At the Sundown Corral and Equipage Company, Ken Hendel stood waiting beside the rig he had rented for Jay Peerless Bixby. When he saw them coming up the street from the restaurant, he stepped out to meet them.
“I have the buckboard here for you, Mr. Bixby.”
“Were you able to talk them down any more?” Bixby asked.
“No, sir. It cost us a dollar-fifty.”
“Very well, if we have to pay it we have to pay it,” Bixby said. Without regard to Cynthia, Bixby climbed into the buckboard. Hendel offered his hand to help Cynthia into her seat.
“Thank you, Mr. Hendel,” Cynthia said.
“Have you made the arrangement with the bank yet?” Bixby asked.
“I was there this morning. They are expecting the transfer of money on today’s stagecoach.”
“Well, stay on it,” Bixby said, snapping the reins against the team.
“Yes, sir,” Hendel said, stepping back quickly to avoid having his toes run over by the carriage.
Chapter Twenty-one
It was nearly noon when a bedraggled and exhausted Dewey Calhoun pushed open the door of the sheriff’s office.
“Sheriff Williams! Sheriff Williams!” he called.
“I’m Sheriff Williams, what can I do for you?”
“It’s Injuns, Sheriff,” Dewey said. “I think they killed Mr. Malcolm.”
“Are you talking about Pete Malcolm, the man that runs a freight service out of Picket Post?” Keith asked.
“Yes, sir, that’s the one I’m talkin’ about.”
“Do you know him, Keith?”
“Yes,” Keith said. “You know him, too, Bob. He’s the one hauled in most of the material that was used to build the college.”
“Oh, yes, I remember him.”
“He’s a good man,” Keith said.
“Yes, sir, he was a good man. But more’n likely, he got hisself kilt savin’ me,” Dewey said.
“You say it was Injuns that killed him?” Williams asked. “Where did this happen?”
“It was on the Picket Post Road,” Dewey answered. “Me ’n’ Mr. Malcolm, we was bringin’ a load a saltpeter to the Maricopa Chemical Company when the Apaches attacked us.”
“Saltpeter?” Keith asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Damn, that isn’t good,” Keith said. “You put saltpeter with sulphur and charcoal and you can make gunpowder.”
“I doubt the Injuns have enough sense to know how to use it,” Williams said.
“Don’t be selling the Indians short, Bob. I’ve known some that were very intelligent,” Keith said.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Dewey Calhoun.”
“How’d you get away, Dewey?”
“Mr. Malcolm, he seen the Apaches before they attacked and he give me the canteen and told me to run. That’s what I done, and that’s how come I’m here.”
“How do you know Pete is dead?” Keith asked from behind the bars. “Did you see the Indians kill him?”
“No sir, I didn’t actual see it, but I heered it.”
“What do you mean you heard it?” Williams asked.
“I heered Mr. Malcolm’s shotgun go off—then I heered a lot more shots after that.”
Sheriff Williams stroked his chin and nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’d say that’s a pretty good sign he was killed all right.” Williams walked over to take his hat off a hook. He also took down the ring of keys, then came back to open the door to Keith’s cell.
“You aren’t supposed to be let out till after lunch,” the sheriff said. “But I may not be back by then, so I’m lettin’ you out now. And next time you have to take a pee, for heaven’s sake, Keith, go out into the alley or some such place.”
“I always do—when I’m sober,” Keith said. “And I thank you for your kindness in letting me out half an hour early.”
“Yeah, well, it also saves the county the money for buyin’ your lunch,” Sheriff Williams said. “Dewey, come with me, we’ll go find Marshal Gilmore. This is more his jurisdiction than it is mine.”
“Could I get me a drink of water first?” Dewey asked. “I drunk up all the canteen while I was walkin’ here.”
“Sure you can, boy,” Sheriff Williams said. “There’s a bucket and dipper back there against the wall.”
Dewey hurried back to the water bucket and scooped out a dipper full. Turning it up to his lips, he drank deeply, letting the water run down both sides of his lips as he did so.
“Easy, boy, easy,” Keith said as he stepped out of the jail cell. “You drink that too fast, you’ll make yourself sick.”
“Yes, sir, I know,” Dewey said. “But I’m powerful thirsty.”
Sheriff Williams found U.S. Marshal Gilmore having his lunch in Miller’s Café.
“Marshal, this here is Dewey Calhoun. He came into the office a while ago tellin’ a story about being attacked by Injuns. And seeing as dealing with Indians is more a federal thing than county, I figured we should, more than likely, bring you in on it.”
“Where did this happen?” Marshal Gilmore asked.
“Out on the Picket Post Road,” Dewey said.
“He was on a wagon, Marshal, and get this. The wagon was carryin’ saltpeter. You know what that’s used for, don’t you?”
“Yes, I know.”
“It’s used for makin’ gunpowder,” Williams said, not to be denied showing his knowledge.
“Have you had your lunch, boy?” Marshal Gilmore asked.
“No, sir, it got left back on the wagon,” Dewey said.
“Faye,” the marshal called. “Bring the boy your blue plate lunch special.”
“Sure thing, Marshal,” a middle-aged woman answered.
“Now, boy, tell me all about it,” Marshal Gilmore said.
On the trail with Bixby and Cynthia
The rig Bixby rented had been on the trail for the better part of the morning. The day had started out warm, and was now hot. As the steel-rimmed wheels rolled across the hard-packed earth, they picked up dirt, causing a rooster tail of dust to stream out behind them. The wood of the buckboard was bleached white, and under the sun it gave off a rather pungent smell. As Bixby drove the team, Cynthia sat in the sun on the dried seat of the wagon, looking at the map Bixby had given her.
“Do you see anything familiar?” Bixby asked.
“That obelisk over there has to be Weaver’s Needle,” Cynthia said, pointing to the tall rock column. “And if it is, then we are right here.”
“Why this—this is nothing more than desert,” Bixby said. “I was led to believe I would be buying land that could easily be made into a ranch. How can one make a ranch of desert land? Are you certain of where we are?”
“You can look at the map,” Cynthia said, handing it to him. “Perhaps you will read it differently.”
Bixby studied the map for a moment, then sighed. “No,” he said. “You are right. This is the property I was to buy. But no more. I will not be bamboozled. As soon as we return to Phoenix, I will stop the sale and we will return to New York.”
Suddenly there was a creaking, snapping sound, and the buckboard lurched so badly that Cynthia was very nearly tossed out. She looked up from the map.
“Oh!” she gasped in a startled tone of voice. “What was that?”
“Whoa, horses,” Bixby called, pulling back on the reins. The team stopped and the buckboard sat there, listing sharply to the right.
“Jay, what is it?” Cynthia asked. “What is wrong?”
“Oh, this is just too much,” Bixby said. “I believe we have broken an axle.”
“Can you fix it?” Cynthia asked.
“Now how can I fix it?” Bixby replied. “What do you take me for? A common tradesman? Oh, to provide customers with a conveyance that breaks down on you the first time you take it out is unconscionable.”