“The driver’s wound isn’t all that serious. He should come through it just fine,” Matt replied.
“I tell you what I hope,” Williams said. “I hope that, once word gets back to Delshay that the sons of bitches who killed his family have been killed, that he’ll come back to the reservation.”
Matt and Sheriff Williams watched as the bodies of the outlaws were untied from the boards, then loaded on to the back of the undertaker’s wagon.
“But that’s never going to happen,” Williams continued. “Delshay is going to hold every white man responsible for what happened to his family, same as white folks are going to hold all the Apaches responsible for what Geronimo, and now Delshay, have done.”
Matt picked up his bag. “Can you recommend a hotel, Sheriff?”
“Well you might try the Phoenix House, though we do have a couple of pretty good ones and I wouldn’t want to be accused of trying to steer you to one certain place.”
“Phoenix House sounds good to me. Where is it?”
“It is right down at the end of this same street. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks,” Matt said.
“Oh, if you don’t mind my askin’, Mr. Jensen, I’m just curious. What brings a man like you to Phoenix?”
“I’m searching for someone.”
“Searching for someone? I thought you said you weren’t a bounty hunter.”
“It’s not that kind of a search,” Matt replied with a chuckle. “This is personal. The man I’m looking for is the brother of a friend. I understand he came here recently.”
“What’s this fella’s name?” the sheriff asked. “The one you’re looking for?”
“His name is Marcus. Andrew Marcus.”
The sheriff smiled. “You don’t say? Well, I’ll be damn. Andy Marcus, yes, I know him.”
“Let me make sure this is the right one,” Matt said. “The Andy Marcus I’m looking for is a brewer.”
“Oh, yes, sir, that’s the one all right,” Sheriff Williams said. “Mr. Marcus hasn’t been in town for very long, but the fact is, just about everybody in Phoenix knows him,” Sheriff Williams said. “That’s ’cause he’s buildin’ a brewery, and there isn’t anyone here who wouldn’t like to see us get a brewery. Only problem is, I don’t know if Andy is going to be able to pull it off or not.”
“Why not? I was given to believe that he is a master brewer. Those men know their stuff,” Matt said.
“Oh, it’s neither his skills nor his work habits I’m concerned about,” the sheriff said. “Why, Andy Marcus is as dedicated a worker as anyone you’d ever want to meet. But I ain’t all that sure he’s goin’ to be able to raise the money.”
“How much does he need?”
“I don’t know exactly how much he needs. But it is more than he has, I know that. That don’t seem to stop him, though. He ain’t one to give up.”
“Do you have any idea where I can find him?”
“Sure, you don’t have far to go at all,” the sheriff replied. He pointed to a building right across the street from the stage depot. “He plans to set up his brewery in that building right over there. Unless I miss my guess, you’ll find him there now, and the fact that he didn’t come over here to see the bodies of the outlaws when the whole rest of the town did ought to give you an idea of how dedicated he is to his work.”
“Yes, it does,” Matt answered. “And thanks for the information.”
“Glad to be able to provide it,” the sheriff answered. “And if you’ll come down to my office tomorrow morning, by then I’ll have the authorization to pay you your bounty money.”
“Thanks, I’ll be there,” Matt said.
Matt decided to check into the hotel before he went to see Andrew Marcus, and as he walked down the street toward the Phoenix House, Prufrock drove by him with the three bodies lying in the back of his wagon. The one the sheriff had identified as Oliver was lying in such a position that, with his open eyes, it gave the illusion that he was staring accusingly at the man who killed him.
Matt stared back.
Chapter Eighteen
When Ken Hendel came down into the lobby of the Phoenix House, he saw Cynthia sitting in a chair in the streaming light of the window. She was reading Sonnets of the Portuguese, the book he had bought for her.
“Ah, Mrs. Bixby, reading the book, I see,” he said, walking over to her. “I hope you are enjoying it.”
“Enjoying it? Oh, Mr. Hendel, I simply love it,” Cynthia replied enthusiastically. “How wonderful of you to buy it for me.”
“I saw it, and I thought you might like it.”
“But you must let me pay you for it,” Cynthia said.
“No, no, I could never do that,” Hendel said. “I bought this for you because I consider you my friend, and I hope you feel the same way about me.”
“Oh, indeed I do,” Cynthia said. “I consider you a very, very dear friend.”
“I’m glad.”
“May I read one of the sonnets to you?” she asked.
“Of course.”
Smiling, Cynthia raised the book, cleared her throat, then began to read:
If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love’s sake only. Do not say
“I love her for her smile—her look—her way
Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day”—
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may
Be changed, or change for thee,—and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity’s wiping my cheeks dry,—
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
But love me for love’s sake, that evermore
Thou may’st love on, through love’s eternity.
Cynthia drew the book to her chest, then looked up at Hendel. “Isn’t that just the most beautiful thing you have ever heard?” she asked.
Hendel felt a flush come over him, and he cleared his throat to try and force it away.
“Yes,” he said. “I must confess that Elizabeth Barrett Browning does have a way with words.”
“I think reading a poem aloud gives it much more life than merely looking at words lying dormant on the page. But Jay would never let me read anything aloud to him—he says he doesn’t have time for such nonsense. Thank you for allowing me to do that, Mr. Hendel, my dear friend.”
Again, Hendel cleared his throat. Then, looking around, he saw Matt Jensen coming into the hotel.
“Oh, look, there is Mr. Jensen,” he said, thankful to be able to extricate himself from a situation that was growing increasingly more uncomfortable for him.
“Mr. Jensen!” Cynthia called. “Hello!”
Matt set his bag down, then came over to greet Cynthia and Hendel.
“Hello,” he said. “So, you have chosen this hotel as well, have you? That tells me the sheriff’s suggestion was a good one.”
“Oh, yes, I think you will be very pleased with it,” Cynthia replied. “I know that we are.”
“Really? Even Mr. Bixby is pleased with it?” Matt asked with a barely suppressed grin.
Cynthia laughed, a rich, deep-throated laugh. “Ah,” she said. “How well you know my husband.”
“Have you found the brother of your friend yet?” Hendel asked. In one of their more private talks, Matt had shared with Hendel his reason for coming to Phoenix.
“I think so,” Matt said. “I haven’t seen him yet, but the sheriff told me where to find him—and it has to be the same man.”