“Stop,” I said. It hurt to smile.
“He’s right, Dave.” Lindsey stroked my un-bruised hand. “You seem to be a magnet for this kind of thing.”
“I’ve never seen you draw down before.”
“I’ve never had to before,” she said quietly.
We were right across from Union Station, a charming Spanish mission-style building from the 1920s that sat dark and closed. The last passenger train had been canceled a few years ago. The building’s old stucco front glowed yellow-white in the reflected light of the street lamps. Off behind it, a freight train slowly trundled along, steel wheels clanking across steel rails. Several police cars and a fire truck were arrayed on the street in front of us. The cops were all in the building and the firemen, tall and bulked up, milled awkwardly around their truck, not sure whether to go or stay. A figure slumped in the back seat of one of the PPD cars, safely behind locked doors and Plexiglas prisoner screen: my antagonist from the elevator shaft.
Peralta and Lindsey filled me in on what had happened. They saw the bad guy too late, as he jumped out of the darkness and landed on me. It hurt all over again to hear them describe our roll into the wooden gate of the elevator shaft, and then through it. About that time, the guy’s partner took a shot at Peralta and got the hell out of the building before Peralta canceled his ticket for good.
Somewhere in the melee Peralta tore a nasty gash in his arm. Then there was nothing to do but try to get me out of the elevator shaft, a task that had to wait for the fire department. It was a good fifteen feet down there. Somehow I got out with just a twisted ankle, some bruises, and a black eye.
“At least we got two of the dirtbags,” Peralta said. “With any luck, PPD can find out who their friend is. They say there’s been a smash-and-grab gang of carjackers working downtown for a month. This is probably them.”
Peralta sniffed. “So much for their little bicycle patrols. You want a job done, call a deputy sheriff.”
“What about the women in the Benz?” I asked.
“The one on the passenger side went to the hospital unconscious,” Sharon said. “The only place you can beat somebody that badly and she ends up fine is in the cartoons.”
“Two doctors’ wives out on the town,” Lindsey said. “Just stopped at a traffic light. Wrong place, wrong time, adios.”
Mike and Sharon were bickering over whether he should get a tetanus shot when a young, crew-cut PPD sergeant stepped out.
“Chief.” He approached Peralta tentatively. “Don’t mean to bother you, but there’s something in here you’d better take a look at.”
If Lindsey and I had gotten into this mess alone, the city cops might have treated us with annoyance. Our escapade would have caused much report writing by our colleagues in blue and they wouldn’t have appreciated the county mounties butting into their jurisdiction. But Peralta was chief deputy of Maricopa County and a presence that could impress, intimidate, and manipulate just by walking in a room. He looked at the sergeant, rose stiffly from the squad car bumper, and suddenly his stride was all business. I followed them back toward the building. Just standing up caused my face to start throbbing painfully.
“This building has been abandoned for years,” the sergeant was telling Peralta. “Looks like the last use was as some kind of warehouse.”
“It was once a hotel, back in the twenties, when the railroad station opened,” I said.
Peralta flashed me a look of annoyance. “I hurt too much for history lessons, Mapstone.”
We stepped around old packing cartons and rotting wooden pallets. The fire department had set up some emergency lighting; it cast a harsh halogen glare and stark shadows around the big room. At the mouth of the elevator shaft, a ladder provided easier access than I had found an hour before. The sergeant climbed down, followed by Peralta. I went next, then Lindsey. Sharon, I noticed, stayed outside.
It was still gloomy and close at the bottom. Cops’ flashlights played off piles of trash and ancient, greasy cables and pulley wheels. It was maybe ten feet by ten feet. Big enough for two men to find each other in the dark. The sergeant led us through a wooden barrier on one of the shaft walls. We stepped through, crossed down maybe half a dozen small steps. That led into a narrow hallway of rough red brick and what looked like a dirt floor. I stooped to fit. Peralta filled the hallway, scraping the walls like an aircraft carrier transiting locks made for pleasure boats. Lindsey, at five-seven, could just stand up.
“We found this when we came down,” the sergeant said. “There’s several passages down here. Looks like they might have been sealed off from the rest of the warehouse. If there’s another way up, we haven’t found it. One of my guys leaned against part of the brick and it gave way. That’s when we called the detectives.”
We walked maybe twenty feet and made a sharp turn. Here the passage opened into a slightly larger room where four other Phoenix cops were clustered. Part of the wall had collapsed and I could see, in a flashlight beam, some debris beyond.
We approached silently. The opening in the wall was small, just big enough to hand through a nineteen-inch TV set. The bricks had fallen in, exposing a cavity inside the wall. On the other side were some wooden framing and more old brick. The cops shone their lights and we peered in. It was a small skull, human looking, along with more bones, all a yellowish color, collapsed into a heap. There was some unidentifiable fabric or maybe leather. Then I saw another small skull.
For a long time nobody said anything. We stooped in silence and stared through the hole in the wall, as if we expected the flashlight beams to re-animate the dead.
“Look at that, off to the side,” Lindsey said.
“Don’t touch anything!” It was a patrolman who looked like a young Jack Kerouac.
“Oh, okay,” she said sweetly, her sarcasm lost on a roomful of cops. She plucked away Jack Kerouac’s flashlight and focused it on an object that looked a little larger and thicker than a silver dollar. It was metal, tarnished and brass-colored under a coating of dust. My eyes were getting too bad to make out the design on its head.
“Pocket watch,” Peralta said. “See, there’s the watch chain off in the dust. Looks like some initials on the cover, but I can’t make ’em out.”
“It looks like a large Y and a small H,” Lindsey said. I could hear the scratching of a cop’s pen on a notepad and a memory compartment rattled open in my head.
“Y-H?”
“No,” I said, absent-mindedly standing up straight, nearly cracking my head on the low ceiling. “It’s H-Y. It was a cattle brand.”
Everybody was looking at me now, the passage thick with cologne and dust.
“Hayden Yarnell,” I said. “The cattle baron.”
Cop faces stared at me impatiently.
I nodded toward the bones. “These must be the Yarnell twins. His grandsons. They were kidnapped back in the Depression and never found.”
Lindsey whispered what we were all thinking: “Oh my God.”
3
Hayden Winthrop Yarnell burst into Arizona history on an April day in 1889, the year my grandmother was born. That day, at a desolate one-shack siding on the Southern Pacific Railroad grandly called Gila City, a gang of robbers attacked a train as it took on water. They wanted the express car, which they heard was carrying payroll strongboxes bound for the mines at Bisbee. The gold was there, all right, but so was Hayden Yarnell with two Colt Peacemaker revolvers.
A photo of him taken two months later shows a clean-shaven man with delicate lips and a long, strong nose, looking uncomfortable and stern in a high collar, string tie and suit coat. But something behind his eyes burned with the obstinate clarity of the pioneer-that’s the way I’ve always pictured him at Gila City.
The leader of the outlaws, a murderer and rustler named Three-Fingers McMackin, shot a deputy in the face and strode to the door of the express car. When Three-Fingers slid the door open, Yarnell put a.45 caliber bullet between his eyes. Another desperado nearly severed Yarnell’s left arm with a rifle shot, but the young guard managed to get back in the express car and close the door. For the next half-hour, the outlaws emptied their pistols and rifles into the car as Yarnell clung to the floor by the payroll boxes. But they didn’t have the guts to try to open the door again, so they rode away empty handed.