Four Furlongs Read online

  Four Furlongs

  A China Bohannon Novel

  C.K. Crigger

  Four Furlongs: A China Bohannon Novel

  C.K. Crigger

  Kindle Edition

  © Copyright 2020 (as revised) C.K. Crigger

  City Lights Press

  An Imprint of Wolfpack Publishing

  6032 Wheat Penny Avenue

  Las Vegas, NV 89122

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.

  Cover design by City Lights Press

  eBook ISBN 978-1-64734-019-3

  Paperback ISBN 978-1-64734-020-9

  Contents

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  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  A Look at: Five Days, Five Dead (China Bohannon 5)

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  Also by C.K. Crigger

  About the Author

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  To Mom and Dad, who were great readers and instilled the love of books in me and my siblings.

  Four Furlongs

  Prologue

  “What’s your son think he’s doing?” Louis Duchene’s eyes narrowed, straining against distance and a pileup of colors and motion. Dust boiled from under the hooves of the eight horses racing down the track, raising a cloud that obscured details such as showing which horse led.

  “Sonuvabitch,” he added.

  Duchene chewed on the unlit cigar clamped between his teeth, his jaws moving like a clockwork mechanism. One fist pounded the wagon’s thick edge in a nervous tattoo.

  “What do you mean?” Hazel O’Dell, Duchene’s daughter and the mother of the lad in question, reefed the soiled hem of her skirt above her knees and clambered into the wagon bed to stand beside him.

  “Him and Mercury have run off the track,” Duchene said.

  “Are you sure?” She squinted, peering ahead. “I can’t tell. The horses are all bunched together at the halfway pole.” A small, brown woman as agile as a squirrel, Hazel stepped up onto the cedar tack box and cupped her hands around her eyes in a poor man’s version of field glasses. “Dad, I don’t see him, anywhere. Robbie must’ve pulled him off the track in time—” And then, a second later, “Oh, no. A horse is down at the turn. Two horses. One of them—” Her voice broke, then rose. “Dad, one of those horses is Mercury.”

  “Nooo—” The cigar dropped unheeded from Duchene’s mouth. His face turned a pasty shade of beige. “Are you sure?”

  Around them, other spectators became aware of the pileup. Some turned to look in their direction. A few muttered disconsolately. A group of three rough-looking characters grinned in blatant satisfaction.

  Hazel clutched her father’s arm. “I’m sure. And ... I can’t see Robbie. I think ... I think Mercury has fallen on top of him.”

  Duchene’s face twisted, the expression a mixture of dismay and anger. “Stay here.” He leapt from the wagon, stumbling a little as he landed on bad knees, and broke into a shambling run.

  Neva Sue O’Dell, Hazel’s daughter, wasn’t watching the race. She stood at the front of the wagon, unconsciously soothing the two draft horses as they rested in the shade. A bucket of water stood in easy reach of the big horses’ heads. She’d just fetched the water from a spigot over by the race course barn. Her mother and grandfather often got so excited on race day they forgot the team doing the heavy work and thought only of the horse on the track. Neva Sue knew how the draft horses felt. Her family forgot her, too, most of the time.

  They did, on the other hand, think a lot of Robbie.

  And of the wagers they placed.

  And of winning. Or losing. Depending.

  Just like now.

  “Robbie,” she whispered, gently pulling the brown horse’s ear. “Oh, Robbie, what have you done?”

  1

  “Is that him?” I asked my partner, Gratton Doyle. I nodded toward a shifty-looking individual wearing a loud plaid suit who was weaving his way through the crowd lining the rails of the Corbin Park racetrack. The way he moved, slinking like a fox about to attack a henhouse, aroused my suspicions.

  Gratton shook his head. “Naw. That’s Lucky Parsons. He’s known for being the nosiest man in Spokane, but not dishonest. He just likes to eavesdrop on what people are saying.”

  “Oh.” Disappointed, I went back to staring around. The day was ideal for attending the Interstate Fair’s annual race meet, and judging by the attendance, several thousand people agreed with me.

  Gratton nudged my elbow. “Ladies first.”

  Ever the soul of generosity, he proffered the brown paper bag of hot roasted peanuts he’d bought from a vendor touting his wares near the horse saddling enclosure. The peanuts’ enticing scent rose on the crisp, late September air. My mouth watered. I’d missed lunch, too busy getting ready for this outing ... er ... job assignment with Gratton.

  “Have a handful.” Gratton grinned down at me, his storm-dark-gray eyes squinted against the brilliant sun. “They’re good.”

  Grat is a man who knows how to treat a girl to a good time. Don’t believe me? Just ask him.

  And maybe he does, I conceded, my heart melting as I removed my gloves and reached into the bag. After all, he had given me my dear little dog, Nimble, the Bedlington terrier who had saved my bacon more than once during the course of my time at the Doyle & Howe, and Bohannon—italics mine—Detective Agency.

  And Grat’s bacon, too, come to think of it.

  As my constant companion, Nimble strained at the end of her leash, prancing at my side as we strolled along today. Happy as Mrs. May Arkwright Hutton at a suffragette meeting, she was sniffing at myriad enticing odors along the verge of the racetrack. Horse turds are one of her favorite things.

  But in this case, the aforementioned good time meant first crack at the peanuts. I grabbed a large handful while I was at it.

  As for me? I am the Bohannon of the Doyle & Howe—and Bohannon—Detective Agency. Miss China Bohannon—spinster, bookkeeper turned detective, and living decoy for mayhem. “Decoy for mayhem” are not my words, by the way. I believe my uncle Monk coined the phrase.

  Gratton, of course, is the Doyle, and although he’s totally unaware of it, the keeper of my heart. My uncle, Montgomery Howe, with whom I live, is the Howe. Together we are a force to strike fear in the hearts of criminals. At least, I hope we are. Such was Gratton’s and my intention today. We were on the hunt for a notorious bunco man reported to be plying his trade at the fair. If we managed to snare him, we’d not only please our specific customer, but those in charge of fair security.

  Instead of enjoying the horse races, sunny blue late September skies, and Grat’s company, I couldn’t help thinking my time would
be better utilized at our office on Riverside Street. I should be using my newly acquired typewriting machine—now I was finally gaining some mastery over the pestilent thing and not wasting so much paper—to make out an itemized bill for a major case my uncle had solved last week.

  Of course, I’d rather be in on the action of helping Grat catch a bunco man, eating peanuts and watching the ponies run.

  In the pursuit of our assignment, we’d kept close to the saddling enclosure during the first two races of the day. This is where the bookies usually set up shop. Well, not shop, exactly, but where they conducted business. I was beginning to think bunco men operated differently.

  Nimble barked as yet another horse galloped past. Sighing, I tugged the leash. “Heel, Nimble.” I offered a shelled peanut as a bribe. She snatched the morsel, but I fancy she would’ve preferred the horse apples the horse dropped.

  “Look, there’s a man wearing a porkpie hat.” With a tingle of excitement, I grabbed Gratton’s elbow. Grat had told me our quarry always wore the thus-named headgear, a matter of pride. I’d spotted a large fellow in a rather grubby tan-colored suit and a brown porkpie pumping his fist and yelling something about “the odds.” He seemed a likely suspect to me.

  Gratton shook his head. “Nope. Not him, either. Jimsy Woodsmith, our target, is the weaselly sort. A little fellow. Got small hands. He picks pockets as well as runs his cons.”

  “Jimsy?” I gave him a questioning look. “Who’d name their child Jimsy, for goodness sake?”

  “Dunno, but wait until you see him. You’ll find it suits him to a gnat’s nose.” Sounding preoccupied, Grat’s saunter picked up speed. “Hello. What’s this?”

  I trotted to keep up with his lengthening stride. We abandoned our watch of the enclosure and headed down the racetrack toward a group of people who stood about haggling in loud, angry voices.

  Their situation deteriorated quickly. Shouts carried over the distance. A thrown punch sent someone—a shopkeeper judging by his clothes—staggering. A white-haired gentleman waved his cane in the air, dangerous to friend or foe alike.

  In the center of this conflict, a man not much taller than me seemed to be struggling with a fellow wearing farmer clothes. Did the smaller one wear a porkpie hat? Was he the weaselly sort? I couldn’t tell at this range, but Gratton seemed to think so.

  “Ah-hah. Stay here.” Thrusting the peanut bag into my hands, Grat dashed toward the conflict.

  Stay here? Miss all the action? Not likely. Anyway, Nimble, sensing one of her favorite things—a melee, which she seemed to think allowed her to jump and nip and trip with utter immunity of reprimand—jerked her leash from my hand and followed Grat.

  So, perforce, did I.

  By the time I arrived at the scuffle, Grat had a grip on the person I presumed must be Jimsy Woodsmith. Nimble had managed to wrap her leash around the ankles of the farmer, causing him to stumble. He lashed out at her with his free foot. Since it was clad in a heavy boot, this not only didn’t please me, it frightened me.

  “Nimble,” I called, my voice rising over the grunts of men. “Come here at once!”

  Nimble, easily dodging the farmer, ignored my summons. Grat, however, distracted and in danger of being tripped by her leash himself, lost his hold on Jimsy.

  Jimsy, grasping his chance, darted behind the cane wielder where he was almost hidden by the white-haired man’s bulk. He was also the only person not in danger from the cane wielder, who kept swinging his weapon. To no avail, as one might imagine, but the cane certainly kept everyone else at bay. Including Grat.

  What a ludicrous situation. I shook my head in disgust, dodging a thrust of the cane as Jimsy shoved the old fellow toward me.

  How rude, I thought, before it struck me Jimsy’s maneuver had a determined focus. The little weasel was trying to cause a pileup from which he could make his escape.

  Hah! He must’ve been counting on these men being willing to aid a lady and an old gentleman. More fool he.

  The next time the cane came around, I threw the peanuts in the air. Or more precisely, straight into the cane wielder’s face. Peanuts flew everywhere. Grat, after all, had purchased the vendor’s largest bag.

  And don’t forget the peanuts were hot, fresh off the roaster.

  Stung by the sudden heat, which I suspect felt as though he were being attacked by a swarm of bees, the elderly gentleman cried out, let go of his cane in mid swing and clutched his face. He lurched about like a madman. The crunch of trodden peanut shells sounded even over the noise of the fight.

  Jimsy, although he’d lost his shield, was still in danger of making good his escape since I’d conveniently provided him with a diversion. Holding onto his porkpie hat with one hand, he dug in his toes, and took off running.

  He hadn’t considered that I might have excellent reflexes.

  I managed to catch the cane before it dropped, jerking it from the owner’s hand. The stick became of real use in my possession. As Jimsy fled past me, I thrust it between his legs.

  Down he went, end over end.

  As it happened, the fool grabbed on to me and we both tumbled to the ground. Me, with my knees exposed and my hat askew. Nimble, eager to play this game, pounced on top of us.

  The farmer and the shopkeeper also piled onto the escaping bunco man before he could squirm free. An elbow in my belly knocked the wind out of me. A fist clipped my cheekbone, setting my head abuzz. The ground shook as several horses raced past, only inches away.

  Gratton, his face red, wrenched bodies off until I was uncovered enough to draw breath, but it was Jimsy he helped to his feet. Holding the weasel in a one-handed grasp I’m convinced must’ve set the bunco man’s bones to aching, he produced a set of handcuffs from his pocket and slipped them over Jimsy’s narrow wrists.

  Someone heavy trod on my hand. “Ouch,” I cried.

  Grat’s fierce glare warned the culprit—the farmer, I believe, judging by the weight that had crushed my hand—to watch himself.

  “Stand back, and help this lady rise,” he snapped.

  I don’t know if he frightened them off with his scowl, or if they were just too boorish, but although no one else stepped on me, no one offered aid. I regained my feet by my own efforts. Disgruntled mutters from those around me indicated they intended to take matters regarding Jimsy into their own hands, whether Doyle liked it or not.

  “Little twerp ain’t been paying the right odds,” the farmer said in a loud voice. “Seems to think I’m too ignorant to figure the payoff on me own.”

  The shopkeeper added, “He’s trying to say I bet on a different horse than what I said.”

  “He’s an out-and-out thief,” the white-haired man said. “I caught him stealing my wallet.” He bent with more ease than I would’ve expected and retrieved his stick from where it had fallen. His expression indicated he was still thinking of using it to pound Jimsy.

  Jimsy shook his head in such a violent manner I felt sure his brains must be addled. “Buncha rubes don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he said.

  “Might be better to keep your insults to yourself.” Gratton gave him an ungentle nudge.

  “I never stole anything, I tell ya. Never cheated anybody, either. I ain’t got but a dollar in my pocket.” Jimsy put on an innocent face, but his eyes glittered like blue ice, betraying him.

  “Search him,” someone yelled.

  “Yeah, search him,” another man agreed.

  “Go ahead,” said Jimsy carelessly. “See if I care.”

  In fact, he seemed to welcome a search. Suspicious in itself, if you ask me.

  Gratton, no doubt wisely, stepped aside and let the search begin, the shopkeeper taking charge. For a while it seemed they’d rip the clothes from the little man’s body. Fortunately for my sensibilities, they stopped a tad short.

  I took the opportunity to straighten my hat, and brush down my skirt, not so easy a task with Nimble running circles around me, stirring up a dust with her leash. Gratton, while
he waited for the search to end, helpfully tucked a few stray curls behind my ear.

  Sure enough, the only money recovered was a single dollar, a shiny new silver one. Just as Jimsy had said.

  My suspicions grew.

  “Make ’im tell us where he stashed the rest.” The farmer was doing the talking again. Or maybe I should say the rabble-rousing since he said, “Bet a rope around his neck would encourage him to talk.”

  Jimsy flinched. His eyes widened.

  “Nobody is hanging anybody,” Grat said. “I’m arresting this man and taking him to jail.” Although he lacked the authority, he faced the men—or maybe I’d call it a mob—with confidence.

  “We got the detective outnumbered,” someone said. “He ain’t the law, anyhow. He’s just a private detective.”

  Obviously, Gratton was well-known about town.

  Grat touched the pistol in the holster under his arm, a plain indication he’d brook no further interference, and grinned at the man who’d spoken.

  The white-haired fellow cleared his throat. “Hold on a minute. Maybe Doyle’s right. Get the police on his tail. I’ve seen gents they’ve worked over. Give this runt three minutes and he’ll be talking his head off.”

  “Who’re you callin’ a runt?” Jimsy snarled, buck teeth showing.