Remorse touched his hat. ‘‘Thanks for the job offer, and God bless you.’’
‘‘Get out!’’
‘‘Five days,’’ McBride said. ‘‘Remember.’’ Josephine’s face was black with rage. ‘‘McBride, this was ill done. You’ve just signed your own death warrant.’’
Chapter 23
‘‘You make friends easily, don’t you, John?’’ Remorse said. They were standing outside Josephine’s bank and the reverend was smiling.
‘‘I’m bringing it to a head, Saul,’’ McBride said. ‘‘Now I’m going to talk to Dora Ryan and make her the same offer I made to Jared Josephine.’’
‘‘Garter gun.’’
‘‘Huh?’’
‘‘Dora will have a garter gun. I guarantee it. Probably a Derringer.’’
McBride nodded. ‘‘I’ll keep that in mind.’’
‘‘I’m heading to the courthouse,’’ Remorse said. ‘‘I want to check on something.’’
‘‘I’ll meet you back at the livery in an hour,’’ McBride said. ‘‘After I talk with Dora I have a feeling I’ll have worn out my welcome in this town.’’
‘‘Keep your powder dry, John, and keep turning your head. You’re a marked man, you know. Pity you don’t have a dog. A dog will watch a man’s back.’’
McBride grinned. ‘‘I’ve got a cat.’’
‘‘Not quite the same thing, though, is it?’’
McBride turned to walk away, then stopped. ‘‘Saul, I need to send a wire, but I don’t want to do it from here. Every word will get back to Jared Josephine.’’
‘‘Lincoln is the closest town,’’ Remorse said. ‘‘After we meet at the livery we can head down that way. It’s only an hour’s ride.’’
‘‘All right, we’ll do that,’’ McBride said. Suddenly he was looking forward to seeing Lincoln. Billy the Kid, the carefree Prince of Bandits, had made a daring escape from there.
The clerk with the patent leather hair and smug smile was on duty at the Kip and Kettle. He was asleep, his crossed feet propped up on his desk. McBride slapped the man’s shoes, and he woke up with a start.
He didn’t look pleased to see the big man looming over him. ‘‘I thought you was dead,’’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘‘You lose that cat?’’
‘‘Sorry to disappoint you on both counts.’’ McBride smiled. ‘‘I’m still alive and the cat is at the livery stable.’’
The clerk pretended to be busy with a ledger and didn’t look up as he said, ‘‘What can I do for you?’’
‘‘I’m here to see Miss Ryan.’’
‘‘She’s in her suite and left orders that she is not to be disturbed.’’
‘‘What’s the room number?’’
‘‘That is confidential.’’
Now the clerk lifted his eyes to McBride, and found himself looking into the muzzle of the big man’s Colt.
‘‘Mister,’’ McBride said, ‘‘I’m pretty sick and tired of this town and everybody in it, including you. Now, do you tell me the room number or do I scatter your brains all over the floor?’’
The man’s attitude changed immediately. He swallowed hard and gasped quickly, ‘‘Room twenty-five. Top of the stairs, then right.’’
‘‘What’s your name?’’ McBride asked, smiling as he shoved the gun back in his waistband.
‘‘Silas, Silas Wyllie.’’
‘‘Thank you, Silas. You’ve been a big help.’’
McBride took the stairs two at a time, then walked along the hallway to Dora’s room. He rapped on the door. No answer. He knocked again, louder this time.
Suddenly Wyllie was at his elbow, looking worried. ‘‘Miss Dora will fire me for this,’’ he said. ‘‘She left strict instructions that she wasn’t to be disturbed on any account.’’
‘‘Is anyone with her?’’
The clerk hesitated, conflicting emotions tangled on his face.
‘‘Is anyone with her?’’ McBride repeated.
‘‘A woman.’’
‘‘What woman?’’
Wyllie looked miserable, like a sad, white-faced clown. ‘‘Miss O’Neil,’’ he said finally.
McBride nodded. He tried the door but it was locked. He took a step back and kicked it in. The shattered door slammed back against the wall with a crash that made the clerk shriek in alarm.
Dora Ryan lay facedown and still on the floor near the curtained window. She was wearing a red silk robe that did little to conceal the blood that gleamed wetly around the blade of the knife buried in her back.
McBride stepped past the body and checked the bedroom. It was empty.
‘‘Oh Lordy, this is terrible,’’ Wyllie wailed, fluttering his hands. ‘‘Poor Miss Dora.’’
Ignoring the man, McBride kneeled beside the body. Denver Dora Ryan had been dead for quite a while, an hour at least. Four inches of steel blade had entered her back between the shoulder blades and she must have died very quickly. The knife was a cheap, Sheffield-made Bowie, available by the dozen in any general or gun store.
Wyllie was bent at the waist looking at the body, wringing his hands.
‘‘Did you see Clare O’Neil leave?’’ McBride asked.
The clerk shook his head, his bottom lip trembling. ‘‘No, no, I didn’t.’’
‘‘You were asleep. Could someone have slipped past you?’’
Wyllie shook his head and a strand of greasy hair fell over his face.
‘‘Did you hear anything?’’
‘‘No, nothing. I . . . I was asleep.’’
‘‘Is there another way out of the hotel?’’
‘‘Yes, there’s a stair at the end of the hall that leads to the alley.’’
McBride rose to his feet and walked along the hallway. At the end was a door that opened onto a timber landing and a flight of stairs to the alley. There was no one in sight.
He returned to the room where Wyllie sat on a chair with his face in his hands. ‘‘Go tell the marshal what happened,’’ he said.
When the clerk looked up, his face was stained with tears. ‘‘What do I tell him?’’
‘‘Just what you told me.’’
Wyllie got to his feet and brushed past McBride. He turned at the ruined doorway. ‘‘Miss Dora didn’t deserve this,’’ he said. ‘‘She was a real nice lady.’’
McBride nodded. He had nothing to say.
‘‘So you think Clare O’Neil murdered Dora Ryan?’’
Remorse waited for an answer, his hands paused on his saddle hitch.
‘‘I’m sure of it.’’
‘‘Why? A lovers’ quarrel perhaps?’’
‘‘Yes, maybe that,’’ McBride said uneasily, still grappling with a thing he did not understand. He tried for firmer ground. ‘‘Either that or Clare wants to keep the silver mine to herself.’’