Free Murder at Thumb Butte by James D. Best Page A

mine.’ My understanding is that another man has been arrested for that crime.”
    “ My friend, Jeff Sharp. This morning, he asked me to find him an attorney. That’s why I’m here.”
    “ Take a seat.” He pointed at a leather chair.
    Mac Castle had an almost typical law office: cluttered rolltop desk, dark wainscoting, framed portraits, and bookshelves of law books arranged with exquisite neatness. That is where the similarity ended. Castle appeared to be in his thirties and wore an open-neck shirt, without coat or tie, and slippers. The opposing leather chairs, like those at my father’s club, put the client and Castle on equal footing.
    “ Tell me about yourself and your friend.”
    “ We rode into town yesterday afternoon and got rooms at the Palace. After a bath, we had drinks in the saloon. We were tired from a long ride and left early, but about eight o’clock, Jeff went back downstairs. I retired. He stayed in the saloon drinking until about eleven and then returned drunk to his room. While he was gone, he left his door unlocked with his rifle inside. Sometime before one o’clock, Campbell was discovered dead at the base of Thumb Butte, shot with Jeff’s rifle. The rifle was found beside the body.”
    “ You’re omitting the most important fact.”
    I knew what he meant. “Earlier in the evening, my friend punched Campbell and threatened to kill him if he ever saw him again.” I paused. “Have I told you anything you don’t already know?”
    “ Not yet.”
    When he offered nothing more, I told him a little about Sharp’s business interests and some of our history together—omitting the violent episodes. I then talked about Sharp’s character and why he could never commit murder.
    When I finished, he asked, “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
    “ I would.”
    He got up and left the office without another word. I sat for a moment but couldn’t resist peeking at the papers Castle had been reading when I came into his office. I actually heard the intake of my own breath. Damn. The papers were a civil complaint against Elisha Campbell for misrepresentation in the sale of Edison Electric Illumination Company stock. They were being filed for Lew Davis, the barkeep at the Palace saloon.
    I flipped through the pages like a raccoon rifling through a picnic basket. It seemed that when Davis submitted the certificate through his bank to New York, he was informed that the company was valued at only a few pennies per share. Attached to the complaint was a stock certificate that looked as real as any I had ever seen. Damn. Campbell knew the value of his Edison shares, or he would never have thought to sell shares in a shell company with a similar name. I was interested in shares of the Edison Electric Light Company, not the Illumination Company.
    When I heard a footfall in the hall outside, I dropped the papers back on the side table. I heard Castle tap the door with his shoe and jumped up to let him in. When he stepped through the door, his hands carried two steaming china mugs of coffee.
    “ Sorry it took so long. I ran down to the Palace to get these. I put cream in. If you want sugar, there’s a cone on the table over there.”
    “ This is fine,” I said as I took one of the mugs from him.
    After we settled back in the twin chairs, he said, “Now tell me about the history between Sharp and Campbell.”
    “ What makes you think there’s a history?”
    “ You told me Sharp is a fine, upstanding citizen. Fine, upstanding citizens do not hit random customers as they saunter into a saloon. Tell me how Sharp knew Campbell.”
    “ I left that out on purpose.”
    “ Because it could be construed as motive.” It was a statement, not a question.
    I shrugged. “Are you accepting Jeff Sharp as a client?”
    “ Does Mr. Sharp have two hundred dollars?”
    “ He does.”
    “ In that case, I’ll represent your friend if he decides to engage me.” Castle then described his legal experience. His