Gone to Glory Page 11

  Traveler pulled in beside the town’s only theater, the Pavant. The message on its faded marquee looked as if it hadn’t been changed in years: friday and saturday nite shows only, 6 and 8 p.m.

  Sundays, he knew, belonged to the church, especially in rural counties, where Mormons accounted for eighty percent of the population.

  It was dinnertime, with still an hour of daylight left, as he crossed Main Street to the Fillmore Café. A yellow neon sign hung in the front window, splashing its jaundiced heresy of Coors against the glass. When Traveler opened the door, enough cigarette smoke billowed out to account for the other twenty percent of the county.

  One look and he knew better than to cross the threshold. It was an all-male crowd inside, honest-to-God cowboys by the looks of them. Shit-kickers who’d consider Traveler’s size alone worth fighting about. That and his dude clothes: brown dress slacks and a tan corduroy sport coat.

  He smiled—innocuously, he hoped—and closed the door on them. When no one came rushing out after him, he recrossed the road to the Feed & Seed, the only other place open.

  The store was empty except for a man behind the counter near the cash register. Faded bib overalls stretched tautly across his broad belly. His smiling face was as round as he was. The lenses of his rimless glasses cut deeply into the flesh around his eager eyes. His short, wiry hair was gray, heading toward white. Yet his face was ageless. He could have been fifty or seventy.

  “Emmett Culverwell at your service,” he said. He fished a railroad watch from one of two small pockets at chest level on his overalls and checked the time. “I was just about to close up, Mr. …?” From the second pocket he produced a badge which he deftly pinned over his heart. “As you can see, I’m also the law here in town. I suppose that’s why you came to me.”

  “Do you know me?”

  “I’ve been expecting someone like you.”

  Traveler tilted his head, a gesture that could mean anything, before turning away to study the Feed & Seed.

  Its unfinished wooden floor had been grooved by wear over the years, creating hollows in front of seed bins and storage shelves. The spot where Traveler stood, across the counter from an ancient brass cash register, had been worn down to the subflooring.

  “You’re probably wondering why I’m working the Feed and Seed,” Culverwell added, then paused as if waiting for Traveler’s comment. When none came he continued. “Ace Hardin, the owner, asked me to fill in this afternoon so he could take one of his quick trips to Las Vegas.”

  His lips puckered out and made a snicking sound. “Old Ace got that name when our last bishop laid into him for playing cards on Sunday. After that Ace figured he had to live up to the moniker, so he makes dashes across the state border once a month like clockwork.”

  Traveler had been watching the man’s eyes as he spoke. They gave him away. The overalls, the bland deaconlike face, the nondescript glasses were camouflage only. He was as wary as a big-city cop.

  Traveler supplied his name and occupation. “I’m doing a background check on a man named Pepper Dalton. I understand he has a house here in Fillmore.”

  The lips came out again, this time without making a sound. Culverwell massaged them between thumb and forefinger before responding. “He’s a relative newcomer in town, you understand. He moved here about five years ago when he inherited the old Tempest place from his grandfather, Curtis Tempest. On his mother’s side, that was.”

  “I’d like to start by talking to some of his friends.”

  “What are you after, character witnesses?”

  “Are you one?” Traveler asked.

  “In my job a man has to be nonpartisan.”

  That struck Traveler as a strange way of declaring neutrality. He said, “I understood that there’s a mine involved.”

  “Not just a mine, son, a whole town, though it’s a ghost now. Glory, Utah. Originally built as a company town to service the Glory Mine. Don’t judge that place by the name, though. It wasn’t church work, not in the beginning. If you know anything about our history, you’ll know that Brigham Young didn’t want the faithful wasting their time grubbing for riches, not when there was honest work like planting to be done.”

  “I thought it was a coal mine.”

  “They were looking for gold, Mr. Traveler. What they found was coal. Some days, when it’s particularly clear, you can see the smoke from here. The fact is, Glory caught fire years ago, back at the turn of the century, when a gas pocket exploded. It’s been burning ever since. They’ve tried putting it out several times, but it just keeps on belching fire and brimstone.”

  “How far is it to Glory?”

  Culverwell’s face lit up. “You have a long way to go, Mr. Traveler. I can tell that by looking at you. You’re a sinner if I ever did see one.”

  “In miles,” Traveler clarified.

  The man removed his glasses and began rubbing the bridge of his nose. An outline of the lenses remained behind in the dented skin around his eyes. “As I said, you can see it from here on a good day. But the road into those mountains is a rough one. The last few miles aren’t even paved. I’ve never made the drive in less than four hours in broad daylight. I wouldn’t even attempt it at night.”

  “You said something about a house—the Tempest place, you called it.”

  Culverwell replaced his glasses carefully, looping the metal end pieces around one ear at a time. “It’s past closing time. If I stick around here someone’s sure to come in and want to buy something. Why don’t we go across the street to the café for a drink?”

  Traveler stared intently, seeking signs of motive. He would have bet money that Emmett Culverwell, retirement age by big-city standards, held at least three jobs in Fillmore: lawman, storekeep, and deacon. Maybe even bishop.

  “It’s either that or the Dairy Queen,” Culverwell said, as if sensing that further explanation was required.

  Remembering the crowd of cowboys, Traveler said, “I could go for a milk shake.”

  “Come on. Pepper used to hang out at the Fillmore this time of night. Everybody there will know him a lot better than I do. Besides which, they make a great hamburger.”

  21

  The noisy crowd at the Fillmore Café grew quiet and parted for Emmett Culverwell. Even the cigarette smoke seemed to dissipate around the man as he made a beeline for a window table under the neon Coors sign. At his approach two cowboys, wearing silver belt buckles the size of hubcaps, vacated their chairs.

  Two bottles of Coors, without glasses, arrived a moment later. Culverwell held up his, waited for Traveler to do the same, and quoted, “In my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; they shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing it shall not hurt them.”

  Traveler drank. The volume of noise went back to where it had been before.

  Winking, Culverwell said, “Never go against the good book,” and drained his bottle with an expertise that must have taken years of practice. “Now, son, why don’t you tell me exactly why you’re here? You see, as the sheriff in this town I’ve already been informed about Pepper’s trouble in Salt Lake. The fact is, I saw it coming a long time ago.”

  “That’s what I like about small-town cops,” Traveler said. “They’re just like their big-city brothers.”

  “I’m old enough to be your father, so just tell me where you stand. Otherwise, I put down my drink and run you out of town.” He grinned. “Don’t think I can’t do it, either. Half the men in this place have acted as part-time deputies for me at one time or another.”

  “There’s no reason for me to hide anything,” Traveler said. “I’ve been hired to help Pepper prove his innocence.”

  “Even if he’s guilty?”

  “You said you saw it coming. Does that mean you think he did the killing?”

  The sheriff’s eyes, locked on Traveler�
��s face, narrowed as if searching for a focal point. When he looked away it was to concentrate on peeling the wet label from his beer bottle. “Pepper and his sister used to spend summers here in Fillmore when they were growing up. The Tempests had horses in those days, and Pepper and Priscilla—Cilia, we called her then, Silly Cilia—used to ride up and down the back streets like wild Indians.”

  Culverwell thrust a hand in the air, spreading two fingers as if signaling a V for victory. It won him two more bottles of Coors. He sucked on one of them for a moment, then leaned back, resting his head against the window. Light from the neon sign yellowed his hair and made him look his age.

  “In the end, Cilia turned her back on the church,” he said. “That would have been bad enough, but taking up with a man like Zeke Eldredge. The man’s not only a heretic and polygamist, he’s a maniac. He’s been accused of everything from cattle rustling to murder, though nothing’s ever been proved against him. But where there’s smoke there’s fire, I always say.”

  He turned his head as if to look out the window toward the Pavant Mountains. But Traveler figured all he could see was his own reflection.

  “I’ve been hearing rumors about Zeke for years. Everything from unmarked graves to devil worship. I’ve been on fishing expeditions into those mountains with state investigators twice now. We never found a damn thing. Once we even had a witness who said that Zeke killed any of his followers who tried to leave the fold. The problem is, cremation would be easy in that mine. It wouldn’t leave a trace, either.”

  The man paused to work on his beer. “I just thank God he stays in Glory and out of my town. As for Pepper, he wasn’t a happy man. He wasn’t content living with us here. Maybe he thought we weren’t good enough for him.”

  Culverwell leaned away from the window to shake his head. “That’s not what I meant to say. It wasn’t a matter of goodness with Pepper. It was ambition that drove him. He wanted more out of life than a house in Fillmore and a semipro team to coach. If you ask me, he’d lived too long in the big cities coaching professional baseball. We thought we were lucky to get him when he came here. We should have known better.”

  He went back to his bottle, nursing it long after it was empty. His eyes, though aimed at Traveler, were focused somewhere else. Finally, he removed the bottle from his lips and sighed. “I went to all our games last year. We got our butts kicked. But then we go up against bigger towns, places like Gunnison, Salina, and Scipio, which have more players to choose from, while Pepper was more or less stuck with whoever tried out for the team. The trouble was he still wanted to win. Every time he lost he’d get mad, throwing bats around in the dugout like a maniac. He broke his hand once, punching a six-pack of Gatorade. A couple of times he would have punched the umpires too, if he hadn’t been stopped by his own players. That’s why I saw it coming, because he got that mad at Cilia when she insisted on living out there in Glory instead of selling it off when they finally got the chance. I heard her say it myself. That Glory ought to be preserved as a monument to Zeke Eldredge’s faith.”

  Two hamburgers arrived, their buns gleaming with grease. Catsup and mustard were already on the table. Culverwell applied both before continuing. “God knows what gets into a woman. Sharing a husband might have been all right in the old days when there weren’t enough men to go around. But now?”

  The sheriff pressed the lip of the empty beer bottle against his mouth and blew, producing a low, resonant whistle. “Is any of this helping you, son?”

  “I need all the information I can get.”

  “I can’t talk when I’m dry or hungry.” He took a huge bite from his burger.

  Traveler half turned in his chair and pointed two fingers at the bartender, who pointed one finger back at him like a gun.

  Culverwell laughed with his mouth full. “Custom has it,” he said after a moment’s chewing, “that the sheriff drinks free. So Heber there is mad that I’ve brought a friend along.”

  “I’m buying,” Traveler mouthed at the bartender, while waving a twenty-dollar bill to prove the point.

  Heber came running. The sheriff caught hold of the bartender’s hand as he was reaching for the money. “This here is Moroni Traveler. He’s looking for friends of Pepper Dalton. Or reasonable facsimiles.”

  Heber used his free hand to snag the twenty. “You know what the word is around town, Sheriff. That Dalton went crazy and killed his own sister.”

  “Just tell the man who knew him best,” Culverwell said, nodding toward the counter, “among those sinners here tonight.”

  Heber twisted out of the sheriff’s grip and sat down at the table. Once he’d snagged a french fry off Traveler’s plate he said, “Pepper’s team is practicing at the high school tonight, you know that, Sheriff.”

  “That’s right. It slipped my mind.”

  “Where’s the high school?” Traveler asked.

  “It’s the only field in town with lights,” the sheriff said. “I’ll take you there later.”

  Not if he could help it, Traveler thought, but kept it to himself. There was nothing like the presence of a cop, even one in bib overalls, to induce memory loss.

  “We’ve been working on the killing all afternoon,” the bartender said. He swallowed the french fry before sliding Traveler’s plate his way. “The way we figure it, it has something to do with Zeke Eldredge.”

  “And what would that be, Heeb?” the sheriff asked before cramming the last of his own hamburger into his mouth.

  The bartender plucked another french fry and waved it at the sheriff. “Dalton wanted to sell Glory. Everybody knows that. And why not? I’d do the same thing in his shoes. But his sister was holding him up, standing in line to spread her legs for that bastard, Eldredge. Let me on the jury, Sheriff. That’s all I ask. I’ll vote for justifiable homicide.”

  The sheriff washed down his mouthful with beer. “I don’t think Mr. Traveler came all the way to Fillmore to find your kind of character witness, Heeb. He wants to help Pepper.”

  Heber popped the french fry into his mouth before poking himself in the chest. “Hell, Sheriff. I want to help, too. That’s why he ought to know about the other stuff, before he hears it from the wrong person.”

  Culverwell sighed. “All right. Let’s have it.”

  “It’s not me talking, you understand. Just some of the guys who remember how close Pepper and his sister used to be.” The man cupped the palm of one hand around the forefinger of his other hand. “Too close maybe.” He worked the finger back and forth in a crude parody of sexual intercourse.

  “You know better than that, Heeb. Kate Ferguson has been Pepper Dalton’s girlfriend ever since he moved here.”

  “She could have been window dressing.”

  “Look around this place of yours and give me a name,” the sheriff said in a voice barely loud enough to hear. What it lacked in volume it made up for in menace, causing the bartender’s shoulders to sag. He checked the room and sighed.

  “I guess I’m it,” he said. “No one else here knows Pepper any better than I do. What else do you want to know, mister?”

  Traveler thought that over. “Would you consider yourself a friend of Mr. Dalton’s?”

  “You mean because of what I just said?”

  Traveler nodded.

  “We were just talking, that’s all. Nobody really believes he was sleeping with Priscilla. Hell, he never saw her often enough for one thing. Nobody else around here did either. We stay away from the likes of Zeke Eldredge.”

  The sheriff confirmed that with a nod. “People around here are tired of defending themselves against Mormon-baiters who think we’re all a bunch of polygamists like Zeke.”

  “You’re damned right,” the bartender added.

  “I’m not here to cause trouble,” Traveler said. “Just tell me what kind of guy Pepper is.”

  The bartender scratched a side
burn. “That’s hard to say.” He looked to the sheriff for guidance, but Culverwell closed his eyes. “Every time I think of Pepper I think of baseball.”

  Traveler knew the feeling.

  “He used to bring the team in here after practice. After home games, too. The first time they came in in uniform I told them, ‘The drinks are on me every time you win.’” The bartender chuckled. “I never did have to pay off, not last season. After losing that last game to Gunnison, I remember Pepper gathering the team around him and saying he wasn’t coming back this year if things didn’t change. ‘You pitchers,’ he said, ‘I don’t want you throwing at batters. I want you hitting them, in the head if you have to. At least once an inning to start with. Let them know we’re playing for keeps.’ One of the guys said he couldn’t do that, not in good conscience. And you know what Pepper said? ‘You either play my way or you don’t play.’”

  22

  Traveler found his own way to the high school. To get there he had to pass by the old state house, a two-story red sandstone building that looked like a jail. Originally, it had been built as Utah’s capitol, since Fillmore was closer to the geographical center of Brigham Young’s empire than Salt Lake. Those were the days when Brigham ruled not only present-day Utah but all of Nevada and parts of Colorado and Wyoming.

  The chill night air smelled of grass and smoke. Pinging sounds came from the white-hot floodlights where moths were exploding, their remains showering onto the playing field below like dusty snow. The scene had the nostalgic quality of an old movie, one that Traveler had seen but couldn’t fully remember.

  His arrival brought batting practice to a stop. The players—he counted eight in uniform, one short of a team—began edging toward their makeshift home plate as soon as he neared the backstop. From that distance they all looked young and lean, except for the heavyset catcher.

  Once Traveler came within earshot, the catcher raised out of his crouch to say, “We could use another fielder.”