The Remittance Man
The morning sun bathed Cache Creek in a golden glow as Buck Thornton stepped out of the hotel and onto the dusty main street. The murder of Timothy, the young clerk from the assay office, was still fresh in everyone’s minds. Sheriff Callahan had spent the night questioning residents, but answers were scarce. Buck, however, had his own suspicions and a knack for finding the truth.
As he strolled toward the general store to pick up supplies, Buck noticed a peculiar figure seated on a bench outside the saloon. The man was tall and thin, with a regal bearing that clashed with his threadbare suit and scuffed boots. His once-fine clothes hinted at a life of privilege long since abandoned. He held a silver hip flask in one hand and stared absently at the street, as though lost in another time.
“Good morning,” Buck said, tipping his hat as he approached.
The man looked up, his hazel eyes sharp despite his disheveled appearance. “Morning,” he replied with a faint English accent. “You must be new in town.”
“Just passing through,” Buck said. “Name’s Buck Thornton.”
“Sir James Whitaker,” the man replied with a wry smile. “Though around here, most folks just call me ‘the remittance man.'”
Buck had heard the term before – wealthy families back in England often sent their ne’er-do-well sons to far-off colonies with a modest allowance to keep them out of trouble. Sir James appeared to fit the description perfectly.
“Pleasure to meet you, Sir James,” Buck said. “Mind if I sit?”
“Not at all,” Whitaker replied, gesturing to the bench beside him.
As they talked, Buck learned that Whitaker had been living in Cache Creek for several years, eking out a modest existence on what remained of his family’s money. He spent most of his days drinking and reminiscing about his youth in England, though he occasionally picked up odd jobs around town.
“You must have heard about the murder last night,” Buck said casually.
Whitaker nodded grimly. “Hard not to. Poor lad never stood a chance.”
“You seem like a man who keeps his ear to the ground,” Buck said. “Hear anything unusual lately?”
Whitaker hesitated for a moment before leaning in closer. “There’s been talk,” he said in a low voice. “Rumors about a big shipment of gold coming through town. Some say it’s already here.”
Buck’s mind raced. The overheard conversation at the hotel, Timothy’s murder, and now this – it all seemed connected.
Their conversation was interrupted by Sheriff Callahan, who strode purposefully down the street toward them. The sheriff was a burly man with a thick mustache and an air of authority that commanded respect.
“Thornton,” Callahan said with a nod. “I hear you’ve got some experience solving problems like this.”
“I’ve been known to help out from time to time,” Buck replied.
“Good,” Callahan said. “Because I could use another set of eyes on this case.”
Buck agreed to meet Callahan at the assay office later that afternoon to review the evidence. As the sheriff walked away, Whitaker turned to Buck with a sly grin.
“You’re not just passing through, are you?” he asked.
Buck chuckled. “Let’s just say I have an interest in keeping this town safe.”
Whitaker raised his flask in a mock toast. “Well then, Mr. Thornton, I wish you luck.”
Later that day, Buck joined Callahan at the assay office, where Timothy had worked before his untimely death. The small building was cluttered with papers and equipment used to weigh and evaluate gold brought in by miners.
“We found this on Timothy’s body,” Callahan said, holding up a small leather pouch filled with gold dust. “But it doesn’t match any of the records here.”
Buck examined the pouch carefully. The leather was worn but high-quality – not something an ordinary miner would carry.
“Any idea where this came from?” Buck asked.
Callahan shook his head. “That’s what we need to find out.”
As they searched the office for clues, Buck noticed a ledger tucked away in a drawer. The entries were written in neat handwriting and detailed transactions involving large amounts of gold – far more than what was typical for Cache Creek.
“This doesn’t add up,” Buck said, showing the ledger to Callahan. “Someone’s been moving gold through here without anyone noticing.”
The sheriff frowned. “Looks like we’ve got more than just a murder on our hands.”
Outside, Sir James Whitaker watched from across the street as Buck and Callahan emerged from the assay office deep in conversation. He took another swig from his flask and muttered under his breath.
“Careful now, Thornton,” he said softly. “You’re stirring up trouble that might be best left alone.”
Unbeknownst to both men, shadows moved in an alley nearby – unseen eyes watching their every move as Cache Creek’s secrets began to unravel piece by piece.