Borden
Chantry II (cont.)
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Somebody wanted
an obvious cause of death
in the event the body was found..
. .
Returning to the body he studied it again. Whatever he could learn
might help his fellow officer, and in any event any crime in the
area might sooner or later come to rest in town, his town.
Squatting on his heels beside the dead man, Borden looked him over
with care. Not a very clean man, certainly. The under-side of his
coat sleeve was polished as from rubbing on a desk or bench. The
cuffs of his pants were somewhat frayed. The shirt was dirty at
the collar and cuffs, unchanged for several days. The hands showed
no familiar calluses but the nails were dirty and there was something
dark, ink perhaps, on the fingers.
 The
pockets had been searched but he found a couple of small coins,
unlikely in a western man's pockets as nothing was used smaller
than a two-bit piece. Either this man was from the east or he had
recently been east.
Several times he had stopped his examination to look around, and
was becoming increasingly uneasy. The killer was probably miles
away but he could not be sure. Borden's roan was waiting patiently,
not twenty yards away, yet suddenly he began wishing he had his
rifle in his hands. He doubted if the killer was anywhere around
but he had the uneasy feeling of a man who is watched.
Gathering brush he piled it over the body to keep the buzzards
away. It would worry them for awhile and before they became confident
he would have a wagon here to pick up the body.
Mounting, he rode away at a rapid canter, his eyes alert for any
movement or anything like a clue. He rode on to his own abandoned
ranch-house, coming down from the north into the small valley with
its big old cottonwoods and the shabby little cabin standing in
their shade.
The corrals were empty, the open-faced barn that had offered shelter
to his saddle-stock during good weather and the stronger, tightly
built barn for winter storms remained as he had left them.
 He
walked his horse down the slope and looked at the cabin. He did
not want to go in. Too many memories there. He had built that cabin
with his own hands, and he had brought his bride here with some
small pride, yet he remembered how she had looked when he carried
her over the threshold and put her down.
"This? This is it?"
He would never forget her tone. Of course, she could not be expected
to know how he felt about it, or how other such places were. She
was an eastern girl and evidently had expected more. Yet she had
been a good wife, and was a fine person. He wished he could have
had more, and but for that turn of bad weather he would have been
a rich man by now, able to afford what he wanted, what she wanted.
He did not know what she had envisioned when he spoke of his ranch.
Evidently it had not been this. He loved the place, the cabin, its
cold spring, the rustling cottonwood leaves, the small vegetable
garden he had planned so carefully. He sensed her disappointment
yet he believed she had come to love the place.
Borden glanced around a little, walking his horse from place to
place, then he took the trail for town. He would have to get a telegram
off to the sheriff and the U.S. Marshal.
His thoughts returned to the body. He did not know but he was sure
the man had already been dead when shot in the head. For one thing
there was no blood. The air was crisp and cool, really cold at night,
so there would be little change in the body.
Brought from some distance away, deliberately shot, then left.
In such a place it might have lain there two or three years unfound,
so why the bullet? Insurance, he suspected. Somebody wanted an obvious
cause of death in the event the body was found.
Why not just leave the dead body? If found, the killer must have
decided, there must be an obvious cause of death so investigation
would go no further.
That implied there was something more to be found, it also implied
the killer had something to be worried about, something he did not
want investigated. It also implied that whoever disposed of the
body knew the country, knew that was an empty area, that Borden
Chantry no longer worked his ranch, that even a round-up in the
area was unlikely. That implied somebody with local knowledge.
When he left his ranch behind he let the roan choose his own pace
and settled down in the saddle to do some thinking.
Where had the dead man come from? What was he doing in this country,
obviously a city man? Where had he been killed? And why? And by
whom?
Somebody with local knowledge, and that meant somebody who knew
him, somebody who might wonder where he had been riding today. Somebody
with something to hide who was willing to kill to keep it hidden.
This was ranching country with a railroad that ran right across
the state. His town was only a whistle-stop. It was cattle country,
and sheep country as well. What could the dead man have wanted here,
of all places?
 And
he had not been around town or Borden would have seen him. He would
have to wire the U.S. Marshal and Harold, the telegrapher, would
know. Borden swore softly, with amused exasperation. What Harold
Cuff knew the whole town would know.
Nevertheless, he rode his horse up to the window overlooking the
tracks. "Wire to the Deputy U.S. Marshal, Harold. To Thurston Jones...
"No need to waste your money, Bord. Thursty's in town. He's up
at the cafe, lookin' for you."
"Thanks." He turned his horse. Sometimes it helped to know Harold
Cuff.
EDITOR'S NOTE: Borden
Chantry II is 96 pages long. We have included chapters two through
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