Ranger Justice Read online

  “Gordon Webber? Seems I’ve heard that name somewhere before.” Jim mused. “He been around these parts long?”

  “Webber?” Crowe echoed. “He drifted in here awhile back, and got himself a job on the Rafter Q. Must be a tophand, ‘cause Mace made Gordy Bob his segundo right quick.”

  “But Mason Jeffers wasn’t with them today?”

  “Jim, if those boys were out to get your pardner lynched, you can be certain Mace was behind it,” Crowe explained. “He’s one to make sure his own hands stay clean, though. That’s why he wasn’t in town.”

  “Seems like I’m gonna have to pay a visit to the Rafter Q,” Jim noted, “But let’s finish here first. I take it Steve’s gun had been fired?”

  “First thing I checked. Two empty chambers.”

  “You come up with a reason Steve would have killed the lady?”

  “Sure. He’d been drinkin’ pretty heavy in the Blue Tail Fly most of the night. Rebecca Jeffers was a mighty attractive woman. Masters saw her when he left the saloon, followed her to the house, and tried to have his way with her. When she fought him he killed her, then passed out.”

  “Sheriff, I know it’s been a couple of weeks, but Steve sure don’t look like he was in any kind of a fight,” Jim observed, “If Rebecca Jeffers had fought him like you say, then he should still show some signs of a struggle. Were there any cuts or bruises, or mebbe some fingernail scratches on Steve’s face when you found him?”

  “No,” Crowe conceded, “just a lump on his head where he must’ve hit it when he fell, and where his scalp was split open.”

  “That’s cause I didn’t fight with the lady, like I tried to tell the sheriff that night,” Steve shouted angrily from his cell. “She was already dead when I found her.”

  “Just take it easy Steve, and let the sheriff finish,” Jim advised him, “You’ll have your chance in a minute.” Turning his attention back to Crowe, he continued. “How about his clothes? Was his shirt torn, buttons missin’, anythin’ like that? How about blood on Steve’s clothes, or on his hands?”

  “No.” Crowe admitted.

  “What led you to that house in the first place?” Jim questioned. “Who heard the shots?”

  “No one,” Crowe replied, “Rick Lewis, my deputy, was makin’ his rounds and saw a light on in the place. Since it was real late and he knew Mrs. Jeffers was stayin’ in town alone, he decided to check on her. That’s when he found

  your pardner there passed out with a gun in his hand, alongside what was left of Rebecca Jeffers.”

  “Didn’t it strike you as funny that there were no signs on him of Steve bein’ in a violent struggle with a terrified woman when your deputy found them, Sheriff? And didn’t it seem even stranger no one heard the shots or Rebecca Jeffers screamin’, which she sure would’ve been if she was tryin’ to fight someone off.”

  “Nope. Your pardner there is a pretty husky hombre. Rebecca Jeffers was a small woman. She wouldn’t have had much of a chance against him. Far as the gunshots, the Jeffers place is at the edge of town. It’s pretty likely there was no one close to the house, and with the door closed nobody would’ve heard any-thin’ even from nearby. As far as the shots meanin’ trouble, unless someone realized they were comin’ from inside the house, most likely they would’ve figured it was just a drunken cowpoke lettin’ off steam.”

  “Still should’ve been some marks on Steve,” Jim disagreed. “And if the shoo-tin’ in fact did happen in that house, someone should’ve heard somethin’. We’ll have to let that go for now. You say your deputy is the man who found Steve and Mrs. Jeffers’ body. I’ll need to talk to him. Where is he?”

  “Matter of fact, Rick was called out to the Rafter Q this mornin’ to check a report of some stolen horses. He should be back right quick. And are you sayin’ Rebecca was killed somewhere else? I don’t think that’s likely. Plenty of folks saw her in town that day. She spent the day shopping and visiting. Even did some business at the bank just before it closed. In fact, I said good night to her when she stopped in my office to say hello. You still feel she might’ve been killed someplace other than that house?”

  “I’m sayin’ it’s a distinct possibility. I’ll be lookin’ into just that. At least since she was seen alive in town we can rule out her bein’ shot at the Rafter Q and her body smuggled into her house,” Jim replied. “And don’t you think it was pretty coincidental that your deputy gets called to the Rafter Q today, leavin’ you alone to face a lynch mob stirred up by the same ranch’s men?”

  “I’d say it was more than just coincidence,” Crowe darkly replied.

  “Then we’re in agreement on one thing anyway,” Jim answered. “Now what about your coroner? Did he dig the bullets out of Mrs. Jeffers’ body?”

  “Doc Sweeney acts as the county coroner, since we’re too small to need one full time,” Crowe explained, “and no, he didn’t.”

  “Then we might have to exhume the body to get those slugs,” Jim stated.

  “The townsfolk’d never stand for that,” Crowe protested, “And Mace Jeffers sure wouldn’t.”

  “Doesn’t matter to me what anyone thinks,” Jim responded, “If I need those slugs for evidence, Mrs. Jeffers’ body will be exhumed. You got anythin’ else to add right now?”

  “Reckon not,” Crowe shrugged.

  “One last question. Why didn’t you notify Ranger Headquarters you’d taken one of our men into custody?” Jim curtly demanded.

  “I sent a letter to Austin right off,” Crowe protested. “You can see for yourself we’re too small to have a telegraph office here in Sanderson, at least as of yet. Mail has to go out on the bi-weekly stage, so that letter didn’t leave here until three days after the killin’. Reckon it hasn’t made its way to your headquarters yet.”

  “Or someone made sure it didn’t ever leave Sanderson,” Jim noted. “You’ve got to admit that’s a possibility.”

  Crowe rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I guess you could be right at that,” he conceded. “But who would’ve wanted to stop it?”

  “Whoever didn’t want the Rangers findin’ out about Masters bein’ arrested until after he was hung,” Jim retorted. “Someone who didn’t want him to live long enough to tell his story. Now Steve, it’s your turn. Tell me what you say happened that night.”.

  “It’s like the sheriff said, I’d been drinkin’ at the saloon, not heavy like he claims, though. I was sittin’ in on a poker game when one of the saloon gals handed me a note. That note said whoever had written it had proof that Mike Thompson was murdered and could name the man who’d killed him. Told me to meet whoever it was at the Rafter Q’s Sunday house at eleven o’clock. So I made my excuses to get out of the game, which wasn’t hard since I was losin’ anyway, went back to the hotel for awhile, then ambled over to the house. There was a light turned down low shinin’ through the front windows. I knocked on the door a couple of times, but nobody answered. When I tried the knob it wasn’t locked, so I stepped inside. Next thing I knew I was seein’ stars, and the next thing I remember after that was wakin’ up with a splittin’ headache and the sheriff’s deputy standin’ over me with a gun pointed at my chest.”

  “That’s it? You don’t remember anythin’ else?”

  “Not a thing,” Steve ruefully conceded.

  “Steve, you’ve got me puzzled,” Jim admitted, “Why would whoever claimed to know Mike’s killer want to meet you at the Rafter Q’s Sunday house?”

  “Now that you mention it, I plumb forgot to tell you this,” Steve confessed. “When I first got into town, I asked around if anyone had seen someone answerin’ Mike Thompson’s description. The bartender at the Blue Tail Fly said a hombre matchin’ that description had ridden into Sanderson a few weeks back, and had gotten a job punchin’ cows on the Rafter Q. I figure Mike had been posin’ as a cowpuncher on the Rafter Q while he did some pokin’ around. My guess is h
e found some evidence as to who was behind the killin’s down here and it got him killed too, or else someone spotted him for a Ranger. Whoever sent that note must’ve seen or heard somethin’.”

  “Have you still got that note?” Jim asked.

  “There wasn’t any note on Masters when my deputy found him,” Crowe interrupted, “and we sure didn’t find one in the place.”

  “Let him finish,” Jim ordered. “Go on, Steve.”

  “Thanks, Jim. I had that note in my shirt pocket. When I came to they hauled me down here and the sheriff searched me, but it wasn’t there. Whoever tried to smash my head in must’ve taken it.”

  “Steve, this is important. Did that note appear as if it had been written by a woman? And if it did, would you say the handwriting matched that of the letter Cap’n Trumbull has at Headquarters?”

  “I can’t say for certain about the letter at Headquarters without seein’ it again, but the note I got was definitely written by a woman, I’d say. And I’d be willin’ to hazard a guess that both of ‘em were written by the same person.”

  “So that note might’ve been written by Rebecca Jeffers herself,” Jim noted.

  “Or another woman from the Rafter Q,” Steve replied. “A coupla’ the cowboys out there are married, from what I understand, plus there’s a Mexican cook and maid. One of them might’ve written it.”

  “Or how about Bess, the gal who gave him that note,” Crowe added, “If someone’s tryin’ to frame Steve here, mebbe they paid her to write that note and get him to the Jeffers place. That’d explain why she left town on the same stage as that letter I sent to your headquarters, Jim.”

  “You mean you let her leave town?!” Jim incredulously exclaimed.

  “I had no reason to hold her,” Crowe shrugged. “She claimed someone had slipped that note under her door, along with another one tellin’ her to give it to the Ranger, and there were five double eagles along with it. It did strike me as kinda funny she pulled up stakes right after that, but I really couldn’t stop her. And before you ask, no, I have no idea where she headed.”

  “So we’ve got an important witness and probably our best clue missin’,” Jim muttered disgustedly. “Steve, you got anythin’ else you can tell me?”

  “I’m afraid not, Jim,” the young Ranger dejectedly replied. “Sure wish I could come up with somethin’ more.”

  “Well, I’ve got one more thing to check,” Jim stated. “Step over to the cell door and lean the top of your head against the bars.”

  “What for?” Steve asked, as Jim pushed up from his chair and walked over to the cell.

  “I want to check your scalp,” Jim explained.

  As Steve pressed the top of his head against the cell door, Jim carefully pushed aside the brown hair covering the scabbed gash on the young Ranger’s scalp.

  “Sure looks like this was made by a gun barrel, Sheriff,” Jim observed. “Appears Steve is tellin’ the truth about somebody bendin’ a pistol over his head.”

  “Then you’re lettin’ me out of this cell?” Steve exclaimed.

  “Not yet,” Jim replied. “I don’t like it any more’n you do, but right now I’ve gotta go along with the sheriff. There’s enough evidence to hold you on suspicion of Rebecca Jeffers’ murder, and probably enough for you to be convicted.” As Steve began to protest, Jim continued, “Don’t worry. I’m sure you didn’t murder anyone. And I’ll keep workin’ until I get to the bottom of all this. Once I track down whoever did kill her you’ll be outta that cell. Until then, you’re gonna have to stay right there.” Jim paused, then continued, “And Sheriff, I don’t need to tell you if anythin’ happens to him, I’ll hold you personally responsible.”

  “You needn’t fret on Steve’s account,” Crowe reassured him, “Nobody’s gonna get near him again.”

  “I’m keepin’ you to that promise.” Jim curtly replied.

  “Count on it,” the sheriff answered, “What’s your next move?”

  “While we’re waitin’ for your deputy to show up, tell me about the other kil-lin’s you’ve had down here.”

  “Sure,” Crowe readily agreed. “There’ve been five of ‘em. First one was Brett Sloane, a lawyer who’d set up shop here about ten months ago. He was found hung in his office. At first I thought it was suicide, but then I realized there was no chair or anythin’ like that anywhere near Sloane’s body he could’ve used to step off of to hang himself. And he sure didn’t leap into mid-air to tie that rope around his own neck.”

  “So our killer made one mistake, anyway,” Jim muttered.

  “Yeah, but he didn’t leave any clues behind. I’ve got no leads in any of the killin’s,” Crowe explained. “Anyway, the second person killed was Thor Lundgren, who owned the general store. He was found stuffed face-down in a

  pickle barrel with his skull bashed in, two weeks after Sloane was killed. There was no sign of a struggle, so I’d have to hazard a guess Thor knew his killer.”

  “That sounds reasonable,” Jim agreed. “Who’s runnin’ the store now?”

  “Fella named Bill Geoghegan, from back East somewhere. The only heir Thor left was a niece back in Kansas City, and Geoghegan bought the store from her.”

  “So there’s little chance Geoghegan had anythin’ to do with Lundgren’s kil-lin’,” Jim observed. “What about the other three murders?”

  Crowe rolled another cigarette, lit it, and took a long drag on the smoke before he answered.

  “The next one was the town banker, John Collins. He was workin’ late one night, and when he didn’t come home by ten his wife went lookin’ for him. She found him in the bank vault, stabbed through his ribs.”

  “Robbery?” Jim questioned.

  Crowe rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “Might’ve been. No one knows for sure how much money was in the vault, and there was plenty of it scattered around on the floor. Best guess is there was some taken. Unlike Thor, Collins must’ve put up a fight. That’s the funny part. If it was a robbery, why wasn’t all the cash taken?”

  “Mebbe the killer was scared off when Mrs. Collins showed up,” Jim speculated. “Or mebbe the robbery was just a cover-up for the killin’.”

  “Either’s possible,” Crowe conceded, “But Leah Collins said she didn’t see or hear anyone runnin’ or ridin’ off.”

  “I’d bet a hat Collins knew his killer too,” Jim observed.

  “I wouldn’t take that bet,” Crowe ruefully smiled. “Anyway, the fourth victim was Pablo Cruz, a Mexican who’d taken up a homestead just inside the mouth of Gypsum Creek Canyon, about seven miles south of town. A couple of hands from the Triangle T spread were huntin’ for strays when they saw smoke comin’ from the canyon. They went to check on it, and found Cruz’s shack on fire. They managed to drag Cruz out, but he was already done for. Been shot three times in the chest. I figure that fire was set deliberately, so Cruz’s body would’ve burned to a crisp and no one would ever figure he was plugged dead center. If those punchers hadn’t come along when they did it would have worked, too.”

  “Seems likely,” Jim agreed. “What about the last killin’?”

  Again, the sheriff took a long drag on his quirly, sending a puff of bluish smoke toward the ceiling before he replied.

  “We never found a body to prove the last one,” Crowe admitted. “There was a geologist came into town a few months back; you know, one of them fellas that studies rocks and dirt and such. Said his name was Kurt Thornberg from Philadelphia, and that he was a professor at a university back there. He’d taken some time off to study the minerals and rocks in west Texas. Thornberg’d head out for a week or so at a time, collect a bunch of rocks, then come back into town, examine them, and send some of them off somewhere, to the university is my guess.”

  “So what happened to him?” Jim impatiently demanded.

  “Dunno for sure,” Crowe answered. “He always r
ented a gentle old mare and a pack mule from Jeff Murphy at the livery whenever he headed out of town. About a week after Cruz was killed that mare wandered back into town, the saddle hangin’ under her belly and covered with blood. The mule never has turned up. I put together a posse and we searched for Thornberg, but never found hide nor hair of him.” He rose from his chair, struck a lucifer, and lit a bracket lamp against the gathering dark.

  “Mebbe the mare spooked at a rattlesnake or somethin’. Thornberg, I’m assumin’ not bein’ much of a rider, somehow got hung up and smashed his face into the saddlehorn or the horse’s withers before he got tossed. That’d explain the blood on the saddle. He might’ve even gotten a foot hung up in a stirrup and been dragged.”

  “Could’ve happened that way,” Crowe agreed, “except the mare had a bullet slash along her neck. My guess is Thornberg was shot in the back and the bullet went clean through him, then clipped his horse.”

  “So we’ve got five dead men, who appear to have no connection to each other besides bein’ casual acquaintances,” Jim mused. “And we’ve really got seven unsolved killin’s on our hands, John.”