The Pursued Read online

“Oh no, no,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “Bubba will most certainly not be interested in anything I care to involve myself in.” She looked at him from beneath lowered lids with a seductive glance. “As you will understand, I’m sure. Bubba has his own divertissements whereas I … I have a fondness for certain other things.” She left the implication hanging between them for him to make of it what he would. “I’m sure you understand me, do you not?”

  Powers cleared his throat to disguise his embarrassment at being propositioned by his friend’s wife and sipped his coffee.

  “Do you have writing paper and pen, ma’am?” he asked suddenly.

  “Of course, of course,” she replied, apparently flustered at the sudden change of direction. “There is an escritoire in the drawing room.”

  “Please,” said Powers, getting to his feet, “excuse me, I must make a note. Then I fear I will be on my way.”

  “As you will, sir,” she said, the disappointment plain as her voice dropped to a duller tone. “As you will.”

  Powers left the morning room and found the writing desk. It was a fold-top mahogany piece set out with headed notepaper, inkpot and dip pen. He wrote swiftly, anxious to be out of the house. The woman’s advances were not something he cared to keep fending off. On the one hand, she bore no attraction for him; and on the other, she was an old friend’s wife. Whatever the state of their marriage, he found it most unpleasant to be considered as a sexual pawn in their inter-marital battles.

  Dear Bubba he wrote. I cannot wait to see you up and about as I am bound onward with the rest of my mission but would ask one favor of you. You said you might trace the whereabouts of Cole Loumis if you so wished. Will you do it for me? I shall be going on to see Red next and if you can, please send the details on to me there.

  My thanks for your hospitality, your friend,

  Powers Brent.

  Underneath he jotted down the details of Red McArthur’s whereabouts in Soda Falls. When the ink was dry, he folded the sheet and placed it in an envelope. Powers scribbled Bubba’s name on the front and carried the letter out to the front hall. He collected his hat and saddlebags from the stand, left the letter propped up on a silver calling card tray and promptly quit the house without looking back.

  He walked to the railroad depot and bought a ticket. Then he paid the clerk to send two telegrams. The first was to Demas Bright back at the Diamond and a Half, telling him he was traveling on and would not be back for a spell and that as top hand Demas had control of everything while he was away.

  His next telegram was to Red McArthur, advising him he would like to see his old army buddy again and that he would be arriving in a day or two, depending on how the trains ran.

  Chapter Five

  It took him three days to reach Soda Falls. He arrived just in time for the funeral.

  Red McArthur, it appeared, was gunned down late one night by an unknown assailant while on his way home from his church.

  To Powers’s surprise, it turned out that in the intervening years, Red had turned to the church and become a minister. He had served his parish of Soda Falls for some twenty years before his untimely death. During that time, he had been a respected and admired church man and philanthropist. The town, so the hotel clerk told him, was surprised and shocked that such a thing could occur in this usually peaceful place.

  The town sheriff, who doubled as mayor, was following the case but his office was nominal and he was more politician than lawman. No one held out much hope he would discover the perpetrator. It was considered to be the work of a transient thief who had been disturbed during the deed.

  Powers took a second floor room in the Hotel Legrange on Front Street. He stood in his room’s window and watched the cortege pass below. There was a good turnout, nigh on most of the small town’s population of three hundred, it appeared by the number of folks on the street.

  It was a bright day, the sun was out but it was chilly, a cool wind blowing down from the mountains above the town where snow covered the peaks. A pleasant town. Clapboard and log houses on the outskirts and false fronted stores on Front and Main. The place had been built on a sloping hillside with spectacular views across pine-forested valleys over to the mountains. A lumber town originally, it now did service as a last stop supply depot for those traveling the trade route up through the main pass on this stretch of the Rockies.

  They had a proper glass sided hearse, Powers noted, a team of black horses with ostrich plumes and a top-hatted undertaker stepping out in front at a solemn pace. Slowly the hearse and mourners made their way up the street toward the cemetery on the outskirts of town. A piper had been called in to pay proper respect to Red’s Scots heritage and he followed in the rear, his wailing pipes the only sound above the clip-clop of the horses on the hard packed road.

  Powers stood with his head bowed respectfully and his hands crossed before him as Red passed him for the last time. When he lifted his gaze a moment later, he saw a bright head of auburn hair above an alert face that looked suddenly in his direction as if sensing his presence. She picked him out behind the glass of the hotel window and for a second a look of consternation crossed her face.

  She must be the widow, Powers guessed. A fine looking woman, he considered. She stood erect and bare-headed, following behind the coffin, her sorrow obvious and without need of display. A proud and capable looking woman, tall and slender, dressed in mourning black with a dark wool shawl covering her shoulders. Nobody escorted her and Powers guessed that she preferred it that way.

  Powers went to his saddlebags and took out his whisky bottle and traveling cup. Another death and another toast; this was getting to be an unpleasant habit. He took his time sipping the drink and remembering Red as he did so. Steady as a rock, always there to back you up and fiery as hell when his temper was roused.

  “Here’s to you, boy,” said Powers quietly, as he threw back the rest of the cup. The strains of the bagpipes had died away completely now and the street outside was silent. Powers strapped on his .44, locked his room door and went down into Front Street.

  He followed the same route the mourners had taken and passed many of them as they returned to town. He was going against the stream it appeared, as they flowed past and around him. The consideration gave him a moment of amusement, as it seemed to echo his own situation at present, as he moved through his past, swimming against the flow of his history. Finally, he reached the cemetery as the last few mourners were coming out through the gateway. A low dry stone wall ran around the place and along one side tall pines stood as a barrier against the prevailing wind that blew in from the mountains.

  She stood alone at the graveside with only an old gravedigger waiting quietly in the background with his shovel in hand. Powers removed his hat and waited patiently behind her. She swayed and seemed to be about to fall and Powers moved forward quickly to take her arm.

  She looked down at his supporting hand and then up at him with distant eyes. “A dizzy spell, thank you,” and then, “I don’t know you,” she said, a statement but the question was implicit in her tone. Her voice was soft and a slight worry crease marked her brow as she tried to place him.

  “No ma’am, you don’t. My name’s Powers Brent. I knew your husband.”

  “Then you can’t have known him very well as he wasn’t my husband,” she said, looking down at the coffin that lay in shadow at the bottom of the newly dug grave.

  “I’m sorry,” said Powers in surprise. “I thought … it was a long time ago. . . .”

  “I know who you are, Mister Brent. We received your telegram some days ago. My brother told me all about you.”

  “Your brother! I didn’t know Red had a sister. He never mentioned you.”

  “No, he was like that about kin. Kept it to himself. I’m his only sister, younger by ten years. A late addition to our family.”

  “Well,” said Powers awkwardly. “I’ll … I’ll leave you now. I did not mean to intrude, it just seemed you might need some help
for a moment there.”

  She compressed her lips and lowered her head. “That’s all right, Mister Brent. In fact, I would be obliged if you would escort me home. I am, as you so rightly see, a little overcome.”

  “My pleasure to do so, ma’am”

  She took his arm and lowered her head once in the direction of the gravedigger as a sign he could continue and then they turned to walk out of the cemetery.

  “I am Mary McArthur,” she said. “And you are to call me by my first name.”

  “Very well,” agreed Powers. “If you will oblige me the same.”

  “You were good friends, my brother said. There were five of you, is that not so?”

  There was still the faint touch of a soft Scots lilt to her voice, almost lost but Powers was surprised by the charm of it.

  They walked slowly back down the road toward town and Powers enjoyed the touch of her arm in his. Strangely, he felt immediately protective toward this woman, whether it was because of her recent loss or the fact she was Red’s sister, he did not know.

  “That’s right,” he said. “We all found ranch work at the same time and hit it off right away. Then we all joined up and served in the army together.”

  “And why did you want to see my brother after all these years, Powers?”

  “Another sad affair, I’m afraid. One of the others has passed and his daughter thought that maybe Red would have liked to have known.”

  “I’m sure he would have. Which one was it?”

  “Glenn Dobbs.”

  “Ah, the corporal.”

  “That’s right. Red really did tell you everything then.”

  She stopped, pulling his arm gently and looking him directly in the eye. “No, Powers, not everything. Not the thing that turned him to God and found him a fortune. Though he did not keep much of it. He spent it all on building the church here in this town and helping the needy. Everything. There is nothing left. It was as if the money burned him, he could not get rid of it fast enough. The townsfolk here, naturally they gossip, they think we must have come from rich folk back east and that is the source of our wealth but, of course, I know different.”

  “He never told you?”

  “He would never speak of it. Whatever it was, he lived with it all his life. Paid for it with more than money. If it was mentioned, his face changed color and he went as pale as a ghost. I dreaded to bring it up, it had such a dire effect on him.”

  “Then perhaps we should let it lie with him, don’t you think?”

  Powers left her at the gate to her house, a small single story wooden building situated near the cemetery, promising to meet up with her again when she felt more like taking in company. For himself, he determined to see the sheriff and find out what more he could about Red’s murder, and with that in mind he walked on into town center.

  The sheriff turned out to be a portly energetic little man, with thinning hair kept in place by liberal application of macassar oil. His face was flushed with exertion after the walk from the cemetery. A silk top hat with a long black ribbon tied around it lay on his desk and he was unbuttoning a celluloid collar and tie as Powers came in. “Damned thing!” he cursed, trying to unfasten the stud on the collar. His double chins made it a difficult task.

  “You want a hand?” asked Powers.

  “Sure do. Don’t know why they make these things so tight.” He raised his chin as best he could and allowed Powers to dig at the recalcitrant stud.

  “You sure it’s the collar that’s too tight and not your neck that’s too wide?” asked Powers with a grin.

  The sheriff barked a laugh. “You might just have a point there, stranger.”

  The collar popped apart and the sheriff dragged at his tie with a sigh of relief. “Thank you, sir. Name’s Lowell Moore, Mayor and Town Sheriff.” He held out his hand and Powers shook it as he introduced himself.

  “How can I help you, Mister Brent?”

  “I just got into town, Sheriff. I was here to visit my old friend Andy McArthur who I haven’t seen since we were in the army together. But, as you know, I find him murdered in cold blood and wondered what you can tell me about that.”

  “I see,” said Sheriff Moore, setting aside his collar and tie and seating himself behind a desk covered with piles of paperwork. “Well, it’s a strange affair, Mister Brent. Andy was well liked here. He did a great deal for the community. A minister and friend to the people, no less, and yet he was shot down like a dog. It makes no sense and I tell you, sir, I despair of our times when I see such things, I truly do.”

  “Where was he found?”

  “In the street. An alley alongside the church. The church he paid for, I’ll add. Some men walking home after an evening out stumbled upon him. Shot through the head, very unpleasant.”

  “Through the head, you say. Front or back, pistol or rifle from range?”

  “A pistol, close up. Entrance wound in the back, exit in front. Not pretty, there was no way I could bring his sister along to show her the body. But she insisted; a strong-minded woman, our Mary. Came along to the morgue under her own steam and looked straight at the corpse. There was little to identify him, to be honest, only his red hair, his face was nonexistent. Mary did her duty though; extraordinary, quite a character, I’d say.”

  “Was there anything else you noticed?”

  “One other odd thing. His trouser legs were muddy at the knees, which I felt was strange. He was a neat and tidy man, Mary saw to that. It was almost as if he’d been kneeling when he was shot.”

  “Kneeling at prayer, you think?”

  “I reckon so or begging for mercy, something like that.”

  “Maybe even asking forgiveness,” Powers said thoughtfully.

  The sheriff shrugged. “Maybe so.”

  “So you think he might have known the murderer?”

  Moore paused, spread his hands wide and encompassed all his paperwork. Powers could see he was about to be educated rather than have an answer to his question.

  “I’m one man here, Mister Brent. We’re a town that’s often full of transients. Plenty of wagon trains pass through here headed for the pass. Mule skinners, emigrants, trappers and traders. You name it, they all pass by. As well as my law-keeping duties, I have a commission to vet and inspect every load that’s bound for the pass, give them due paperwork and collect the local road toll. Maybe Andy knew the killer and maybe he didn’t. Whoever it was, I reckon they’re long gone and, in all truth, we’ll never discover who they were.”

  “Did they take his money, watch, any valuables?”

  “Hard to say. Andy gave most everything away. He never had two cents to call his own, so if his pockets was empty, which they were, it would not be unusual.”

  “Sounds as if he lived like some kind of mendicant monk.” Powers frowned, trying to grasp the changes that had obviously taken place with Red during the intervening years.

  “You could say that.” Moore nodded in agreement. “He sure seemed that way. Driven, you know? Like a lot of religious people can be. Never drank liquor or took tobacco. Didn’t even eat much, I think. If it hadn’t been for his sister caring for him, I reckon he might well have faded away years ago.”

  Powers was sure he could get nothing more from the overworked official and he held out his hand. “I see. Well, thanks for your time, sheriff.”

  Moore looked at him keenly. “You hear of anything, you be sure and let me know now.”

  “I will,” Powers promised.

  Powers returned to his hotel room and sat to consider events. He took out his bottle and poured a drink, settling in the room’s armchair to do as he always did with complex problems. Sift and separate and place in relevant order. He knew his priorities; that was clear, and the simplest resolution. First off, he would find Cole Loumis. How that would pan out, he had no idea but he had given his word and he would see it through.

  Second was Bubba Jones. Poor dissolute Bubba. Could he help out there? Doubtful. Bubba had dug himself a hol
e with his drinking and the unfortunate relationship with his wanton society wife, Letitia. It was a muddy area that Powers did not want to get bogged down in.

  Then there was Red’s death to consider. An evil affair, no doubt about it. Certainly, it appeared that Red, just like the rest of them, had been obsessed by the guilt of their actions at Cabotsville and had altered as a result. He had become a penitent, giving up everything to salve his soul.

  Someone, though, had wanted more. Someone had wanted his life. Given all he had heard, he couldn’t believe this was a casual killing, arbitrarily carried out. Although there was no obvious superficial motive, there was one from the past. The dark deed they had laid at Cole Loumis’s door. Could it be that ghost? Could Cole Loumis be closer than he thought and chasing down the years to bring retribution?

  He had to wait for word from Bubba.

  Once Bubba had tracked down Cole, then he could find out the truth of it.

  He dozed then. He had done some traveling over the past few days. That, and the whisky, warmed him into sleep.

  Sitting in the chair, his head nodded forward and drooped.

  He dreamed then … dark dreams. Where shadows moved across shadows, large irregular shapes that loomed and flowed in the gloom, creating forms without meaning or purpose.

  Suddenly, he jerked awake. A white-faced Cole Loumis, pale as the full moon, looked down at him. It was dark in the room. Night time. Cole’s image faded as Powers came fully awake. His heart was beating fast and a slick of sweat ran across his brow.

  He did not sleep the rest of the night.

  Chapter Six

  Next day, he visited with Mary McArthur. She invited him in, taking him right past the parlor and directly into her kitchen at the rear of the house. A cozy place, with coffee bubbling on the stove.

  “Better in here,” she explained. “You like a cup?”

  He nodded acceptance and she picked up a pair of battered enameled mugs and filled both. “Sorry,” she said offering the full mug with a small smile. “Andy sold off the chinaware a long time back. I had to fight tooth and nail to stop him giving these away.”