Death Comes 'Round the Mountain

By Lyle Bradley

Target: Melvin Mansfield! Someone wants Melvin Mansfield dead, but who? And why? James Emerson, co-manager of radio station GBS, has agreed to bring the staff to a dude ranch, owned by tycoon Judd Eben, as a new publicity ploy. No sooner does the staff arrive, when Melvin is nearly trampled by a pack of wild horses, is shot at in an open field, and is glued to the saddle of Stormcloud, a horse that locals say cannot be broken. During a sharpshooting competition Eben is killed, and each shooter seems to have a motive to have murdered him. As the staff tries to help the local sheriff, Jasper Worden, uncover the truth of his death, someone ramps up the attempts on Melvin’s life. Will the GBS staff uncover the truth before the killer is successful in his attempts? Or will Melvin find himself six feet under?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781329901674

Book preview

Death Comes 'Round the Mountain

Title Page 1

Death Comes ‘Round the Mountain

Title Page 2

LJLO Press

2015

Copyright Page

Copyright © 2015 by Lyle Bradley

Cover art © 2015 by Margaret Murray

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

LJL First Printing: 2015

ISBN 978-1-329-90167-4

Prologue

The horse reared onto its hind legs while making a screaming noise that shattered the calmness of the morning.   The man on the ground below looked up, paralyzed with fear.  His brain cried for his limbs to move, but they betrayed him and instead were limp and motionless.  He could only watch as the beast above him threatened.

The horse returned to the earth with a CLOMP-CLOMP sound, mere inches away from the frightened man’s face.  It whinnied lowly and reared up again, as if making a second attempt to maim the figure below it.  The frightened man’s muscles finally followed the directions of his central nervous system.  He scrambled to his feet and stumbled toward the barbed wire fence a dozen yards away.  Behind him he heard the CLOMP-CLOMP sound again as the stallion returned its front hooves to the dirt.  The man then heard the pounding of hooves behind him.  He increased his speed, if that were at all possible.

There was another bloodcurdling scream behind him.

The short, stocky man ran for the fence.  He imagined the mighty horse trampling him into the dirt from and making him a gory, bloody mess.  It was with this thought in mind that caused him to try to jump over the barbed wire rather than duck under it.  The man willed his stubby legs to make the leap skyward.  His momentum carried him into an arc that almost cleared the highest string of barbed wire. 

Almost. 

Almost, of course, only really counts in the game of…well…horseshoes, and as he fell once again toward the earth there was a RRRIIIIPPPP as cloth caught on wire.  A tear went from a pocket to his knee as he tore loose from the fence and fell with an UMMMPPPFFFF to the ground.

The horse behind him came to an abrupt halt, as it had not been trained to jump over so tall an obstacle.  It cast rage filled eyes at the man with the torn pants before turning and running at a trot in the opposite direction.  The man lying in the dirt gave a hearty sigh of relief, picked himself up, and began dusting himself off as he surveyed the damage to his pant leg. 

Stormcloud was supposed to be penned up in the corral.  Someone, then, had let him loose.

Someone, thought Melvin Mansfield, must be trying to kill me.  After detecting that there were no cuts in the skin or breaks in the bones, he made his way back to the pickup truck that had brought him to this desolate spot, wondering who it was that intended to do him harm.

Chapter 1

James Emerson sat across from a man in a large cowboy hat with a curled brim.  The hat was damp, as was the coat he had placed on the coatrack in the corner of the office.  He wore a bolo tie with an intricately engraved silver slide and a blue denim shirt with equally intricately engraved silver collar points.  He wore a pair of recently washed Levis and black riding boots with silver spurs.  The man was in his early fifties, and his gut hung over a large belt buckle in the shape of the great state of Texas.  He chewed on a plug of tobacco and considered James Emerson carefully.  Jimmy, co-manager of radio station GBS, sat and patiently waited.  The man on the other side of the table had promised to make him an offer that he couldn’t refuse, but he had yet to hear it.

Where you from, boy? the man said finally.  He had neglected to give his name to Mrs. Laffington, the station receptionist, or introduce himself as they shook hands before being seated.

Jimmy glanced at his watch and said, Ohio.

Lotsa open range in Ohio.  He spit a stream of tobacco juice into an empty coffee cup, though he would have rather used a spittoon.  These sissified city folks didn’t want their expensive rugs and office furniture subjected to a little spit.  What was this world coming to?

Not as much as there used to be.  Emerson again looked at his watch, as if to convey to the stranger that time was moving, but their conversation was not.

It seemed to work.  I heard a broadcast from you folks a couple of weeks back, said the cowboy.  It was the war-game exercises that your employees participated in for Uncle Sam during the Armistice Day holiday.  I happened to be in the city at the time, on a business trip, and heard it.

I hope you enjoyed it, then.  Jimmy’s expression conveyed the unspoken question, So what?

Oh, you folks kept me glued to the radio.  No doubt about it.  The big man scratched his nose.  Also heard about the publicity ploy of spending Halloween weekend in a haunted house.  The scuttlebutt is that it was quite entertaining.

Speaking of business, said James Emerson, again trying to push the conversation along, you said something about some kind of business proposition?

Get right to it, is that it?  Thing about living in the country; you can take your time and get to know someone afore you step right into the conversation.  Here in the Big Apple it’s always rush-rush-rush without any consideration of where you’re going or who you’re with.

Jimmy nodded in agreement.  To do otherwise might prolong the conversation further than he had endured already.

Well, sir, I got this dude ranch up in Eastern Pennsylvania.  Only seventy-five miles from you folks here in the heart of New York City.

In Pennsylvania?

The man smiled and spit. He pulled out a red handkerchief, wiped his mouth with it, returned it to a back pocket, and said, That’s the way most people react, I ain’t gonna lie.  But we’re out a-ways and surrounded by several hundred acres of open range.  But trouble with a dude ranch is that folks mostly stay away during the winter season.  Can’t says I blame ‘em, but I wanted to try this here little experiment to see if maybe we could change all of that.

Experiment?

I’d like to invite a couple of your boys up to the ranch.  The idea is that you’ll raffle off tickets to folks who would like to meet your employees and select a dozen winners on the air, you know to build up excitment.  People’ll jump at the chance, I’m sure, since y’all have become sort of minor celebrities.

And then?

I’m proposing y’all come up to my ranch where we’ll have some barbeque, do some square dancing, demonstrate some rope tricks, and let ‘em see some cowboy competitions.  I’ll put them up in the hotel in town.  You could transmit from the ranch, and we could top it all off with a costumed New Year’s Eve party.  You promote it, I’ll host it, and everybody wins.

Jimmy frowned.  The cowboy was right; it was an offer he’d have a hard time refusing.  Their little radio station had been making quite a name for itself over the last couple of months.  First, it spent Halloween weekend in a haunted mansion that belonged to Melvin Manfield’s uncle. Then, it spent Armistice Day at a secret training facility and sending some of the staff in the field to describe the events to try to give the man on the street a feel of what army life was like to help boost voluntary enlistment.  Too bad each of these events had involved several murders.  The station and its crew was due for a change in luck, and perhaps this was their opportunity to do just that.

I don’t know if all the staff would want to spend their New Years’ out in the sticks, but I certainly would think we could get a couple volunteers to go with you.  We have a new transmission truck courtesy the federal government that my engineer, Phil Gargan, is itching to try out.

Do you think your boys Melvin Mansfield and Chick Alexander would be willing?  Those two are funnier than a chicken running around with its head cut off.

Emerson tried to get the image of a decapitated fowl out of his mind.  It didn’t seem funny to him at all, but to each his own.  I believe so.  Melvin Mansfield still owes us a few favors for what we like to call The Noodle Incident.  And where Melvin goes, his pal Chick Alexander is sure to follow.

And that pretty Margaret Blake?  I know all o’ the boys at my ranch would love to meet her and get a picture taken as a memento of the occasion.  A lot of the raffle winners would too, I’d imagine.

I can certainly talk to her about it.  If she agrees to go, her boyfriend Bobby Dubov will volunteer as well, no doubt.  They’re nearly inseparable these days.   But, I should warn you; Dubov is the jealous type and if any of your ‘boys’ get romantic notions he’ll probably make a scene.

He’s just as likely to be put in his place, the large man observed.  We can only stand so much of you city folk puttin’ on airs.  Will that be a problem?

It’ll probably be good for him.  Let’s see, my wife will probably like to come as well, Emerson sighed.  She doesn’t like to be left out of such things.

I heard she’s a looker in her own right, the cowboy said and winked.

So, I guess that means I’ll be going too.

The man smiled slyly and said, Little woman’s got you under her thumb, that it?

Something like that, Jimmy admitted.  Also, our sound effects man, Norman Barber, takes every chance he can get to get a respite from his wife and brood of kids.

Well, that’s a pretty fair list, said the cowboy.

I don’t believe I caught your name, Jimmy told the man who had yet to introduce himself.

Sorry. The cowboy reached into a back pocket, withdrew a thick leather wallet, opened it, and withdrew a business card.  The name’s Judd Eben, but most folks call me Judge.

Judge?

It’s sort of a family tradition.  My forefathers have been judges going back for two hundred years or more.  Not me. I’m the black sheep of the family, ya might say.  I studied law, but found more excitement working with horses and cattle and such.  And when this economic depression hit, well, I had to be as much a showman as a ranch foreman.  We’d like to expand our operation a bit, but we need some capital.  We’re hoping this little venture will help to provide us with just that.

Well, let me speak with the staff.  Then I’ll have Mrs. Emerson draft a contract just so you can put those law classes to some use, Emerson said.

Judge Eben grinned.  You can reach me at the Hotel Roosevelt.  I’ll be in town until the day after tomorrow taking care of some other business arrangements.

Fine.  I’ll get in touch with you by tomorrow afternoon.

The big-bellied man stood, and extended a beefy hand.  That sounds right good, Mr. Emerson.  I’ll be looking forward to hearing from you.

They shook hands.  Eben spit one last stream of tobacco in his cup and placed it gently on the corner of Jimmy’s desk, and tipped his hat.  Old Mrs. Laffington, the front receptionist, met him at the door and escorted him into the hallway beyond, steering him toward the exit.  As they departed, James Emerson’s heart skipped a beat as his wife entered the room.  They had been married nearly nine months, but the sight of her still sent a jolt of electricity through him.  She was a few inches shorter than his six feet in height with naturally blonde hair and fine features.  Today she was wearing a smart navy blue business jacket over a matching pleated skirt, white blouse with nylons, and high heeled shoes.  She was followed by Paul Roberts, the colored station GBS announcer.  He was of medium height, with shortly cropped hair, and wearing a simple grey suit with a yellow shirt and a black tie.

Jimmy?  Paul and I have been talking, and we wanted your input into something we’ve been discussing, said Mrs. Emerson.

Sure, please come in, Mr. Emerson replied.

Paul took the seat recently vacated by Judge Eben and his wife took a matching chair sitting next to it, crossing her legs at the shapely calves.  Paul approached me about taking some vacation time.  I told him that it shouldn’t be a problem, but we wanted to run it past you first, since it’s a little short notice.

As long as it’s only temporary, Jimmy said.  We’d sure hate to lose you, Paul.

Paul nodded in agreement.  Oh, I’m happy here for the most part, although I’d still like to start some programming for us colored folks.  Maybe we can talk about that more when I get back.  But given certain…recent events…I thought it might be a good time to take care of some personal business.

Mind if I ask what?

Yes, Paul told him, looking him in the eye.  As I said, it’s personal.

Fair enough, Jimmy said, backing off.  How much time were you thinking of taking off?

A week ought to do it.  He stopped and reconsidered.  Maybe we’d better make it two to stay on the safe side.  I’ve got that much vacation pay saved up, and this may take a while.

Any suggestions of who would be a good replacement while you’re gone?

I think Norman should do it.  It will be valuable experience for him.  We’ll soon have a full orchestra and won’t need his organ playing as much.  He’ll need something to fall back on besides just doing sound effects.

Does he have the voice for it? Margaret Emerson asked.

His voice won’t be as deep as mine, but it’ll do, Paul told her.  I’ve worked with him a couple of times to help him lower his voice a bit on the microphone so it won’t be so…

Milquetoast? Margaret offered.

Paul Roberts smiled.  Exactly.

I guess it’s settled, Jimmy said.  You’re going to miss our new publicity ploy.

Mrs. Emerson raised an eyebrow in his direction.

I’ll tell you later, her husband said as a reply to her unspoken question.

I don’t know if I could handle another publicity ploy, Paul admitted.  Being accused of murder once was enough for me.   Paul was referring to the incident during the Armistice Day war-games broadcast where a group of irate soldiers, convinced that Paul was guilty of murder, had tried to lynch him in retribution. 

When will you leave?

Paul looked at his wristwatch.  My train tickets are for later this morning.

Jimmy glanced at his wife.  That is short notice.

Anger flashed across Paul’s face.  I think I deserve—

Jimmy raised his hands. No argument here.  You deserve some time off, I was just surprised you were leaving today is all.

Paul’s features relaxed.  Sorry, he said, I’ve just got a lot on my mind.  And I won’t rest easy until I get this…business…taken care of.

The three stood, and Jimmy and Paul exchanged handshakes.  Good luck, Emerson told him.

Thanks, Paul sighed.  I’m going to need it.

So, Jane Emerson eyed her husband after Paul made his departure.  What did Big Tex have to say?

Smiling, Jimmy said, How would you like to spend New Year’s Eve in Pennsylvania?

I think I’d rather be dead and buried, she joked.  Why do you ask?  What’s in Pennsylvania?

A dude ranch.

There’s a dude ranch in Pennsylvania?

Seventy-five miles from the heart of New York City, or so he claims.

So, what’s the scheme? she asked, smoothing out the hem of her skirt as she retook her chair.

Jimmy sat and leaned back in his chair. He wants Chick and Melvin to celebrate the dawning of the new decade with his ranch hands and assorted raffle ticket winners as a publicity ploy.

He’ll be lucky if the place isn’t burned to the ground with those two, she said of her two hapless employees, smiling.  Trouble seemed to follow the pair wherever they went.

James Emerson’s look turned serious.  If someone doesn’t turn up dead, first.

Maybe the station should sit this one out, mused Jane.  Lord knows we’ve had our share of death during these outings.  Why tempt fate again?

"It would be good publicity, her husband said, thinking aloud.  And would be a nice way to end out the year.  The last two stunts like this have definitely helped us bring in new listeners, sponsors, and revenue."

Who would go besides the destructive duo?

Phil Gargan.  I know he wants to try out the new transmission van. Big Tex, I mean Judge Eben, would like Margaret to go as well, and where she goes so does Bobby Dubov.

If Paul is out, we might as well send Norman.  You know it will just break his heart to get away from his family.

That’s something I’ll have to ask him about one day, Jimmy told her.

What do you mean?

Why did he have such a big family if his only goal in life was to get away from them?

Maybe there’s enjoyment in the making, she said coyly, smiling.

I don’t know, he responded with seriousness and rubbing his chin.  Have you seen his wife?

Yes I have, and that’s a horrible thing to say, she said with mock outrage.

To each his own, I suppose.

They complement each other, kind of like Jack Sprat and his wife.  But what I want to know is when we’re going to get serious about starting a family of our own.

You think there’s enjoyment in the making, that it? he smirked.

James Waldo Emerson!  I’m being serious!

I know, he said.  I’m not trying to make light of it.  I just don’t know if we’re ready.

"You mean you don’t know if you’re ready," she replied angrily.

How did she do that, he wondered, go from coy teasing to anger in less than six seconds?  There’s just so much going on right now.  Maybe when things slow down…we’ll have more time.  His words didn’t come out the way he intended, as often happened when he argued with his wife.

That’s what Abraham said to Sarah, I’ll bet.

Didn’t Sarah give him permission to have a child with her handmaiden? he asked, wagging his eyebrows suggestively, doing his best Groucho Marx impersonation.

His joke failed to hit his intended target, though her expression did soften a little.  Just try it and see where it gets you buster, she shot back.  Glancing at the clock on the wall behind him, she said, I guess I better go check on how the one o’clock show is going.

I’ll talk to Jerry and see if he can write some cowboy stuff.  Have a contract drawn up for Mr. Eben, would you?

Nodding, she said, We’ll see you tonight, Father Abraham.

You never know, he said, when I’m a hundred maybe I’ll be ready for children.

You better be ready before that if you want dinner tonight, Jane threatened while shutting the door behind her with a little extra force, as if to emphasize her point.

Chapter 2

The time: that morning.  The place: the waterfront.  A huge, floating behemoth towers overhead as men surround it like ants, preparing it for the long ocean voyage ahead.  It’s raining fat drops that seem to explode on impact as they hit the pavement.  A man and a woman stand amongst the chaos that is the passenger cruise liner before its departure, but there is nothing else in the world at this moment but the two of them.

I don’t want you to go, the man tells her, ignoring the rain.  It’s not safe.  There’s been news of submarines targeting American ships and sinking them.

She puts her fingertips to his lips and says, Shush now about that kind of talk.  You know why I have to go.  I’m doing this for us.

You don’t—, he pauses trying to form the words, you don’t have to do this.  There must be another way.

There is no other way.  I must do this thing, and then we can be together.

Tell me again why, he pleaded.  I don’t understand.

Someday you will, perhaps, she replied.

A deep whistle sounds, the behemoth crying a final time for passengers to load.

It’s time for me to depart, she says over the din of passengers travelling up the gangplank, of hasty goodbyes, and of the final bell sounds that occurred before shoving off.

When will I see you again? he asks.

I will call for you, she says, kissing him wetly on the lips, leaving a faint imprint of lipstick upon his.  "I know this is sudden, but I