Outcast (3 page)

“I'm sorry, Mabel. Could I
please
have the Bele file?”

A moment later a box suspended on a string descended from the loft.

The clerk turned to leave, but the box swung behind him and bumped into his back. Even in the shadowy room, Standish could see the man's face turn red. He turned and looked up the shaft. “Yes, thank you, Mabel. Sorry I didn't mention that.”

The clerk returned, tossed the file on his desk and sat down. “Mabel is the wife of the chairman of the county commission. Wonderful woman,” he grimmaced.

Standish nodded.

“Now, let's see,” the clerk said, pulling the kerosene lamp on his desk closer to his work. “Yes, here it is. He died in November. Neighbor said he had tuberculosis, but women like her, well.… Let's see, no known relatives. Turned over to a public administrator.”

The clerk cocked his head and looked up at Standish. “Maybe you should go out and take a look at this place. Not much chance of making a living on it.”

“I've seen it.”

The clerk shrugged. “Well, nobody has claimed the property yet. You could pay the back taxes. That would give you first claim to the property, but.…”

“How much would that be?”

“Seven dollars and forty-five cents, no forty-six cents.”

Standish reached into his pocket.

The clerk held up his hand. “There are some liens on his property, too.”

“Liens?”

“Yes, the bank has one for.…” The clerk cocked his head. “Five hundred dollars. I wonder what…?” He looked up. “I wouldn't pay any five hundred dollars for that place.”

“Any others?”

The Emporium has a bill for $12.18, and Ivan Kabanov, the blacksmith, is caring for the horse at $5 a month. You would have to take care of that.”

Standish nodded. “I'll pay the back taxes now, and then I'll bring back receipts on the liens.”

The clerk leaned back in his chair, cocking his head. “You find some gold up there Mr.…?”

“That's all limestone country,” Standish said. “No gold there.”

“You are a miner, then?”

Standish pulled some coins from his pocket. He gave the clerk a gold half eagle, two silver dollars, a quarter, two dimes and a penny. “This is the only gold I've found.” The clerk chuckled, and Standish asked. “Could I have a receipt for that, please?”

The clerk stared at Standish for a moment, and then nodded. “And to whom should I address the lien”

“Standish, M.J. Standish.”

The clerk rubbed the palm of one hand across his chin. “Standish, that sounds familiar.”

“It should. I just introduced myself.”

The clerk grinned. “Yes, I guess you did.”

He handed Standish a slip of paper.

“I s'pect you're off to see the banker, now.”

“I'spect so,” Standish said. He turned, and then stopped. “I suspect I should have a copy of the death certificate, too.”

The clerk nodded. “Just go.… Just wait here; I'll get it for you.”

A pretty young woman in a blue dress stood in a wrought-iron cage. She was staring at him, blinking. Standish flinched, and then he realized that he was silhouetted in a shaft of light coming through the door. He must look like a ghost to her. He stepped up to the cage, nothing but his smile showing beneath the brim of his hat.

“I was hoping I might see the bank president about some land.”

The young woman smiled. “I'll take you to him.” She stepped out of the cage, and Standish followed her. Something teased his nose. She was wearing a lilac scent. It was too early for lilacs, but the fragrance brought back memories of Standish's childhood. He shook them from his mind, not wanting to be distracted in his talk with the president.

The young lady stepped in front of the banker's desk. “Mr. Butler, this gentleman would like to speak with you.”

The bank president was bent over his desk, doodling furiously. He didn't look up at his teller's introduction. He had seen the bank's visitor. Wide-brimmed hat pulled low over a bearded face. The flannel shirt was long on wear and short on clean, and his woolen trousers seemed capable of walking off on their own if they were given the opportunity. Perhaps more odious was the wafting odor of horse that proceeded the man.

E.J. Burkhart was a professional man, a banker who held Last Chance's financial reins in hand. He didn't like to have his day interrupted by riffraff. Burkhart sighed. Public service was public service. He pulled a scented handkerchief from his vest pocket and held it to his nose.

“What can I do for you, mister.…”

“Thank you,” Standish said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. “I'm interested in a place west of here and discovered that you have a lien filed against it.”

Burkhart's eyes darted around his desk, as though he were following the flight of a housefly. “Perhaps you could give me the name.”

“Bele, Klaus Bele.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. B-e-l-l.” Burkhart drew the word into a sneer. “So you have come to pay off his debt.”

“I'd like to see the lien, please.”

Burkhart's eyebrow curled. “You can read?”

“Tolerably well.”

“Yes, I suppose.” The banker turned to the young lady in the teller's cage. “Miss Smythe, would you please give me Mr. Bell's papers?”

The young woman was torn between counting a deposit on her desk and complying. Burkhart resolved the issue. “Now, Miss Smythe!” She jumped a little at the tone of her boss's voice, apologized to her customer and walked to Burkhart's desk.

“I need the Bell file.”

Miss Smythe nodded, bent down and opened the top drawer on Burkhart's desk. She thumbed through the files for a moment and handed the Bell file to her boss.

“Hard to get good help, here,” Burkhart said, and Standish noticed a soft pink spreading across Miss Smythe's face. She walked back to the teller cage and apologized again to her customer. He nodded, but knots rippled through the muscles of his jaw.

Burkhart refocused his distaste on Standish. “This is the lien. Please don't…muss it.”

Standish pored through the lien, pausing to ask the banker. “You ever seen his place?”

The banker's eyes darted around his desk as though they had suddenly broken their bonds with his brain. He opened the middle drawer on his desk and began rearranging the pens, pencils, pads and forms there.

Standish stopped reading and starred at Burkhart, awaiting a reply.

“Uh, yes I have. Not worth a dime, that place. Can't see why you're interested in it.”

“Pretty place.”

Burkhart laughed, a chortling little laugh. “Can't sell pretty.”

“I guess not,” Standish said. He leaned against the back of the chair. “This lien is very interesting.”

Burkhart stiffened. His head cocked to one side as he studied what he could see of Standish's face in the shadow of that wide-brimmed hat. He could see only Standish's lips moving as the stranger said, “This lien was taken out…let's see on the twelfth of December.”

Burkhart regained his confidence. “Notarized. Right there,” he said, pointing to the seal stamped into the page. “That proves that the lien was filed on the twelfth.”

“Yes it does.” Standish said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. “This is Mr. Bele's death certificate. Estimated time of death was the tenth of December. Hell of a man, Mr. Bele was, to walk in here two days after he died and borrow $500 on his property.”

Standish leaned back in his chair.

Burkhart's shoulders were shrugging as though he had a facial tic that had migrated down his spinal cord. “That's an estimate. Bell lived alone. How could anyone possibly know when he died?”

Standish sighed and settled into his chair. “You're right. Living alone like that it's impossible to know when he died.”

Burkhart sneered. “We've established then that the lien is valid and you will have to pay it in full if you want to establish any claim to that land.”

A smile appeared below Standish's wide-brimmed hat. “Quite to the contrary, sir, we have proven that the lien is bogus, fraudulent.”

A dull red spread across the banker's face. “I have no more time for this. If you want to establish a bona fide claim on the land, you must pay the lien. That's all I have to say on the matter. Leave now, or I shall call the sheriff. He shall deal with you as ruffians such as yourself should be dealt with. I have more important things to do.”

“Thank you,” Standish said. “That will save me the trouble.”

“The trouble?”

“The trouble of calling the sheriff myself.”

“And what business do you have with the sheriff?”

“I'll file charges of fraud against you.”

“I tire of this charade.”

“Good, I'll try to make this as simple as possible so we can move on. First, we don't know when Bele died, but we do know that he died before this lien was filed. His body was found on the tenth. There's no way of knowing how long before that he died.”

Burkhart's eyes were chasing dust motes through the air. “I don't see how this.…”

“Of course you do, but there are some points you might not know. The lien is signed with an X.”

“Yes, most of these honyockers can barely speak English, let alone write it.”

Standish interrupted, “But Bele was a very well-educated man. He wrote a large part of a journal—in English.”

“But.…”

“And you misspelled his name. Not smart, Burkhart to misspell a name on a lien.”

Burkhart's voice rose until it was little more than a squeak. “You will hear from my attorney.”

“You don't want to deal with my attorney.” Standish replied, an edge creeping into his voice.

“A vagabond like you with an attorney? I have never heard of anything so ridiculous.”

“The county attorney will represent me,” Standish said. “The charge will be fraud.”

Burkhart slumped back in his chair. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling as though looking for an answer there. Finding none, he leaned forward and whispered, “I'll destroy the lien.”

“No,” Standish said. “You will write me a release of lien that I can file with the county clerk.”

“I will not.…”

“You will, and you will notarize it.”

Burkhart shrunk, his suit wrinkling about him. He pulled a form from his desk and slashed at it with his pen. The lien and his fist hit his desk with a
thump
, and he growled, “Miss Smythe must I wait forever for you to notarize this?”

Burkhart glared at his clerk as she stamped the form.

Standish took the lien release and rose. He walked by Miss Smythe's grin to the front door. Burkhart watched as the door closed behind Standish.

“Who the hell was that?” he muttered.

Kabanov bent over the forge, putting the finishing touches on a pair of hinges. He peered at the door as Standish stepped through.

“That Sally she is pretty girl.,” Kabanov grinned. “You know you put new shoes on a pretty girl, and she will dance. Come see.”

The two stepped to a corral behind the shop. Sally turned at the sound of Standish's voice and pranced to the fence.

Standish reached over the corral pole to run his hand down the mare's neck. “My aren't you a pretty girl, Sally. All decked out in new shoes.”

Sally whickered, and nuzzled Standish.

“She really does look fine brushed out like that.”

“Ja, she is pretty horse. Better, she is nice horse, good horse.”

“Ja,” Standish said, and Kabanov smiled.

“I have another matter I need to talk to you about.”

Kabanov's chin dropped toward his chest in a fighter's stance. “You have no money?”

Standish shook his head. “That's not it. It's just that I owe you more than you think.”

“How much you owe me?”

“Don't know.”

“Then how could you know that you owe me more than I think you do?”

Standish grinned. “Maybe we should start this from the beginning. I'm trying to pick up the Bele place.”

Kabanov's eyes dropped to the ground. “Ja, that Klaus was good man. I was sorry to see him go. He take good care of his horse. She is sweet like your Sally.”

“That's it. I have to pay the bill for caring for this horse.”

“Hortenzia, her name is Hortenzia.” Kabanov scuffed his boots in the dust. “So you would take Hortenzia back to her home?”

“Ja.”

Kabanov grinned. “You know for an American, you speak old country language pretty good.”

“Good teacher,” Standish said, and Kabanov's grin grew wider.

“Ja, that would be good then. I bring that Hortenzia, and she go home with you.”

“She's accustomed to harness?”

“Ja, she pulled that Klaus's white wagon. That's the way Klaus traveled. He was a gentleman.”

“Would you give me a note, then, that Mr. Bele's bill is paid here?”

“I would be pleased to do that, after you pay it.”

Standish grinned. “Let's go settle up.”

Standish led both horses back to the grocery story. Hortenzia was a steel gray, heavy-boned animal, more pet than workhorse, Standish imagined. He tied the two to a hitching post and stepped inside.

Myron Kennedy looked up. “Just finished loading your wagon. I'll have your tally done in a minute.” He licked the end of his pencil and went through the figures again, and then looked up apologetically. “This comes to a lot of money. Maybe you didn't know how much. If you decide you don't want it all, I'll understand. Nothing I can do about the cost. Everything hauled in here by railroad, and.…”

Standish raised his hand. “No problem. I'll settle up. I'll pay for Klaus Bele's bill, too. I'm taking his place.”

Kennedy's face wrinkled into a question mark. “I would be pleased to get that account closed,” he said, “but I can't understand why you would take that place. Can't raise wheat there, or cattle or anything else. About the only thing it might be good for is a hunting cabin. I heard that Burkhart down at the bank had staked it out for a hunting cabin, but.…”