?’

‘Only a handful of those invitations still exist and,’ he added after another dry little chuckle, ‘of course, there won’t be any more.’

‘I wouldn’t think everyone would want an invitation to a hanging decorating their parlour wall.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ Jake Pierson returned. ‘Letters and
documents from well-known people are highly desirable. Any serious collector of Western memorabilia would love to get their hands on that little section of history. Why, I’d like to own it myself.’

Jake Pierson didn’t need to have added that – the fact shone clearly in his eyes.

‘For the museum collection, of course,’ he added quickly, as if reading her thoughts. ‘I asked Mrs Kingsley if she’d consider selling or even donating some items to the museum, but she turned me down flat. Can’t really blame her.’

‘So you know Jennie Irwin? Jennie Kingsley now,’ Kate corrected.

‘I met her at the funeral and once after it to talk about purchasing the collection.’

He hadn’t wasted much time, Kate thought.

‘But, back to what you were saying, I don’t think anyone would break in to steal that invitation. Even though it is a great prize, no buyer would touch it. It would lead a trail right to his door.’

Kate must not have looked convinced.

‘Because of the Kingsley name on it,’ Pierson went on, ‘a thief wouldn’t dare try to sell it.’

‘Not unless he had a ready buyer,’ Kate said, ‘one willing to look the other way, to purchase on a “don’t ask, don’t tell” basis.’ Her thoughts turned to Sam Swen and his interest in Tom Horn. What would he pay to get his hands on an item related to a historical figure he admired, one that belonged to his arch-enemy, Charles Kingsley? ‘Or, maybe whoever broke in didn’t intend to sell it.’

‘Could be. We’ll probably never know.’

Kate began to walk towards the door, and Jake Pierson followed. Halfway across the room a cattle painting caught her eye. ‘Beautiful Herefords,’ she observed.

Jake Pierson laughed. ‘Don’t say that too loudly around here.’

‘Why not?’

‘There’s quite a story behind that painting. The original by Dutch painter Paul Potter once hung on the walls of the exclusive Cheyenne Club. You’ve probably heard of that place.’

‘Yes.’

Jake Pierson’s love of history animated his words as he said, ‘Members of the powerful Wyoming Stock Grower’s Association used to gather there for a taste of culture and companionship. The painting became notorious around 1895 when a wealthy rancher by the name of John Coble, Tom Horn’s boss, was suspended from the club for shooting holes in the leg of one of the painted bulls.’

‘Why did he do that?’

The smile remained on the curator’s face. ‘He admitted he had been drinking. But he had few regrets about the shooting. You see, Coble was a bit of a cattle snob. In his own words, the painting was “a travesty on purebred stock”.’

‘How can you tell the difference?’

‘To an untrained eye, it might be difficult.’

Kate was beginning to like his laugh, quick and
appreciative
.

‘But the critters in this picture are not from the pure
Hereford line that originated in Herefordshire, England. A cattleman can spot them on sight, just as a dog breeder can tell an Irish setter from a mutt. Purebreds have white faces and reddish-brown bodies. The poor creatures in this painting are as spotted as Dalmatians. They’ve obviously been crossed with another breed, which makes them the mutts of the cattle world, cattle that ranchers like Coble would never condescend to raise.’ He paused significantly. ‘There’s big money in the purebred Herefords.’

‘You seem to know as much about ranching as you do about history.’

‘I grew up on a ranch. In Montana.’

That explained the rough, work-hardened hands with their big, bony knuckles.

‘That kind of snobbery exists today the same way it did years ago. Except now there’s fewer and fewer small ranchers. In Montana big ruthless cattle barons have already gobbled up most of them.’ Grimness crept into his voice. ‘My daddy went broke and moved to Helena, but he never recovered.’ Pierson stood for a moment looking at the picture. ‘From what I hear, things haven’t changed much around here either. People like Swen and Kingsley still live that way, knocking over anyone who gets in their way.’

‘That always seems the case when there’s a lot at stake. How much would one of these animals be worth?’

Jake Pierson shrugged. ‘The price varies, of course, but I suppose a good Hereford bull could run a couple of thousand. Or even more.’

That meant both Sam Swen and Charles Kingsley had a
gold mine roaming around in their pastures, money ripe for the taking, open to anyone who had the means and
opportunity
to steal and transport stolen cattle.

Although Kate had visited the museum for an entirely different reason, her thoughts had come full circle. Kingsley’s murder might centre on cattle rustling after all. Although that seemed the plausible answer, Kate still found herself clinging to the idea that the killer’s motivation went much deeper than what was seen on the surface. The Tom Horn hanging and the cattle rustling: if only she could find a link between the two.

‘Thank you for your time, Mr Pierson. You’ve been very helpful.’

‘Helping people understand history, that’s my job and my joy.’

Kate left the museum thinking that the murder of Charles Kingsley had to have been committed by someone who knew all about the legend of Tom Horn and the feud between Sam Swen and Charles Kingsley. All the evidence seemed to point directly – almost too directly – to Sam Swen. Perhaps, just as he had claimed, he was being cleverly set up to take the blame. Either way, someone had purposefully placed that stone beneath Kingsley’s head, that ominous ‘Stone of Vengeance’.

Feeling a little weary, in need of a quiet place to be alone and think, Kate cut across the street to the Tumbleweed café. Everything here was named after something Western: the Cowboy Motel, the Lazy Z Tavern, the Outlaw gas station on the corner. After her move from Auburn
Hills, Michigan, it had taken time for Kate to adjust to life in a small Wyoming town. The laid-back atmosphere, the single main street, the buildings with their Old West facades, was a far cry from the bustling city and the suburban neighbourhood where her parents and younger sister still lived. Here, everyone knew everyone else’s
business
.

But Kate had also discovered advantages: little need to lock doors at night, no long lines at the single supermarket, and finding a parking space on main street never posed a problem. Moreover, the local restaurant served good,
home-cooked
food.

Kate’s job kept her so busy that often she simply grabbed a sandwich, so most weekends she headed for the Tumbleweed and ordered their Ranch Hand Special, which consisted today of chicken fried steak.

When her meal came, she began to eat hungrily.

‘Now there’s what I like to see,’ a deep voice spoke up, ‘a girl with a hearty appetite.’

Ty Garrison, free of the air of guarded aloofness that Kate had noted at Swen’s ranch, was walking towards her, his lean, broad-shouldered form seeming to swagger in the hazy sunlight that streamed from the window. His hair looked thick, streaked with gold, much lighter than she recalled, but his eyes seemed darker, more intense.

He didn’t ask permission to join her, just slipped into the opposite side of the booth. He called to the waitress to bring him the special and a strong cup of coffee.