Murder at Thumb Butte by James D. Best Read Free Book Online

an alibi, but police suspect he hired someone to do the deed. They’re not pursuing it very hard.” I walked over and put a hand on Sharp’s shoulder. “Jeff, I put Pinkertons on it. If I get proof, your old partner could swing from the gallows.”
    “ If he returns to New York?”
    “ We’ll figure out a way to lure him back.” Now I slapped him on the back. “Hell, if we have to, we’ll hogtie and ship him home.”
    Sharp nodded thanks. “By the way, how do ya intend to make electricity?”
    “ Steam engine. We’ll roll a locomotive up the tracks to the mine head and use it to generate electricity. Or perhaps we drop off a boiler. Haven’t figured it all out yet, but I have engineers working on it back east.”
    Sharp took a moment to rub his horse’s forehead. “Let me see if I got this straight. Ya don’t own this invention, ya want to cut a deal with a crook in some godforsaken territory, an’ ya ain’t figured out how to make electricity.”
    I laughed. “That pretty much covers it.”
    “ And I thought I liked risk!”
    “ I saw you thinking. You know what this could be worth.”
    Sharp swung back into his saddle. “I do. That’s why I’m ridin’ with ya.”

Chapter 8
     
    Prescott made Carson City look cosmopolitan. At the town’s center stood a two-story Victorian courthouse situated on a grass commons. The largest commercial building was the Palace, where we rented rooms behind the saloon. An outside staircase running along an extended arm of the building led to a covered walkway with access to rooms. The palace didn’t offer suites, but our rooms were large and clean, with fresh bedding. It had been four weeks since we had left Carson City, so we drank a quick beer and then took a bottle of whiskey to a bathhouse. Within short order, we had boarded the horses, secured adequate rooms, taken baths, changed into clean clothes, and gotten a little drunk. I was getting this routine on entering a new town committed to memory.
    The Palace saloon was grandiose. Shiny brass lamp fixtures accented the dark paneled walls, and mirrors the size of a bed reflected the light thrown from the hissing gas jets. Earlier in the afternoon, the saloon had been quiet, but by the time we returned, it had turned boisterous. My first thought was that I was going to like this place.
    Sharp and I leaned against the bar and ordered beers. As we waited for the barkeep to draw our drinks, I listened to a woman singing near a window at the front of the saloon. Her lusty voice easily carried through the large room that held at least fifty animated men. I noticed her hair billowed a bit and saw that the window behind her was open. Then a couple of men yelled at her from the boardwalk. Without missing a note, she turned toward them with a seductive smile and a dip that exposed a generous amount of cleavage. Soon the men were inside admiring the songbird, swinging chilled beers in rhythm with the music.
    I signaled the barkeep to come over. I wanted to know who ran this establishment so effectively.
    “ Whiskey?” he asked.
    “ Not yet. I’m Steve Dancy and this is Jeff Sharp.”
    He offered his hand. “Lew Davis. What can I do for you gentlemen?”
    “ Could you tell me who owns this establishment?”
    “ Bob Brow.” The barkeep pointed. “He’s over there, keeping an eye on the gaming tables.” He gave me a curious but unchallenging look. “Complaint?”
    “ Not a one. I want to talk to him about business.”
    “ Bob will talk your ear off about business—unless you want him to put money into some dumb scheme.”
    “ Got my own money.”
    “ Then sidle up to him. You’ll find him agreeable.”
    Jeff and I waved thanks with our beer tankards and approached Brow, who stood behind a poker table, watching the play. I started to walk up to him, but Sharp put a restraining hand on my forearm.
    “ Don’t walk behind the players. Ya might get yerself in a needless fight.”
    I caught Brow’s eye and nodded