Hell's Gate (Ben Blue Book 8) Page 7

  “If you don’t mind me askin’, Marshal, do you think Cooter might’ve been involved in the robbery?”

  “Not sure, but he left town last night about midnight in a big hurry to get somewhere in the dark, and that sort of behavior always makes me wonder.”

  “Oh that… we sorta think old Cooter’s got him a Navajo gal out there somewhere… He goes off like that now and then for a day or two.”

  “Well, I’d still like to talk to him, when he gets back.”

  I met Flynn as I was leaving. Claybrook had given him several names that had been showing up as trouble makers, and he was on his way to give them their walking papers. So I turned around and followed him in, and leaned against the doorframe in case someone was to wander in at the wrong time.

  Then Flynn turned and faced the room. I was curious how he was going to handle this. There were at least a dozen men in the saloon and a few working girls. The first thing he did was take an empty beer mug and bang it three times on the bar. Things got instantly silent.

  “Gentlemen!” he shouted. “And ye darlin’ colleens. I’m Mike Flynn… Tem-po-rary Sheriff of this county… I’ve got three names on a list here in me hand. If I call your name, then please to come forward… Herb Bellman… Walt Moreland… and Johnny Speers.”

  “Now if I called your name and you didn’t come forward it’s goin’ to be very difficult for you in the long run.”

  In the rear of the room, a tall lanky fella in need of a haircut and a shave spoke up and said, “I’m Speers, what d’ya want?”

  “Johnny Speers… you have a job, or a means of income?”

  “Well… No, but…”

  “Then you’ve got one hour to get out of town… by his watch.” He pointed his thumb at me. “The time starts now… don’t make me come and get you.”

  Speers turned and walked out the door.

  “That was easy.” I told him.

  “They won’t all be.” Was his reply.

  Chapter 12

  I followed him across the street to the Lady Luck. Walking through the door, we saw Johnny Speers in a deep conference with two other men. Flynn turned to me and I told him fifty five.

  “Speers!” he yelled. “Ye got fifty five minutes… Get a move on, lad.”

  Johnny Speers jumped at the sound of his name, turned and looked at Flynn, and headed for the rear door. The other two sat looking at Flynn with some degree of arrogance. Both men had a hand under the table. It was a safe bet there was a pistol in each one.

  Flynn watched Speers go out the back door and then he turned to the two men he’d been talking to.

  “I’ll not ask if ye’re names are Bellman and Moreland. I can see it all over your faces… you boys have been fair caught. I can also see that ye’re each holdin’ a pistol under the bloody table. If ye think ye can hit anything from that position… then go ahead and unleash yer dogs. I’m bettin’ that I can get lead into both of ye before those guns can get high enough to hit anything.”

  “Ye see that big redheaded gent behind me… They used to call him the Grim Reaper of Dublin. The bloody redcoats didn’t have enough bullets to take him down. Twelve men to one, they were, and him the only one to walk away. Ye shoot me, and you still got the Reaper to deal with… Now lads, let ‘em hit the floor, and get yer hands up. Otherwise, it will be the first who moves will be the first who dies.”

  The whole room was silent, and then the whole room heard the thuds of two six-guns hitting the wood floor. The whole room let its breath out… At least I did. Flynn never batted an eye, but turned to me and said with a wink, “Now that wasn’t too hard was it, Reaper?”

  I took a deep breath and said, “I’ve heard tell that an Irishman could talk the coons out of the trees, but I never gave it much credit till now… I’m a believer.”

  We marched them down to the jail, and let them cool their heels for the night. After taking everything but their tobacco and papers, we locked them in a cell, and I started working on them. After an hour of brow beating them both, I told them I had enough evidence to arrest them for robbing Buck Blaylock and killing two of the men with him. Bellman went into a panic at the thought of a trial and hanging.

  “It wasn’t us. We was both too drunk to even ride when the word came..”

  “Shut up, fool… Shut your damned mouth, Herb.” Moreland was screaming and lunged at him, but I was quick enough to come between them in time to keep them both from any real harm. I shoved Moreland back against the wall and told him to stay put. By that time, Flynn was in the cell with me.

  “It’s already out, Herb… save yourself a lot of trouble. How did you get the… word? Who sent the word? How did you get paid? Talk to me, Herb.”

  The whole time I was trying to get Herb to give it up, Moreland was yelling, waving his arms, and trying to get past Flynn. Mike was about to the point of losing his temper, so I grabbed Bellman by the shirt and pulled him out of the cell. Moreland was wild eyed and screaming at Herb. He lunged for the door and in the process bumped Flynn out of the way… That was not in his best interest.

  As I was pulling Herb through the cell block door, I heard the unmistakable sound of a hard fist on flesh… several times and the splintering of a wooden bunk coming apart. Maybe I should hang a sign around his neck saying, “Don’t mess with the Mic.”

  I pulled Herb back into the corner where the late town Marshal, Rufus, once had a bunk. Pulling up an empty shipping crate, I sat him down. He was shivering, but I didn’t think it was from cold or dampness because he was sweating at the same time. The unused part of the crate made a good place for me to park my right boot. That would put me close enough to speak soft and low, and at the same time tower over him. That way he had to keep looking up at me… just one of those tricks to intimidate a prisoner during questioning.

  With my elbow resting on my knee, I stared at him for about a half a minute. In the other hand, I had a ring of cell keys, which I would twirl from time to time… Herb Bellman belonged to me lock, stock, and quivering chin.

  “The fat’s in the fire, Herb. You can’t pull it out and you can’t unsay what you blurted out. Now I don’t know how much of a bad man you are, but if you ever want to see a clear blue sky that ain’t partly blocked by bars, then you better tell me all about those… calls you get.”

  “I want to know who makes the call, and what kind of jobs they are… who delivers the calls, and who do they come from?”

  He sat there looking down at my left boot, so I pulled his head up, forcing him to look at me. His eyes wouldn’t make contact with mine. I leaned over and whispered in his ear.

  “The Marshal, Rufus Franklin, was killed in his cell with them that he called his friends. He avoided hassling them in his official duties, but they choked him to death anyway… Unless you want to wind up in a cell with some of your “friends”, you better start talkin’.

  “Moreland is in there right now, thinking you’re in here spillin’ your guts. And I’m likely to let him think that way… whether you do or not.” Then I pulled back a shouted, “WHO?”

  He jumped and blurted out, “Peters… J-Jesse P-Peters. He always brung the news. He was always the boss… b-b-but that time me and Walt was drunk.”

  “Who gave the orders to Peters?”

  “Don’t know… I don’t even think Curley knows, and Peters is his partner…. I don’t think Curley even cares.”

  “Think, man… think hard… It could be the smartest thing you ever did.”

  “I… I seen him and Cooter talkin’ real quiet and serious like, and Cooter givin’ him a paper. I always thought that strange ‘cause him and Cooter weren’t no kind of friends.”

  “Sheriff Flynn, would you be so kind as to put this gentleman in a cell by himself. We can’t have that unruly fella disturbing Mister Bellman can we?”

  “Certainly, Squire, t’would be me everlastin’ pleasure…. Come along Mister Bellman.”

  It looked to me like our night riding Cooter Singleton is up
to more than just riding out in the middle of the night courting a young Navajo maiden. If there ever were such meetings, which was something I was beginning to doubt.

  As I was standing there contemplating what I’d just learned, Claybrook walked in from the cell block.

  “You posing for a statue?” He asked.

  “Huh? Uh… no I was just tryin’ to put some pieces together. Seems our night riding friend, Cooter Singleton is more than an odd job specialist. He’s been seen in heavy discussions with the head of the outlaw bunch… not the brains of the operation but the working boss.”

  “Someone sends out the word, Singleton passes the word and instruction on to Jesse Peters, and he rounds up the gang. Or he may only take as many as needed… I guess it would depend on the job… Can’t wait to have a word with Mister Cooter in the morning.”

  “Well I’d rather have ten talks with your man Cooter, than spend another minute with Bartholomew Smyth.” Ethan said as he dropped his hat on the desk.

  “Smyth, the banker?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I just spent twenty minutes with him chewing on me about our high handed methods. And how we’re running off respectable customers of his bank… He said that every one of those men who were sent packin’, or jailed were account holders.”

  “He said he’s of a mind to send a letter to Jasper Stewart, or to the territorial representative. I don’t much care who he writes to, he’s a little worm who’s all puffed up in his own arrogant image of being a big man.”

  “You want to come along, while the Sheriff and me have our own little talk with Banker Smyth?”

  “It might cost me my badge, but I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Sheriff Flynn, you want to come with us to have a talk with the banker… I think as a public official, it would be appropriate.”

  He came out of the cell block spurs jingling and shoving his hat on. The bank was only a half a block up and across the street. We walked in, and the man in the cage looked up and called out for Smyth in a shaky voice.

  A bank customer was just leaving, and I held the door for her. She stepped down onto the boardwalk and started up the street. When she was gone I shot the bolt on the door locking it and turned the window sign to closed.

  Smyth was coming out of his office, when he started to puff up like a toad; I turned Flynn loose on him. On the way up, I had been doing a little coaching as to what we wanted to see.

  “Mester Smyth. It has come to my attention that ye have been aidin’ and abettin’ as many as eight thieves, murderers, road agents, and ext…” He looked up at me, and I helped him with the word. “Oh right… extortionists. As Sheriff of this county I demand to see those accounts. We’ll have no flim flammin’ in my county”

  “You can’t do that… It’s not legal.” Smyth was flummoxed and didn’t know what to say or do.

  Flynn was right on top of it and shot back at him. “It’s a damned more legal than the robbin,’ killin’, and extortin’ them men have been doin’. Now ye produce them accounts, or I’ll have to climb over that little gate and drag yer pudgy butt off to the jail…both of ye.”

  The teller nearly choked and Smyth sputtered and babbled, but he went into his office and came out with a large ledger and laid it on a table. He stepped back and Ethan opened the ledger and started running his finger across the pages.

  After close to an hour, Ethan had removed and made notes on ten pages. He closed the ledger and laid the pages out in front of us.

  “Smyth, this shows that deposits have been made in the amounts of two hundred dollars a month for four men and one hundred a month for three men. Then there’s three hundred each month for Jesse Peters. There seems to be varying amounts for two others. Is that correct?” Smyth looked at the ledger sheets mumbled something and nodded.

  “It also shows that the funds were withdrawn the next day… Now that in itself seems to be rather peculiar, since none of those men worked or had any means of earning a living. I don’t understand why those men would put money in the bank one day… all of them on the same day… and withdraw it the very next day. How do you explain that?”

  The teller piped up and said, “Oh… those men didn’t deposit the money.”

  Smyth was about to have a conniption, so I moved in front of him so that the teller couldn’t see him and asked, “Just how did the money get into those accounts?”

  The teller was suddenly the center of attention, and was overwhelmed that people actually wanted to hear what he had to say.

  “Why… Mister Singleton… some people call him Cooter.” He snickered at the name. “The last Friday of every month… just like clockwork.”

  Ethan turned to Smyth, and of course I moved so he could see him.

  “Did you ever wonder how a man with just part time handyman jobs could be putting over fourteen hundred dollars in other people’s bank accounts, Smyth? And why?”

  “Smyth stuttered and stammered before he found an answer, “It’s not my responsibility to know or care how a depositor puts money in the bank.”

  “We’ll take these ledger sheets as evidence; you can have them back when this case is closed and the killers have been sent to prison or hung.” Ethan told him as he scooped up the sheets.

  “Now, sir,” I said, “if you have some letters to write… say to Marshal Stewart or to your favorite politician, you go right ahead. I have a feeling when our reports are filed the State Banking Commission will be in here to have a look at your operation.”

  I didn’t even know if there was such a thing as a State Banking Commission, but I liked the look on his face when I said it.

  Chapter 13

  We left him huffing, puffing, and ripping the hide off his teller. I didn’t know what Bartholomew Smyth’s game was, but I was sure he had one. Most likely he was running a service for the man behind all the trouble. He could move the money for the mystery man, and if no one checked the books, no one would ever suspect.

  Actually, this bit of information came as a bit of good luck for Sam, the Tucker girls, and Charlie Clark. What I got out of it was, the robbery money probably wasn’t split among the gang. The gang seemed to be on salary or retainer of some sort. They didn’t work too hard and had a nice steady income to blow on liquor, cards, and women. So the mystery man likely still had the bulk of the money in his possession.

  The key to solving this puzzle was a man with the unlikely name of Cooter. I needed to talk to him and I intended to be waiting for him as soon as he showed in the morning. I was sure Cooter knew who was supplying the money, and I was also sure he was being paid handsomely to keep his mouth shut and make himself available to make the calls and run the errands… And take the fall if something went wrong.

  Well, Cooter Singleton, get ready because something is about to go mighty wrong. You’re likely to think the Jail house fell on you in the form of a tough little Irish Sheriff. Of course there was always the possibility that Cooter himself was the ring leader, which I doubted. I’ve known deceitful men who have pretended to be something they weren’t to keep suspicion away from their door. But I’ve never known of one to pretend himself into a handyman or an odd jobber sleeping in a saloon store room. Whatever he was, I’d have to wait until he came back to town.

  We posted an overnight guard at the jail. All he had to do was, keep the doors bolted and shoot anyone who tried to get in, unless they were one of us. We’d repaired the late Marshal’s bunk and left the guard with a Winchester and Ethan’s express gun. Sandy Corbel drew first night. Sandy was carrying around a lot of self imposed guilt, and I felt that throwing him into something responsible would help with his confidence.

  Sleep was something I had a hard time getting a grip on that night. I kept waking up to see if it was still dark. According to all I’d heard, about Singleton, as soon as the sun was up, he’d be out sweeping boardwalks. First, he’d take care of the two saloons, then the bank, and then the general store.

  I was awake and looking at the n
ight sky when I heard dishes rattling in the dining room. Scratching a match with my thumbnail, I was able to see it was half past five o’clock. It was still too early to find Singleton sweeping, but it was almost time to get a cup of coffee. So I quickly dressed and went to offer Mrs. Gladstone a hand.

  The sun was climbing over the Sangre de Cristo Mountains; I couldn’t see them where I was. But I knew they were there and I knew that Patty Anne and the little ones were feeling the warmth and taking in the beauty, even if they were too young to appreciate it.

  Finishing my coffee and Johnny cakes, I thanked Mrs. Gladstone and went out looking for the man who could clear up all the trouble in Junction City. I walked down the street the short distance to the business area looking for someone sweeping the boardwalk. There were a few people walking here and there but no one sweeping.

  A man in an apron came out of the Lady Luck with a broom and started the ritual of the sweep. Every sweeper I’ve ever observed has had his or her own personal style. This fella used the wide pendulum left to right swing, and he didn’t look at all like the professional I expected. He took a strong armed approach which put everyone in the vicinity at risk choking on dust.

  Ignoring the possibility of being coated with gritty dust, I walked up to him and caught the broom handle on a downswing. His concentration was such, he almost lost his balance.

  Looking up, he blinked and said, “Uh… mornin’ Marshal…did I dust you…sorry about that.”

  “No, you didn’t get me, but I wanted to have a word with you, if you’re Cooter Singleton?”

  “Naw,” he said, “ I ain’t ol’ Cooter… thank God. I’m Burt the day man… I tend bar till George gets here in the evenin’…. Cooter ain’t showed yet, and the boss lady sent me out to do the sweepin’.”

  “Any idea where he might be?”

  “He didn’t work yesterday, so I figger he’s either hung over or curled up with his gal out on the reservation… You can check at the Crazy Ace… that’s where he sleeps.”

  I thanked him, and walked across the street to the other saloon. The bartender was wiping the bar and getting ready for business.