Chapter Forty
I’d never seen such a mob. Most of Puma County was there, and plenty from the surrounding counties, too. I guess word got out, and there were people came a hundred miles just for this race. They were setting up to stay a while at the track, putting down blankets to sit on, and carrying picnic baskets. The ladies had got up in their best finery, lots of big straw hats against the August sun. I sure enjoy seeing women who are dolled up and looking flirty.
The heat was building, and I knew we’d all get burnt and roasted this race day, and I hoped people had sense enough to stay under big hats. By noon, the crowd had swelled to a couple thousand, which was more than we had in the county, so they were sure pouring in.
Boston Bill had a chalkboard on a tripod, where he posted the latest odds. The sorrel was the longshot, and if he won, he would pay out five for one. A feller could make a sawbuck on a two-dollar bet. Most of the smart money was on the Confederate horse, as he was being called, and the winners wouldn’t collect much. But they were calling it a sure thing, so it didn’t matter. A man could bet two simoleons and two minutes later have two and a half. But there were a lot of Union men who wouldn’t put a plugged nickel on a Reb horse, and a lot more who itched for a local horse, like Jones, to cop the race.
Much to my surprise, Walt Zablonski, sheriff of Medicine Bow County, showed up. He didn’t say much, just eyed me, eyed the track, eyed the bookmaker, Boston Bill, and eyed the competitors, Algernon Limp and Elmer Skruggs. It sure made me curious. Maybe there was more to it, but Zablonski wasn’t talking.
Boston Bill sure was doing a business. Folks were lined up to lay some greenbacks on him, and he received each bettor courteously, making sure people got the exact change, and a printed yellow ticket with the words “Davis” or “Jones” carefully written into a blank on the ticket.
“Winners, redeem your tickets ten minutes after the race, and after the judges have declared the results final,” he kept saying. “I’ll post the results on the chalkboard.”
The judges were all on hand early, all dressed in black suits for the occasion, in spite of the hot sun. King Glad at least doffed his suit coat until race time. But Cronk, the faro dealer, seemed impervious to the heat and just sat in a folding chair, smoking cigarillos and watching the mob. Doc Harrison was busy treating heatstroke, so he didn’t have a chance to stand around and look important.
By one-thirty, the place was half crazy. People were still in line, buying chits from Boston Bill, but now Bill was saying that he’d quit selling ten minutes ahead of the race. Sure enough, at ten minutes to two, he shut down.
“Sorry, fella, it’s race time now,” he said. “Betting’s closed. Hear that? Closed now.”
The crowd got the word, and drifted away, and Boston Bill asked me where the nearest outhouse might be.
“Behind the Last Chance,” I said.
“Watch over my deal here,” he said.
I kept an eye on his seat and chalkboard and a small black bag, glad to be of assistance.
Well, race time rolled around. The crowds milled around the two nags, studying them. Skruggs had got a racing pad on his sorrel, and would ride the critter himself. No fancy silks for him. In fact, he left his stained cowboy hat at his campsite. But Limp’s Swede jockey, Egbert Engstrom, was all duded up in purple silks and looked ready to run for the money.
The owners shook hands, the jocks mounted, and began exercising their nags, walk, trot, easy lope for a bit, while the judges stationed themselves. The nags would go twice around the track, and the chalk line was both the starting and finish line. So that’s where the big crowd collected, as many in the infield as outside the loop.
At the stroke of two, King Glad bawled into a megaphone. “Jockeys, line up your mounts.”
The jockeys lined up the horses at the line, with the Swede having a little trouble holding in the bay. Limp, dressed to the nines, watched blandly, puffing on a fat Havana. He’d been through all this lots of times.
I sure got fascinated. Skruggs sat easily on his red horse, but Engstrom looked twitchy.
A sudden silence swept the crowd.
Glad fired his shot; the horses broke away, a fair start, and the race was on.
They ran neck and neck through the first loop, with the Confederate nag on the outside and taking broader sweeps around the corners, but as they raced into the second loop, Jefferson Davis pulled ahead, running easily, and pretty soon it was a length, then two, then three, and finally four lengths ahead at the finish. It was a clear victory, and beyond dispute. The crowd watched silently. There hadn’t been enough drama to stir up much feeling. I thought that Turk had it right; he’d picked that horse and touted it, and now he must be crowing.
The horses slowed, their flanks heaving, their stifles sweat-soaked in the heat, and the jocks turned them back to the finish line, where the crowd waited.
The horses stood at last before the crowd, their jockeys relaxed.
King Glad consulted briefly with the other judges.
“The winner of this match race is Jefferson Davis, by four lengths. The judges are unanimous,” he said. “This race is over. The stakes go to Algernon Limp, owner of the bay.”
King Glad handed the match race cash to Limp.
There was a little weak cheering, but the drama was already over at the three-quarter mark.
The crowd examined its race tickets, and the ones who’d put cash on Jones were pitching their tickets away, while the larger crowd that put money on Davis began lining up at the bookmaker’s stand, where the chalkboard still stood on its tripod with the final odds written on it.
But Boston Bill was nowhere in sight.
“He’ll be right back,” I said.
But he didn’t return. Off a bit, Skruggs was unsaddling his red horse, and Engstrom was walking his bay, while Limp watched languidly. Skruggs’s face was a mask. He and his cowboy buddies in the next county had hoped for a big upset, and that hadn’t happened.
Sheriff Zablonski of Medicine Bow edged up to me. “It’s like I figured,” he said. “You’d better find Boston Bill, and fast, and maybe put those other two behind bars.”
“What?”
“Just like I thought. The three are in cahoots, along with the jockey. They pulled this one in Rock Springs and cleaned up.”
“What are you saying?”
“Find Boston Bill fast. He probably skipped town. That kid there, Skruggs, he’s not from Medicine Bow County. No one’s ever heard of him. It’s a simple deal: These three travel together. They find a county seat like this. Boston Bill sets up shop, these two run the races, sometimes throwing the race one way or another if it suits.”
There were plenty of people listening, and the result was a human thunderstorm.
“Sheriff, keep order here. I’m going after him.”
“Not my county.”
“You’re deputized. Right now.”
He grinned.
I stared at the crowd, a giant thunderclap in the making, and then raced toward town. I hardly knew where to look. Boston Bill could have dodged any way, down any road. Maybe he was still there, waiting for the moment to go.
I wheeled into Sammy Upward’s saloon. Sammy wasn’t there, but a young barkeep was. “You see a beefy man in a dark suit and derby here?”
“Nope.”
“If you do, hold him.” I said.
I raced along Wyoming Street. Turk’s place would be next. That’s where a man could get a saddle horse. But Turk’s was deserted, like the rest of the town. If Boston Bill had stolen a horse and saddle, no one was around to stop it. I stared down side streets, studied distant roads. Then I remembered the Laramie and Overland Stage. A mud wagon was due to leave about race time. That office was two blocks up Wyoming, on the west side of town, as far from the racetrack as one could get.
It was deserted, except for a clerk in a sleeve garter.
“Laramie stage leave?”
“Yep. You’re too late.”
“Who was on it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Couple of whiskey drummers, one patent medicine salesman.”
“Wearing what?”
“Something bothering you, sheriff?”
“Tell me fast. What were they wearing? Right now!”
The feller sighed. “I don’t pay much attention. Light colors, summer stuff. The whiskey drummers, tan suits, checkered waistcoats, likely. The other one, light blue jacket, straw hat.”
“Any carrying big bags?”
“They all carry a samples bag, that’s for taking orders. And a valise.”
“The patent medicine man, what was he carrying?”
“Beats me,” the clerk said. “Maybe a small case, like a sample case.”
“Was he in a hurry? Breathing hard?”
“Nope, bought a ticket to Laramie, paid cash, sat down, waited for the jehu to load up, and that was that.”
“How far out are they now?”
“Left fifty minutes ago. Must be four miles out.”
There was a wire that went to the courthouse. I headed that way, hoping I’d find Wiley Wills, the telegraph operator. I’d telegraph Laramie, get them to hold all passengers on that stage. I huffed my way to the courthouse, but there was no one in the place. No telegrapher. I rattled around in there, looking for anyone who could tap out my message, but in fact the whole lot of people there were at the track. There were only two people in Doubtful who could tap out a message, and they were not around.
I could saddle Critter and try to catch up, and hope one of the three passengers was Boston Bill, or I could keep on looking in town. I chose to stay; there was trouble brewing right here. The whole town was like a warehouse of giant powder, ready to blow. I didn’t know what would happen, but it was going to be as bad as anything I’d ever faced.
By the time I got to the racetrack, things were out of hand. A mob surrounded Zablonski, demanding that he produce Boston Bill. There were other mobs surrounding Limp and Skruggs, and about all I heard was shouting. Another crowd had corralled the judges, and were threatening to pulverize them. I looked for Rusty, but he wasn’t around, and it was going to be me against not one but several mobs, all ready for a fight.
King Glad still had a megaphone in hand, so I figured I’d get to him. If I could get the mob quieted down, maybe I could keep the place safe.
But when I tried to push through the angry crowd, they simply grabbed me.
“Sheriff! Where’s my money? What are you gonna do?”
“I’m going to keep the peace, and you’re going to let go of me,” I yelled.
But they didn’t let go. In fact, they started blaming me.
“Why didn’t you nab them?”
“Some sheriff! These crooks need hanging, and where were you?”
It wasn’t hard to see where all this was heading. A lynching was building up, and this mob might well lynch a dozen people before it quit. They had swarmed Skruggs and Limp, and were holding both. King Glad, with the megaphone, saw what was building, climbed up on the nearest wagon and began yelling.
“Cut it out,” he roared. “I’m a judge here, and I’m telling you to quiet down. Now listen to me!”
But the mob ignored him.
“Hang these bastards,” yelled a cowboy. “String ’em up.”
And I knew of no way to stop them, but I would try.