“I’m trying to find out how your brother acted the last couple days before he was killed.”
“What’ll that tell ya?”
“Maybe nothing. But maybe you or somebody else will remember something he might have said or done that would tell us something—maybe somebody was after him. Something like that.”
Nolan yawned. He was half-sober after his sleep but he was still in the process of waking up. “There was just that one night, I guess.”
“What night?”
Another yawn. “I need some fresh air.”
“Right now I need you to talk to me.”
“How about I take that shot of yours?”
“Fine by me if you’ll keep talking.”
“I’m not a drunkard. It’s just my kid brother’s death and all—”
For some reason Fargo believed him. He shoved the shot glass across the table.
“Thank you.” Nolan belted it back.
“Tell me about your brother and that night you mentioned.”
“There’s this creek where we fish. I was bedding down the horses when I seen him come up from there and he looked madder than hell. I asked him what was wrong but he wouldn’t tell me. But then when he got in the light I could see that his jaw was red and swollen.”
“Somebody hit him.”
“Sure looked that way. So I went down there. To the water. Looked around. I could see somebody up against the foothills, ridin’ away.”
“But no idea who?”
“Too far away.”
“Your brother ever mention it again?”
“No. He kind of kept to himself. Especially after his friend got killed. Ma got scared. She kept beggin’ him to talk because something was wrong. You could see it all over his face.” Then he shook his head. Miserably. “Then he got killed, too.” Was that a sob? Fargo wondered. “I usually do day work, anything that comes along. Me and another fella, there’s enough work to support us all right except in the worst of winter. I should be workin’ now. But I haven’t felt like it. And it’s hard to go home. Facin’ my ma. She’s of the notion that since I was his older brother I should have taken care of him. And you know the hell of it?”
“What’s that?”
“I sort of feel the same way myself. Guilty. Maybe that’s why all I want to do is sit in this shithole and get drunk.”
Fargo put money on the bar for more drinks.
“How was your brother acting before he got killed?”
“Funny. He’d jump at every noise. And I’d always see him staring off like he was really trying to think something through. But mostly I noticed how nervous he was. He’d never been like that before and I grew up with him. I asked him about it and asked him why he was so scared. But he just blew up—started shouting at me that he was fine and that his business was his business and that I was to stay out of it.”
“Did you see him the day he disappeared?”
“No.”
“I’m at the Royale for the next twenty-four hours. In and out. If you think of something leave a note for me there.”
“Eyepatch’ll have to write it.”
“How’s that?”
“Never learned to write.”
Eyepatch had been listening to it all, of course. “Next time you call this place a shithole, Frank, you can take your business someplace else. I worked hard to get this place up to snuff.”
Fargo did the man a favor. He didn’t laugh out loud.
It was a town of cowboys and miners and greenhorns, of outriders and homesteaders and drummers. And gunfighters and cardsharps and slickers. And as recently as a month ago Cawthorne had been the private domain of Sheriff Tom Cain. He had tamed it and he made sure it stayed tamed. Most of the good citizens here both liked him and respected him. And even those who hated him were forced to respect him.
Cain walked among the wagons and buggies and horses and mules that filled the main street. He didn’t much care for the looks he got this morning, though. Few smiled, most hurried past him on his walk to the courthouse. They would usually have stopped to pay their respects. But there were three dead young men and it was pretty much agreed that Sheriff Tom Cain really didn’t have any idea who was behind their murders.
Amy Peters knew these things about Sheriff Tom Cain because he had expressed each and every one of them to her over the years. When he had first begun thrusting himself on her, shortly after his arrival, he had been all strutting male, smirking at the notion that she would someday be Ned Lenihan’s bride. She’d never liked him and liked him less with each passing year. But he was the most important man in Cawthorne, even more important than the three men on the town council, and for the sake of her children she needed to be pleasant.
These days he tried a gentler approach. He talked to her as if she were his confidante. Told her about his doubts instead of his triumphs. But like most things with Tom Cain, it was calculated. If he couldn’t get her one way, he’d just try another.
She thought of this as she watched him approach the buggy she had just stepped down from. This was her twice-weekly visit to the general store. No matter how she tried to vary the times she arrived, Cain somehow always appeared.
His rugged face broke into a smile that he knew well made him even handsomer. He tipped his hat, too. She was getting the whole show.
“I knew something good would happen to me today if I just held on long enough,” he said.
“Morning, Tom.”
“Going to Herb’s?”
“As usual.”
“Just the shopping basket?”
He referred to the wicker basket on the arm of her dark blue blouse. “Just a few staples.”
“Mind if I walk with you?”
“Would it make any difference if I did?”
A forced laugh. “You know, I’ve told you how sorry I am that I was such a fool about everything.”
She sighed. Maybe he was sincere after all. Nobody could be insincere all the time. “Let’s walk, Tom.”
Before he could speak, a man shouted at Cain, “You’re doin’ a good job, Tom! Don’t let ’em tell you no different!”
“Thanks, Cornelius! Appreciate it!”
“Well, nice to know I’ve got one person still backin’ me up.” He placed the white Stetson back on his head and said, “I know some of the people have turned against me. But I’ve got an old friend of mine, man named Skye Fargo, helping me. He’s worked with the Pinkertons a couple times.”
“Never knew you to ask for help before.”
“Maybe I’m not the man you think I am.”
“I remember all the terrible things you said about Ned.”
“I remember them, too, Amy, and I’m sorry about that too. The old green-eyed beast had me in its clutches was all. Here I was a big strapping town tamer and Lenihan’s a nice decent man. But I guess I’ve read too many yellowbacks. Not all women want a town tamer for a husband. And I admire you for standing by him with his problems with the bank and all.”
Poor Ned, she thought. He’d been so aggrieved lately. One night he couldn’t even make love. She worried about him—worried about them as a couple. Ned didn’t want to get married until he paid off his farm. And the robbery had obviously placed him under some suspicion. Once it was known that there had been a secret shipment of money on that stagecoach where the Englishman and driver had been murdered, people naturally began to suspect everybody at the stage line office. But suspecting Ned was ridiculous. No matter what kind of financial trouble he was in there was no way he’d ever throw in with stage robbers.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Amy. Maybe there’s a lot more you need to know before you run off and do something foolish.”