The Constable

By R.E. Cole

The story follows the life of Horace Goodman and his devoted family as he is thrown into a complex drama involving the murder of his best friend, dealing in the financial world of the later 1800s, and a chase across the country to find the dangerous killer who is leaving a path of death as his trail.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496958310

R.E. Cole

Mr. Cole was a very successful businessman with an intense passion for reading history and the financial world. These three interests have been combined into a historical mystery that is very insightful and exciting.

Book preview

Prologue

In the mid-1800’s, Cape May, New Jersey was a beautiful little town on the southern coast of New Jersey. If Daniel Webster needed an artist’s rendition to use for his definition of the word serene, he could have used a drawing of Cape May.

There had been only one murder in the beautiful village, and that was in 1844 when two strangers rode into town on horseback, filled with wood whiskey, running through town yelling, awakening the peace-loving inhabitants. A few of the drowsy citizens, now awake, witnessed one stranger tripping and falling. This allowed his inebriated partner to stop by the fallen man, pull out his revolver and — for no apparent reason — empty all six bullets into his friend’s body. Also inexplicably, he laughed through it all.

Then he started kicking his friend, saying, Wake up … wake up. If he wasn’t so drunk, he might have been aware of Fat Daisy — whose house he was standing in front of — coming up behind him with an iron skillet. He never knew the blow to his head was coming until it arrived, followed by an explosion of stars, then blackness.

Stupid shit, she said.

There was no central authority in Cape May. They didn’t need it. They had not yet incorporated, and even the tax collector in Trenton forgot the town was there.

Without police, the citizenry decided how to handle this situation right there in the middle of the night under a bright moonlit sky. There was not a single objection.

After retrieving the firearms of the drunks — one unconscious, one dead — the bullet-riddled body was wrapped in an old horse blanket. The killer had his hands tied behind him, and both bodies were thrown in the back of a wagon, brought up by another citizen, pulled by his horse.

One of the most scenic spots in the area was King’s Bluff, named after King George of England, whom the good citizens of Cape May despised, but never thought to change the name. The rise formed a cliff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean and its rocky shore, some 75 feet below. At the edge of the bluff was one lone elm tree, huge in stature and defying gravity as several of its large limbs reached out over the raging ocean.

The wagon moved up under the elm tree and stopped as the killer started to come around.

Young Billie Colt, a wiry lad of 16, was climbing out on the largest limb carrying a long rope over his shoulder. The gathered townspeople watched as he reached the end of the limb, and Billie pulled the rope through the Y of two smaller branches, and then tied the end to his belt, letting out slack as he worked his way back from the edge of the limb.

The killer managed to sit up, head throbbing from both alcohol and a skillet wound. His watery, unfocused gaze looked at the couple of dozen people watching Billie. He looked up in the tree, somewhat entranced at the boy in the moonlight playing with a rope. It was like a story he might have read about a monkey and a vine. Except this monkey wasn’t playing … and it slowly dawned on him what was going on.

As Billie came back to the base of the tree, he dropped the bulk of the rope down to one of his fellow citizens, then dropped to the ground, the rope end still tied to his belt. He untied it and walked to the edge of the bluff and fashioned a noose at the rope end. He then held it neck high, nodding to one of the men standing by the tree trunk. That man pulled the rope until there was no slack and then wrapped the rope around the tree trunk several times before tying it off.

Two men grabbed the killer by the ankles and pulled him out of the wagon as the sounds of the Atlantic Ocean roared below. Four other men grabbed the dead body and followed.

The killer started trembling and screaming: What are you doing? Who are you people? I haven’t done anything! Please, oh God, help me!

As Billie placed the noose over the killer’s head, the dead body of his friend was rolled out of the blanket at his feet.

One of the men said, That’s what you did!

The killer looked down at his friend and cried, George! Oh my God. You people killed George!

No, you did this to your friend. Right in front of witnesses — and now you’re gonna answer for that.

A townsman walked up to the killer.

May God have mercy on your soul.

And then shoved him off the cliff.

The killer swung from the rope out over the ocean, before he swayed back toward the bluff, all the time kicking his legs. In a clean hanging, the neck snaps, ending the process quickly. In this case, it was a slow process, taking a good five minutes before suffocation brought the somber execution to a quiet conclusion. Back and forth, the swinging continued until it subsided, the kicking finally ceased.

The man who had shoved him off the bluff turned and said, Okay. Another good citizen untied the rope at the trunk with one pull on the rope. As everyone watched, the body dropped, disappearing into the hungry sea followed by the rope, like a long tail.

A minute later, the murder man’s body was rolled off the edge of the bluff, falling onto the rocks below. Everyone knew it would be gone after the next high tide. Thus ended the events around the only murder to occur in their Cape May without a single disagreement among its citizens.

The only major impact on the town was that from that day forward, King’s Bluff became known as Hangman’s Bluff.

Chapter 1

Horace Gooden studied his cards, absently stroking his mustache. Good hand, bad hand, or a winning hand, his face showed nothing.

He considered his options.

Bet too much, he’ll either scare them off, or they’ll think he’s bluffing.

Horace didn’t look up at the other faces — Riley Jones, Samuel Fowler and Jamie Horsch — most of which were watching him.

The agreement was for no bet to go over ten, with only the last hand having no limit. So, Horace contemplated the possibilities.

Darcy’s Pub at this late hour had grown quiet, not due to men leaving, going home to their family and farms, but most of them watching this hand play out, a couple trying to get a peek of Horace’s cards over his shoulder.

I’ll raise, he said and pushed another $20 into the pot.

I’ll see that, Riley Jones said, and raise it another ten.

I hope that’s not the bank’s money, Pete Darcy said, and a chorus of snickers broke out.

Actually, it’s your last mortgage payment on this place, the banker said, straight-faced, which brought a round of guffaws while Pete scowled.

The wealthiest man in Atlantic County, New Jersey smirked, then threw his cards on the table. I’m out, Samuel Fowler said.

All eyes fell on the fourth man, Jamie Horsch, owner of the Feed & Mercantile Store in Cape May.

Horace, I’m not letting you get away with that bluffing shit with me. I may be younger than you, but this is 1885, the modern times, and I’m not fooled. I’ll not only see the bet, but I’ll raise you by another fifty!

This was a first. Even though there was no limit on this hand, they’d never gone above $30 before.

Everyone was watching Horace Gooden’s face to see how he would react.

Gooden’s expression changed. He smiled. And then everyone in the pub smiled.

Gooden cocked his head, thinking. Jamie wasn’t bluffing. At 25, he wasn’t savvy enough yet to know how to hold back. It was easy to read him like a book.

Jamie, isn’t that pretty young wife of yours planning to have a baby real soon? Horace asked. Are you sure you want to do this? You’re gonna need your money. I’ll let you think that bet over again.

Everyone in the pub started nodding. But Jamie was too excited, and stubborn.

I know what you’re all thinking, but all his talkin’ is part of his game, Jamie said, a little defensively. He’s bluffing. I know him better than he knows himself. I’ve got him just where I want him. He knows he’s cornered and is trying to talk his way out of it. Come on, Horace. Wipe that smile off your face and do something!

Now all eyes went to Gooden, who continued to smile. Well, Jamie, I tried reasoning with you. I’ll see your fifty and raise it by a gentleman’s ten.

Aha! said Jamie. I see a weakness in the old boy. I’ll see your ten and go another fifty!

Riley Jones said, You went out of turn, Jamie. But I’m out anyway. He tossed in his cards.

Sorry, Riley. Are you okay with it, Horace?

Sure, I’m fine, but I’ve got to say I would not feel good taking all this money from such a fine young man with a growing family. Why don’t we say, since you went out of turn, it caused the game to be cancelled and everyone takes their money back?

There were murmurs of both agreement and puzzlement — as if they were asking why Horace was being so generous.

Samuel Fowler shrugged, with a bit of a smirk. Riley Jones nodded.

Absolutely not! Jamie said, a little too excitedly. Week after week I’ve lost to your bluffs and it’s not going to happen this time! I kick myself all week long for not challenging you. Well this time, things will be different.

Horace let the smile drop from his face, and went back to a blank expression. He re-checked his cards, making sure those behind him didn’t get a peek. He didn’t need to know what he had, or what to do — it was more for show. Jamie must have one hell of a hand for him to be that confident. At this point, it wasn’t Horace deciding whether he should follow-through, but if he could afford this loss. It would sting, and Maggie might frown at him, but he couldn’t back down.

Very well. Here’s my fifty, and Horace Gooden pushed the chips to the middle of the table, joining the others. Let’s see what you’ve got.

Without hesitation, Jamie laid his cards down. There were several oohs and aahs, and someone whistled.

Three Aces! said Jamie, proudly. Whadda ya got?

Horace stared at the Aces for several moments, and then sighed. Two Kings, he said as he laid them out slowly.

There were a lot of gasps, followed by head shaking and a couple of open jaws. The consensus was that Gooden had blown it.

Jamie, with a big grin on his face, started pulling in the pot.

And three Sevens, Gooden added in a slow drawl, laying down the Club, Spade and Diamond.

Another gasp and Jamie stopped dead, arms outstretched around a pile of chips. His face went white, and he swallowed heavily. He pulled back, as if he wanted to be invisible while Horace roped the chips in.

Drinks for everyone, Pete. Gooden said.

A rousing cheer went up.

Horace stacked his chips. You know, Jamie, I don’t bluff all the time. A couple weeks ago, I cleaned Riley’s clock with a good hand. The problem is you never know when it’s gonna happen. Tonight it happened. I hate to take all you got, but I gave you a way out. I hope you don’t get all mad over a learning experience.

Pete Darby brought drinks to the table, patting Jamie’s shoulder as he passed by. Tell you what, Jamie, Horace said, still stacking his take. I’ll divide this pot in half, which includes my winnings for the whole evening. I’ll cut cards for it. High man wins. You don’t have to do anything.

You mean I can’t lose?

No more than you already have.

What’s the catch?

The catch is — this is my lucky night. I’m gonna win my own money.

Jamie thought about this, looking at a couple of others as if asking what to do. Oh, what the hell, he said. He reached out and flipped the top card on the deck. Lucky me Seven of Hearts!

There were a couple of snickers — only Jamie would think a Seven in this situation was lucky.

Gooden nodded. Right down the middle, could go either way. He reached out and plucked the next card off the deck and slid it in front of him face-down before peeking. His smirk fell away.

Three of Diamonds, he said, leaving the card flat on the table.

There was a reaction of surprise from the gallery and Jamie hooted. A Three! But then he paused as the smile drifted away from his face. Are you sure about this?

Gooden held up his card to Pete Darby. What do you see, Pete?

A Three. I can’t believe a Seven won that pot!

The expression on Jamie’s face exploded into a broad grin as he pulled in his share of the pot.

Sam Fowler collected the cards, pulling in Horace’s face-down card last, casually flipping it over, revealing a Queen of Hearts. He calmly placed it on the pile, not commenting.

Jamie didn’t notice, too busy counting his money.

Chapter 2

Horace Gooden and Sam Fowler left Darby’s Pub just after 11, and got into Horace’s wagon. The horse eyed them wearily, while Henry — Horace’s mutt — jumped up and wagged its tail, happy to see someone. With Horace’s farm four miles away, a little over an hour away, the dog would be asleep before they got out of town. Fortunately for Sam, he was less than a mile out, making it convenient when, every Saturday, Horace picked up Sam for the card game. It gave them a great time to talk about what had gone on all week.

Okay, Homer. Take us home.

Couldn’t you have come up with a better name than Homer for this fine horse? Sam asked.

All I know is, he takes me home whenever I tell him to. Homer seems like a very appropriate name.

Then what about your dog? No dog should be named Henry.

Henry’s tail started to beat like a drum against the side of the wagon, happy to hear his name.

Gooden held the dog’s head in his hands and said, Look at that face, Sam. What does he look like?

Yeah, but Horace, Homer, Henry … It’s all too much.

I could have named him Sam.

Fowler laughed. Yeah, I guess you could’ve.

The sounds of the wagon wheels creaking as they rolled and the horse plodding along lulled them for a while.

That was a very generous thing you did for young Jamie tonight, Sam said. You didn’t have to. After all, you did give him a chance to get out of the bet.

Well, I felt somewhat guilty because he blamed my bluffing as the reason he kept upping the bet. I’m not a bluffer, Sam.

Spare me that one. But I wanted to correct Jamie on one thing. He mentioned he knew you so well and that’s why he knew you were bluffing. If he knew you like I know you, he’d realize you’ve never told anyone to take their bet back.

Yeah. There’s that too, Gooden said.

They went quiet again, enjoying the night air.

So tell me, Horace — how do you like being our constable?

Don’t know. It’s been three months and they haven’t asked me to do anything yet.

Well, having no law enforcement in town means we need someone to look into minor thefts and provide legality to various documents drawn up in town.

I guess people haven’t been stealing or documenting then.

If there is a crime, the state police will come handle it.

Yeah, three months later.

True. Having a constable is more of a deterrent for the young folks. Makes them think before they do something they shouldn’t.

It hasn’t been a bother to me. I’m happy to do it for the town.

Again they rode quietly for a while.

I was thinking about how the Jersey Shore will not be the same in ten years, Sam said.

How so?

Well, the railroad and all.

What railroad?

Oh, I forgot. It hasn’t been announced yet. All those railroads they’re building everywhere is causing land speculators like me to anticipate where they’re going to run the tracks and buy up as much as we can beforehand.

Sounds complicated to me.

Don’t shortchange yourself. I’ve dealt with all kinds of businessmen, lawyers, accountants, bankers and politicians. You are one of the most savvy men I’ve ever met. Why don’t you sell that damned farm and join up with me?

’Cause I love working with my hands and being outside. I wouldn’t fit in your world. So what about the railroads and the Jersey shore?

Sam paused for a minute. The Pennsylvania Railroad is going to build a rail line from their Philadelphia station to Atlantic City. It’s going to open that town up wide. The wealthy from Philly will build mansions on the shore and commute to and from their offices in the summer. New businesses will spring up. It will even have a moderate effect on Cape May.

Especially if they like milk. said Horace.

Fowler shook his head. Such simple thoughts from such an intelligent mind.

Horace could feel himself blushing. So, tell me. Did you get to speculate on some of that land the railroad’s gonna need?

Smiling, Fowler said: What do you think?

I think you’re in a big poker game. I hope you’re not in too deep.

After a bit Fowler said, Penny an acre.

What?

Penny an acre. That’s what I paid for a hundred and fifty thousand acres of swampland ten years ago. Now the railroad is going to go smack though the middle of my swampland and some other land that I have options on.

Well, see? Have you sold it to the railroad yet?

No, they bought the land they need in Atlantic City for their terminal, so they’re committed. My lawyer tells me all the other landowners have cut their deals with them. I’m the only hold out.

What’s the problem?

Well, they know I only paid a penny an acre and they’re only offering me a dime an acre.

That’s ten times what you paid for it! Isn’t that a good profit?

Horace, my good man. What I paid for the land has no bearing on the market value.

Horace scratched his head for a moment, not sure what to say. How did you get it so cheap, anyway?

The state ran a public announcement in a little known weekly Trenton newspaper saying they were auctioning off most of the swamp lands. I couldn’t imagine what I would want with all that swamp land, but I thought, what the hell. It’s land. Mushy land, but land nevertheless, and that’s better than gold if you’re in the right place at the right time. So, I put in a bid of a penny an acre. Turns out I was the only bidder.

Sounds like it was worthless.

You might think that, but when I tried to close the deal, they kept running me around in circles. This got me suspicious, so I took a room in Trenton and bugged them every day until they had no choice but to bring the deal to a close. Not a very trustworthy lot up there in Trenton.

What can you expect? That’s where the politicians are

Precisely. So now the railroad is offering me a dime an acre, but a friend of mine sold his swamp land in Northern New Jersey to the Erie for fifteen dollars an acre. So, I now have a comparison for market value.

Is that what you’re demanding?

Actually, no. It’s worth less in this part of the state, so I have put it at twelve-fifty. My rock bottom is ten.

Have they responded to that?

It’s all being handled through my lawyer in Philadelphia. He said they told me to — and I quote — ‘Piss off.’

Horace and Sam laughed at that.

You’re not going to back down, are you?

No, I plan to hang in there. After all, they need the land.

Horace thought for a minute then said. Let’s see, a penny an acre is, aaah, fifteen hundred. Right?

Right.

And ten bucks an acre is … one and a half million? Wow!

Yep. Wow.

Samuel, do you know how many cow teats I’d have to pull to make that kind of money?

I don’t really give a shit. It only proves my point — you should join me and give your family a better life.

The horse slowed to a stop, and Horace looked around to see they were in front of Sam’s place. Homer was smarter than some of the folks he knew in town. Maybe smarter than his owner.

Sam jumped off and waved half-heartedly. Thanks, as always, for the ride. I’ll see you when I see you.

Same here.

Without needing to be told, Homer started moving again, taking his master home so they could all get some sleep.

Chapter 3

It was a warmish Tuesday with the mid-morning sun trying to make Horace break into a sweat, but not quite succeeding. Homer, doing double-duty pulling a plow, was helping to prepare an area for tomatoes and corn.

A distant sound made Horace look up to see a lone rider coming at full gallop across his land.

Whoa, Homer, he said, pulling the horse to