The Reluctant Pinkerton (20 page)

Kalish was supposed to be the only one of the five who knew who and what Roper really was. Although Brewster seemed to suspect that “Andy Blake” was something other than what he seemed to be, he had given no indication he knew the truth.

But Brewster seemed to be the head honcho, running the Cattleman’s Club, spearheading the group of five who seemed in control of the cattle business in Fort Worth. He was also the man who had sent the messenger out with the money—the messenger who had then been killed. Who besides Brewster knew what Mark Vaughn had been carrying? Damn it, he should have asked that question, but he didn’t want to come off too much like a detective with Brewster—not yet anyway.

But it might be getting close to the time when Talbot Roper had to come out from behind the mask.

When Roper got back to the office, he gave Orton the message about the money.

“You mean he’s going to replace it himself?”

“I don’t know how he’s gonna do it, boss, but he’s gonna do it,” Roper said. “You should have it tomorrow, only…”

“Only what?”

“Well, he wants me to come and pick it up,” Roper said. “Doesn’t want to take the chance of another messenger, I guess.”

“Are you willing to do that?”

“If you’re willing to trust me with the money,” Roper said. “And you don’t want to go and pick it up yourself.”

“No,” Orton said, “I’ll trust you with it.”

“We don’t know exactly how much it’s liable to be,” Roper said. “Sure you want to trust me with that much temptation?”

“I can trust you, Andy,” Orton said.

“What makes you say that?”

“I got a feeling about you,” the other man said. “I have ever since I met you.”

“Well, I don’t know why that is,” Roper said, “but I guess I appreciate it.”

“Now that you’re here, though,” Orton said, “how about getting some work done?”

“Sure,” Roper said. “What do you need?”

“Go on out to the east pens and get me a count, will you?” Orton said. “I’ve got all the rest already.”

“Use my boots,” Orton said. “They’re in the water closet.”

“Thanks.”

*   *   *

The boots didn’t fit exactly, but they stayed on well enough. When Roper got to the pens, he saw the Fixx brothers there.

“Hey, Andy!” they greeted him, Stan slapping him on the back. “What’re you doin’ out here in the crap with the peons?”

“The boss sent me out for a count.” The smell of manure was making his eyes water. “How do you stand this?”

“Just takes some gettin’ used to, pal,” Larry said. “Come on, we’ll help you with that count.”

Roper climbed up onto the corral so he could see, got himself comfortable on his perch. The cattle were standing easy as they began the count, but suddenly—after a few minutes—the beeves got agitated. Roper didn’t know why until he heard it. It was probably the second shot he heard. The cows had heard the first one, and the third plucked at the left sleeve of his shirt. It surprised him, and as a result he fell into the pens.

Even as he fell, he thought, this must be how it happened to the other detective. He hit the ground and rolled, put his hands down to get to his feet, but slipped in the muck and manure. He reached for the gun Orton had given him, but it was gone. It must have fallen out of his belt when he landed, and was in the mud somewhere.

He probably wouldn’t have been able to hold it anyway, his hands were so slick with manure.

He heard somebody yelling, and the steers began to buffet him. Cows weighed about twelve hundred pounds, but
these steers went closer to fourteen or fifteen hundred. If he wasn’t trampled, he could simply be crushed between two of them. He thought his best chance was to stay down. But that didn’t seem to be the case, as one hoof struck him, and then another. He was wondering what to do—had never found himself in quite this situation before—when he suddenly felt hands on him, hauling him up and completely out of the pens.

The Fixx boys dumped him on the ground outside, where it was manure-free.

“That was close,” Larry Fixx said with a big grin.

“Lucky we was there,” Stan said.

“Yeah,” Roper said, wringing his hands out to free them of some of the muck. “Lucky. How’d you happen to know where I was?”

“Larry saw you fall in and yelled,” Stan said.

“I didn’t fall in,” Roper said, looking at his left arm. There was blood on his sleeve. “I was shot.”

“Shot?” Larry said, looking puzzled.

“Somebody shot you?”

“Shot me right off my perch,” Roper said. “You didn’t hear it? The shots got the steers all riled up.”

“I didn’t hear nothin’,” Larry said.

“Now that you mention it,” Stan said, “I thought I heard somethin’, but…”

“Jesus,” Larry said as the blood started to trickle down Roper’s arm, “are you okay?”

“Took a chunk of meat out of my arm,” Roper said, “but I think I’ll live.”

“Come on, Larry,” Stan said, “we better get him to the office.”

*   *   *

Larry Fixx kicked the office door open and the brothers carried Roper in between them. Both Pete Orton and his wife looked at them, surprise on their faces, which were flushed. They’d obviously been having an argument.

“What happened?” Orton demanded.

“Somebody shot ’im,” Larry said.

“What?”

“I told them I could walk,” Roper said.

There was an old sofa against one wall that Roper had never sat on before. Too dirty.

“Sit him over there,” Orton said, pointing to the sofa.

The brothers took Roper over there and dumped him on it. As they backed away, everyone could see the blood on Roper’s arm.

“I better take a look at that,” Louise Orton said.

She walked to the sofa, rolled Roper’s sleeve up from the wound, and examined it.

“I don’t see a bullet, but it needs to be cleaned,” she said. She walked over to the water closet.

“Where did this happen?” Orton demanded.

“The east pens,” Roper said.

“How?”

“Don’t know,” Roper said. “Somebody fired several shots. One hit me, knocked me into the pens. All the shots riled up the steers. I would have been crushed to death if not for these boys.”

“Good thing we was there,” Larry said.

“Same thing coulda happened to Andy that happened to that other fella,” Stan said.

Louise returned with a basin of water, and a cloth. She sat next to Roper and began to clean his wound with firm, assured hands.

“Blood doesn’t bother you?” Roper asked.

“I’ve seen plenty of it.” She looked at her husband. “What are you going to do about this?”

“Send for a doctor,” he said.

“I don’t need one,” Roper said. “Mrs. Orton is taking care of it fine.”

“Then we need the police,” Orton said.

“You know who they’ll send,” Roper said.

“I don’t like those two detectives any more than you do,” Orton said, “but we need to let the police know.” Orton looked at the brothers. “One of you go and do that.”

“Now?” Larry asked.

“Right now.”

The two brothers exchanged a glance, and without another word, they decided which one would go. Stan turned and left.

As Mrs. Orton got the wound cleaned, she said, “I think this might need some stitches.” Roper looked at her, and she met his eyes. “I can’t do that.”

“All right,” Orton said. He looked at Larry Fixx. “Go get a doctor.”

“Yes, sir.”

He turned and left.

Orton looked at Roper. “You didn’t see anybody?” he asked.

“I never even heard the first shot,” Roper said. “I heard the echo of the second just as it hit me.”

“Three shots,” Orton said. “One man with a rifle?”

“Probably.”

“That’ll be up to the police to find out,” Orton said.

“Damn it, first Mark Vaughn, now you.”

“First Walt Henderson, you mean,” Roper said.

“Walt Henderson?” Orton said, frowning. “But…but he fell.”

“So did I,” Roper pointed out, “but not without a little help.”

Detectives Carradine and Cole arrived before the doctor did. Louise Orton had cleaned the wound and stopped the bleeding as well as she could.

“You wanna tell us what happened, Mr. Blake?” Carradine asked.

“I got shot.”

They waited, but he said nothing else.

“That’s it?” Carradine asked.

“That’s all I know,” Roper said. “I was workin’ out in the pens and somebody took a shot at me.”

“You hit bad?” Cole asked hopefully.

“They didn’t miss,” Roper said, indicating his arm, “but I’m not hit bad.”

“You ever been shot before?” Carradine said.

“Nope,” Roper lied. “Never.”

“That’s odd,” Cole said.

“Is it?” Roper asked. “You ever been shot, Detective?”

“Yeah,” Cole said.

“What about you, Carradine?”

“Yeah, once.”

“Hmm,” Roper said. “What about you, Pete?”

“No, never.”

“There you go,” Roper said, “Only half of us have ever been shot—well, before today.”

“What about me?” Louise asked. “I’ve never been shot.”

“There you go,” Roper said, “only two out of five.”

“Women don’t count,” Cole said.

The door opened and Larry Fixx entered with another man.

“Here’s the doc, boss.”

“What’s your name, Doc?” Carradine asked.

The portly older man said, “Evans. And you?”

“Detective Carradine, Fort Worth Police.”

“Police,” Evans said. “I’ve always preferred a sheriff’s office myself. Where’s my patient?”

“Right there, Doc,” Carradine said, pointing.

“Thank you.”

Evans went over and sat next to Roper, began to examine him.

“What about Henderson, Detective?” Orton asked.

“Who?”

“Walt Henderson,” Orton said. “He’s the man who fell into the pens a while back, got trampled to death.”

“Oh, him,” Carradine said. “What about him?”

“Was he shot, too?”

Carradine looked at Cole.

“You don’t know, do you?” Orton asked. “Nobody ever checked. They just assumed he fell.”

“Why would somebody shoot him?” Carradine asked.

“I don’t know,” Orton said. “Why would somebody shoot Andy here?”

“I’d like to know that, too,” Carradine said.

“Who cleaned this and stopped the bleeding?” the doctor asked.

“I did,” Louise said. She was standing off to one side with her arms crossed.

“You did a fine job,” the doctor said. “You should’ve been a nurse.”

“Yes,” she said, looking at her husband, “I should’ve been.”

“How’d you get out of the pen?” Carradine asked.

“Larry and Stan pulled me out.” Roper pointed at the brothers, also standing off to one side.

“Suppose you boys show us where this happened,” Carradine said. He looked at Orton. “We’ll have a look around and then come back. I suggest nobody leave, except the doctor.”

“What about my wife?”

Carradine looked at her, then said, “Yeah, okay, she can go. But nobody else.”

Who else was there? Roper thought. That left him and Orton in the office.

He had a decision to make.

*   *   *

After the doctor stitched him and left, and Louise Orton left with his thanks, Orton pulled a bottle of whiskey from his desk.

“Drink?”

“A big one.”

Orton poured two drinks, passed one to Roper.

“What’s going on?” Orton asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Andy—if that’s your name—I knew when you came here that you were too smart to be looking for a job here. You ask a lot of questions, and you listen real well. You did a helluva job finding out what happened to Mark Vaughn, and given enough time, I’ll bet you could find out what happened to Henderson. And now somebody tries to kill you, maybe the same way they killed him.”

He walked to his desk and sat down. “Something’s going on. Something’s been going on for a while, but I tried to look the other way. I can’t look the other way anymore.”

“Talbot Roper,” Roper said.

“I’m listening,” Orton said.

“I’m a private detective. Normally I work out of Denver, but I was sent here to Fort Worth to look into what’s been happening here at the stockyards.”

“Sent by who?”

“The Pinkerton Agency.”

“You’re a Pinkerton?”

“No,” Roper said, “I’m just doing this job for them.”

“Who hired you?”

“Some people here in Fort Worth.”

“The Cattleman’s Club?”

“I can’t tell you who the client is, Pete,” Roper said. “I shouldn’t even be telling you this, except that you’ve figured out that something isn’t right.”

Orton poured himself another drink.

“I knew you were too smart,” he said. “Too smart for a job around here.”

“You have a job around here,” Roper pointed out.

“I’m not so smart,” Orton said. “Not really.”

“Smart enough to sniff me out,” Roper said.

He stood up, crossed to Orton’s desk, and held out his glass. Orton filled it.

“What do we do now?” Orton asked.

“Nothing,” Roper said. “We go along as we have been. We don’t tell the police who I am. Not yet anyway.”

“You don’t trust them?”

“I don’t like them,” Roper said. “To tell you the truth, I don’t trust anybody.”

“Not even me?”

“I have to trust you now,” Roper said. “You could do me and my investigation considerable harm.”

“I won’t.”

“I hope not,” Roper said.

They studied each other for a few moments, and then Orton said, “How much—how deep did your investigation go?”

“You mean do I know about you and Nancy Ransom?” Roper asked.

“Yep,” Orton said, “that’s what I mean. I guess when you found that out, it made me a suspect.”

“Not really,” Roper said. “Cheating on one’s wife doesn’t make a man a criminal. But when I found out who owned that little house you use…”

Orton leaned back in his chair, as if he was afraid of the answer, and asked, “Who?”

“Brewster.”

“What?”

“How did you find that house?”

“Nancy found it,” he said.

“How did you meet Nancy?”

“In the Bullshead,” Orton said. “I went there with some fellas, and she approached me.”