“Dempster,” Cummins said. “It’s good of you to drop by.” He opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of whiskey, filled a glass, then slid the glass across his desk toward Dempster. “Have a drink.”
“Thank you, no,” Dempster said.
“No?” Cummins looked at his two deputies. “Boys, did you just hear Mr. Dempster say no?”
“I never thought that old drunk would turn down a drink,” Crack said.
“Maybe he thinks he’s too good to drink with us,” Jackson suggested.
“No, it isn’t that,” Dempster said. “I’m sure you understand. I’m an alcoholic. I’m trying to quit drinking.”
“Hah! You’re trying to quit drinking?” Cummins replied. He looked at the others. “Boys, have either of you ever known a drunk who gave it up?”
“I ain’t never known one,” Jackson said.
“Me neither,” Crack added.
“No, and you ain’t never goin’ to know one ’cause it can’t be done.” He looked at Dempster again. “So why are you tryin’ to fight it? You know you want a drink, and here it is, just waitin’ for you. And it is being offered in friendship.”
“Maybe he don’t want to be our friend,” Crack said. “He’s been meetin’ with Montgomery and them other troublemakers.”
Dempster gasped, and Cummins laughed again.
“Well now, Mr. Dempster, you act a little surprised,” Cummins said.
Dempster didn’t answer.
“You don’t think folks can hold meetin’s in this town without me knowin’ about it, do you?” Cummins asked. “This is Purgatory, Mr. Dempster.” Cummins made a fist of his right hand, then used his thumb to point to himself. “And I own Purgatory. Nothing happens in Purgatory without my knowledge, or permission.”
“You are the marshal, not the king,” Dempster said.
“The marshal, not the king? Hmm, that sounds like a political slogan. Are you considering running for some office, Mr. Dempster?”
In fact, though he had told no one, Dempster had considered running for circuit judge.
“If I run for anything, you’ll know it, Marshal Cummins,” Dempster said. “Believe me, you’ll know it.”
“Well now, that sounds like a threat,” Cummins replied. “Are you threatening me, Counselor?”
A quick spasm of fear overtook Dempster, and the hackles rose on the back of his neck. The conversation had gone beyond mere banter and he needed to change the tone.
“No!” he said quickly. “No, I’m not making any threat. I just meant that, uh, if I ever did run for office, why, everyone would know about it.” He forced a laugh. “They’d have to know about it, otherwise, who would vote for me?”
“I can answer that question for you,” Jackson said. “Nobody would vote for you, because nobody is going to vote for a drunk.”
“What do you want, Dempster?” Cummins asked. He picked up the glass of whiskey and drank it himself. The bantering was over.
“I just saw Cletus Odom coming into town,” Dempster said.
“Cletus Odom, you say?” Cummins replied. “You saw him coming into town?”
“Yes. He was riding right down the middle of Central Street, just as big and bold as you please.”
“What about that, Marshal?” Jackson said. “Cletus Odom is in town.”
There was a matter-of-fact tone to Jackson’s comment that Dempster found disturbing.
“Mr. Dempster, why did you feel you had to come tell me about Cletus Odom?” Cummins asked.
“Because you are the marshal.”
“And?”
“And because Cletus Odom is a wanted outlaw.”
“Not in Purgatory, he isn’t,” Cummins said.
“Of course he is. He’s wanted all over the Arizona Territory,” Dempster said.
Cummins shook his head and made a clucking sound with his tongue. “And you once defended him,” he said. “What kind of lawyer are you, Dempster, that you would turn on a man you once defended?”
Dempster had never told anyone that he had once defended Odom, until he shared that information with Montgomery just a few minutes earlier.
“How—how did you know I once defended him?”
“Because Cletus told me you did,” Cummins replied.
“Odom told you? I don’t understand. When did you and Odom ever have a conversation? And why would he have told you that?”
“Because brothers share things,” Cummins answered.
“Brothers? You and Cletus Odom are brothers?”
“Half brothers,” Cummins said. “Cletus!” he called. “Get out here, I want you to meet an old friend of yours!”
A door at the back of the room opened, and Cletus Odom stepped out. Dempster noticed, in shock, that Odom was wearing a star pinned to his vest.
“Mr. Dempster, meet my newest deputy,” Cummins said.
Chapter Twenty-one
It started raining about an hour before Matt reached Quigotoa. Although rainfall was scarce in the desert, when it did rain it was often a torrential downpour. This was just such a rain, and Matt had to be careful to avoid dry creek beds, arroyos, and low-lying areas for fear of a sudden flash flood.
Matt put on a rain slicker and hunkered down in the saddle, but nothing helped.
“Just a little farther, Spirit,” he said to the horse, who, with frequent tossing of his head, showed his discomfort with the downpour. “I’ll find a place to get you dry, I promise.”
Finally, cresting a ridge, Matt saw the town of Quigotoa in the distance, low-lying and gray behind the diaphanous curtain of the rainstorm.
“There it is, boy,” Matt said. “I told you it wouldn’t be much farther.”
It took another fifteen minutes or so after the little town was spotted before Matt reached it. The street was a slurry of mud mixed with horse apples, the droppings reconstituted by the water so that the stench was released. He saw a stable that was no more than a roof over a pen. It wasn’t exactly a livery, but it would provide Spirit with some shelter from the rain, and from the sun after the rain passed.
He rode up to it, then dismounted. At first, he didn’t see anyone; then, at second glance, he saw someone sitting in one corner of the stable where, in addition to the roof, there were half walls, thus providing a bit more shelter from the rain.
“Is this a public livery?” he called, having to raise his voice to be heard through the rain.
“Sí, señor. Ten cents, one night,” the man responded without leaving the partial shelter.
“Here’s fifty cents,” Matt said, fishing the coin from his pocket. “Give him something to eat, and take care of my saddle.”
The prospect of fifty cents was enough to bring the old Mexican away from the shelter, and he had a big smile on his face as he approached.
“Gracias, señor. Cuidaré muy bien de su caballo.”
“You hear that, Spirit? He is going to take very good care of you.”
After turning his horse over to the stable hand, Matt found a board stretched across the street, and though it didn’t keep the rain off him, it did keep him out of the muck and mud. Reaching the boardwalk on the other side of the street, he walked down to the Casa del Sol Cantina.
Inside the cantina, a long board of wooden pegs was nailed along one wall about six feet from the floor. Matt dumped the water from the crown of his hat, then hung his slicker on one of the pegs to let it drip dry. A careful scrutiny of the saloon disclosed a card game in progress near the back. At one of the front tables, there was some earnest conversation. Three men stood at the bar, each complete within themselves, concentrating only on their drinks and private thoughts. A soiled dove, near the end of her professional effectiveness, overweight, with bad teeth and wild, unkempt hair, stood at the far end. She smiled at Matt, but getting no encouragement, stayed put.
“What’ll it be, mister? the bartender asked, making a swipe across the bar with a sour-smelling cloth.