Second Chance (The Deadman Series Book 5) Page 4

  Although it seemed like a childish thing to do, he had wagged his finger under the kid’s nose and threatened to tell the boy’s boss, but Hank just grinned. “Forgot to pack a lunch, Dick. Why don’t you relax a little?”

  Today was no better. Curtis had shown up with a pack of cards and the two deputies sat on the front porch of the house, playing poker. Dicky knew that his boss, Roy Smithers, would have sent these sprouts packing, but what was HE supposed to do?

  He grabbed another innocent daffodil and stood up to walk the fence line again. He had to admit…this was deadly dull duty, for sure. The three of them had been stationed here at the Thurston home for over two weeks now, and there’d been no sign of foul play. Each day came and went without mishap, the only thing to show for his diligence—the slowly melting snow and the appearance of spring bulbs—crocuses, daffodils and tightly folded tulips, which he was demolishing in his fit of pique.

  Also, he acknowledged, the returning health of the nice lady inside the house. Rumor had it that his oldest, dearest friend, Matthew, was sweet on the journalist, and it was easy to see why. When Dicky had first met Annie Thurston, he took one look at her home and expected a high society snob to snap orders at him and make sure he only used the “back entrance.”

  Instead, he found her to be warm, gracious and down-to-earth…despite her awful injuries. Her father, Clyde Thurston, was a little more brisk but Dicky thought it was worry and frustration at being stuck at home—under police protection—rather than the snobbishness of great wealth.

  Still, Dicky thought as he waked toward the alleyway behind the home’s large backyard, maybe it’s time to either head on in to North Idaho to help Matthew in his investigation or head back home to Granville.

  He stopped and stared at two horses that were tied up to the neighbor’s back fence. He had walked the perimeter about an hour ago and the horses were not there then…where had they come from? he wondered. The only thing he had ever seen in this alleyway was the milk wagon and the coal truck, both of which came as regularly as clockwork every Tuesday and Thursday.

  Feeling a sudden chill, Dick looked around and started jogging toward the house. He called out, “Hank—Curtis, better look sharp. We might have visitors…”

  He was close enough to the back porch the men should have heard his shout, but there was no response. Picking up the pace and pulling his pistol from his holster, Dick ran along the side of the house. Clearing the front, he stopped as he saw the two deputies lying sprawled out and still on the front porch.

  Gulping, he crouched down and studied the front yard, the heavy shrubbery by the porch, and the numerous trees lining the walkway. Seeing nothing, he climbed the steps and walked to the front door. He turned the knob and realized the door was still locked.

  Shaking his head, he stared down at the two young boys gazing at nothing from cold, dead eyes. Whoever had done the deed favored knives, Dicky thought, seeing the red bibs of blood leaking from the slits in their throats, coating their gray blouses and covering the tin stars on their shirt pockets.

  Feeling a tingle of fear, Dicky stared in the front window. There were lace curtains on two of the big windows and if he looked closely, he could see Mr. Thurston’s profile as he bent over his desk.

  Hoping against hope, he peered around the sill, and saw Clyde talking on the telephone. He seemed to be just fine, for now. Seizing the opportunity, Dick knocked sharply on the glass.

  He saw the old man jump and glare at him from his desk. Gesturing, Dicky shouted, “Mr. Thurston! Come here…QUICKLY!”

  Seeing the look on the deputy’s face, Clyde said something to the person on the other end of the line and hung up, scurrying over to the window. Unlocking an interior latch, Thurston opened the window and asked, “Deputy! What on Earth is the matter?”

  Dicky stepped aside so Thurston could see the carnage on his front porch. Gasping in shock, Clyde glanced upstairs.

  “Go and get your daughter, right now! I’ll be waiting for you…HURRY!”

  Clyde bolted up the staircase, while Dicky crouched behind an outdoor chaise lounge with his gun cocked and ready. Then, he heard two things simultaneously: the tattoo of feet flying down the staircase and the sound of breaking glass from the back of the house.

  Jumping up, Dicky saw Thurston stick his head out the window. “Is it safe?”

  Dicky shook his head. “I don’t know, but we have no choice—they’re in the house! Come on—we have to make a run for it!”

  Annie and Clyde stepped out the low sill onto the porch and Dicky hustled them both down the front walk toward their car, which was parked on the street.

  All three of them felt is if there were targets on their backs but they made it to the vehicle unharmed. Climbing inside, Thurston yelled, “Someone has to turn the crank!”

  Dicky looked back and saw smoke coming around the back of the house and the red flicker of flames through the front window. He also saw some of Thurston’s neighbors looking their way, and running toward them from the safety of their own lawns.

  Running to the front of the car, Dicky seized the crank and gave it a mighty heave. The automobile rumbled to life and he yelled at an approaching man, “Harvey, get back! It’s not safe here! Go home and call the fire department!”

  Suddenly, shots rang out. Harvey Campbell fell to his knees with a yelp of fear and scrambled back towards the safety of his own home. He ran inside and telephoned the police and the fire department, watching through his front windows as the Thurston’s shiny new automobile became pocked with bullet holes and gunfire filled the air.

  The deputy sheriff who turned the crank on Clyde’s car had somehow made it inside the car, but then Harvey saw blood splatter the interior windshield. He gaped in dismay but the car managed to limp down the road, despite the damage to its exterior.

  Just then, there was a huge roar and the Thurston’s beautiful gray mansion spouted smoke from every window, as glass blew outward and flames blossomed, stretching into the sky overhead.

  Chapter Six

  Matthew and Chance

  Two weeks had passed since Chance and his companions arrived at Jacob’s home in North Idaho. He and his father had made a few trips into the town of Wallace and, except for general knowledge that some of the claims in the area had been raided, no one had a clue as to who the mysterious claim-jumpers might be.

  “Just look around you…” one of the barkeeps in town stated. “Hundreds a people a week come and go through these parts, and every one of ’em wants a piece of the action.”

  Indeed, the actual population of Wallace was far more than Chance had originally thought—almost four thousand souls. Scores of men, women and children roamed the streets, cavorted in the saloons and went about their business, even as the bartender dismissed his query with a snort of contempt.

  Chance asked, “Do you think the claim jumpers might be affiliated with the mine?”

  Studying the high, barbed wire fence that separated the town from the actual mine, he saw timber-covered hills stretching around the town as far as the eye could see. Up close though, the ground had been scraped bare to the bedrock and a number of large, wooden buildings, flumes, walkways and trestles had taken the place of nature’s cedar scented, swampy splendor.

  Just past the architecture, numerous port holes were drilled into the side of a large hill. Tracks led into and out of the shafts and small wooden railcars, filled to the brim with ore, trundled back and forth.

  There were numerous waterways winding through the property as well. Some were natural, Chance figured, but some had been made by man. A couple of railcars made their way out of a shaft to a particularly large mill pond and dumped their loads at the edge. Shouting, mud-covered men converged on the ore and heaved the bigger boulders, by hand, into the water.

  Even as he watched, the water boiled and churned, turning its glassy surface a ghastly, greenish-gray color. As the pond’s overflow, a sickly iridescent sludge, trickled down a steep embankme
nt into a creek that ran through the middle of town, Chance stepped back, vowing not to drink from the town’s water supply again.

  “I dunno…” the bartender continued, “most of our troubles begin and end with the labor unions…” He held his hands up in a surrender gesture. “Mind you, I ain’t for, nor against the union. It’s just that, if you know anything about this town, you know that men have lost their lives pursuing that particular argument. I gotta keep my eyes peeled—all the time—as to who is frequenting my establishment. I don’t got no time to worry ’bout what’s happening upstream of here.”

  Chance saw his father making his way down a busy thoroughfare. Waving in his direction, he heard the old man add, “Word to the wise, though…”

  Turning back to face the bartender, Chance said, “What’s that?”

  “Well, I ain’t got the fanciest place in town, but I do know that when men want a stiff one and a quiet place to talk, Bernie’s Brewery is where they go. I’ve seen some of the richest men in the world sittin’ in the back of my place talking ’bout stuff that should never be spoke of outside a boardroom.” He took his slouch hat off and scratched at his balding scalp.

  “If’n you had some time, you and yer Pa could prob’ly learn quite a bit, just sittin’ in my bar and listenin’ to what the customers have to say…just so long as you don’t tell none of ’em what I told you. Spies for the mine aren’t looked on kindly in these parts, ya know.”

  Chance started to tell the bartender that he and his father were not spies, but Matthew stepped up and said hello. As his pa and the old man shot the breeze, Chance realized that was exactly what he and Matthew were doing—spying… not for the Hecla, Sunshine or Phoenix mines—or their union counterparts—but they were trying to sniff out just who was responsible for the criminal enterprises going on all over the Silver Valley area.

  Matthew finished his conversation with the old barkeep and turned to Chance. “Well, I say we grab a bite to eat before heading back to Jacob’s house. What do you think?”

  “Sounds good, Pa. You heard nothing on your end, either?”

  Matthew shook his head. “Nah…it’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Frankly, I didn’t realize this town was so big.”

  Nodding, Chance agreed. “Guess we better just head back to Jacob’s and wait for the claim-jumpers to show up.”

  “I guess.” Looking up the street, Matthew said, “Let’s go there, they have good coffee.” They stepped up on the boardwalk in front of a modest café. Suddenly, they heard a shout. It seemed so unlikely to hear his name called out in a town full of strangers, Matthew spun around in bewilderment, scanning the crowd on the street and touching the grip on his firearm.

  Peering through the random strangers, Chance exclaimed, “its Dicky, Pa! What’s he doing here, I wonder?”

  Pondering the same thing and feeling a prickle of alarm, Matthew murmured, “I wonder too, Chance.”

  They stepped down off the boardwalk and walked toward Dicky’s small form. Studying the deputy’s face, Matthew knew that something was definitely amiss…whenever Dicky was scared or worried about something, his numerous freckles stood out on his pale, Scottish complexion like specks of paint.

  They met up and Dicky said, “I’m so glad to find you two here. I was thinking I was going to have to rent a mount and travel up to Jacob’s place!”

  Matthew said, “What’s going on, Dick? Why are you here?”

  Dicky took off his hat and wiped sweat from his brow. “You were right Matthew…whoever is doing wrong up here has decided that your friend Annie, and any other witnesses to Mrs. Brazil’s murder, are on their “Hit” list. Yesterday, they set fire to the Thurston’s home!”

  Matthew blanched. “… And? Is Annie okay?”

  Dicky nodded. “Yes, sir. I managed to get both Annie and her father out in time. You should know, though, that Clyde was grazed in the arm when we were trying to make our getaway. He’ll be alright—apparently Annie has some medical training—but he’s stubborn, Matthew! I tried to take him to the hospital, but he refused to go. Instead, he had me drive both of them to the newspaper office downtown.”

  Matthew nodded. “I’m not surprised, Dick.” Gazing into the far distance for a few moments he added, “Did you happen to clap eyes on the perpetrators?”

  Dicky shook his head. “No, sir. But they’re a bad bunch. They murdered those two young deputies assigned to me. Slit their throats while I was patrolling the backyard!” For the first time, the young deputy let his feelings of horror and anger show. His bright brown eyes turned red and he sniffed tears away. “Goddammit, Matthew! They weren’t much, but they were just kids, really. They didn’t deserve to go out like that!”

  Chance touched his friend’s shoulder and Matthew said, “I’m sorry that happened to you, Dick. Honestly, I didn’t think the skunks we’re up against would be that bold.”

  Dick spat on the ground. “Yeah, they are bold as brass—whoever they are. My worry is if they knew where Annie and her father lived, they probably know that Clyde owns the newspaper. What’s to stop them from firing that place next?”

  Matthew had been thinking the exact same thing. Skin crawling with worry and trying to remember if the newspaper office was built with wood or brick, he heard the afternoon train whistle sing. Glancing at his pocket watch, he realized that the outgoing train to Spokane would be leaving in the next twenty minutes.

  Making up his mind (and not knowing if it was the right course of action or not) he said, “Change of plans. Dicky, I want you to go back to Jacob’s house with Chance, okay? I think that I’d better go to the newspaper office. I’ll either try to talk Clyde and Annie out of there and into police custody…or, I’ll stay there with them and make sure they’re safe, in case the perpetrators make a go at them again.”

  Dicky nodded in agreement. “Yes, sir, will do. Listen, are you going to talk to the Spokane County sheriff?”

  Matthew answered. “Yes, definitely. I want to see if they’ll release more officers to help us out.”

  Dicky said, “Well, tell him, please, how sorry I am about his two new hires, okay?”

  “I will, I promise,” Matthew answered. “We’d better get a move on if I’m going to make that outbound.”

  The three men walked quickly down the muddy road to the train station. Dick told Matthew everything he knew—specifically, that the fire had engulfed two houses, and that Clyde had suffered a painful but non-life-threatening graze on the upper arm. In turn, Matthew filled Dick in on what they’d been doing the last couple of weeks…specifically, mining for silver and gold in the icy waters below Jacob’s home, and waiting for some rough customers to make an appearance.

  “Yeah,” Chance concurred with a snort. “I’m learning WAY more about river mining than I ever wanted to know!”

  “That’s okay, Chance.” Matthew admonished, gently. “Just be glad you don’t need to take that route to make a living. I heard, just a few minutes ago, that maybe one in a thousand of the men who work in these mines are even remotely successful.”

  He sighed, stepping up onto the train platform. “Mainly, the workers in these mines end up owing most of their wages to the company-run stores. That’s why there is so much civil unrest in these parts. The workers want to unionize, but the mine owners will do just about anything to make a profit, including fighting the union tooth and nail.”

  Turning to face Chance and Dicky, Matthew said, “I’ll try to get this mess in Spokane sorted out as soon as possible, alright? Meanwhile, keep your heads down and be on the lookout. Jacob and his son Hans are game hands but…Jacob is a little too ornery, I reckon. I don’t want him to get his head shot off if those punks do show up while I’m away.”

  The departing whistle sounded, and he stepped up inside the train. Hanging on to the door frame, Matthew called out, “Don’t come back here until I return!”

  Chance and Dicky nodded and watched as the train left the station, taking Matthew with it.


  Chapter Seven

  Matthew

  Matthew stepped off the train in Spokane and stood staring at a crowd of people gathered in the street. A woman was standing on a wooden box shouting about worker’s rights and the crowd who listened, mainly men, roared their approval, shouting, “Wobblies want to work!”

  Matthew saw that the city police were in attendance. They seemed content, for the moment, to stand guard passively…mainly keeping the boisterous crowd away from the trains and the businesses situated across the street. There was also, he noticed, a fire engine parked on the corner and he heard a firefighter sporadically ringing the alarm bell.

  It was there for two reasons, Matthew knew. One, rioters were well known for starting fires, literally—if they felt they were not being taken seriously enough and two, sometimes the firefighters turned their hoses on an out-of-control crowd. It seemed that cold, stinging water cooled tempers better than billy clubs did, and at far less cost than broken noggins.

  Matthew had heard the allegations…apparently, crooked agents who worked for employment agencies in Spokane had hired whole work crews (for a fee) for some of the logging companies and mining outfits in the region, only to fire them at will, for no reason other than to collect fees—twice—for whole new work crews needed by the same employers.

  Shaking his head, he stepped off the platform, skirted the growing crowd and hailed an approaching cab. A small buggy pulled up and the young driver grinned. “Get in quick before the coppers shut the place down!”

  Matthew climbed in back and said, “Take me to the sheriff’s department, please.”

  The driver nodded, snapping the reins over his elderly horse’s rump. They took off with a lurch and headed down the muddy street. Matthew asked, “How long as this been going on?”