Ten minutes of searching revealed some odds and ends of clothing, but no personal papers or mementos—and no LeFaucheaux pin-fire revolver.
Danner sat down on the bed, puzzled by a feeling that he had missed something. He scanned the room, certain he had checked everything. Even a man like Tuso accumulated a few personal items, a tintype or two, some letters and other papers. Yet no such items were here.
Danner peeled back the bedcovers and checked the mattress, finding nothing. He glanced around the room again and this time his gaze caught on the opened closet door. Two belts hung on a nail, one of them a two-inch black leather cavalry belt.
In two quick steps Danner reached the door and grabbed the cavalry belt. The silver buckle bore the crossed sabers and the letters C.S.A., which Danner identified as the insignia of the Confederate cavalry. Elation swelled his chest then, for this increased the odds that Tuso possessed a LeFaucheaux pin-fire. But where was it? Hanging the belt back on the nail, Danner left the room, locking the door behind him.
He met no one until he reached the lobby. There, the desk clerk was sorting mail and turned around only when Danner reached the desk.
"Any mail for me since I moved out?"
"Just some newspapers from Kansas City." The clerk bent over, reaching under the counter. Danner moved around the end of the desk and replaced Tuso's key in the mail slot, unnoticed by the clerk. Taking the newspapers, Danner went out to his horse and stuffed them in his saddle-bags. Then he mounted and moved on toward the depot.
The familiar clanging in the workshops across the yards and the familiar smells so closely associated with railroading brought a nostalgic tightness to his throat. A way of life grows on a man, he thought; it stays with him eternally.
Danner moved along the platform and into the musty depot, waiting while a stocky woman wearing a faded calico dress and ragged shawl bought a single ticket to Junction City. As she turned away from the ticket window a soft tread sounded behind Danner. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Tom Wainright—a different Wainright. Some of the bitterness still showed on the young-old face, but a touch of harassment lurked there also. Wainright nodded.
"I'd like to talk to you privately, Mr. Danner." He hesitated, then added a bit grudgingly, "If you aren't too busy."
The temptation to ignore the request was strong in Danner, but curiosity was stronger. He nodded assent, then turned to the ticket clerk.
"The first of our grain will arrive in Richfield Monday. Will the boxcars be here?"
"They're on the siding now, waiting," the clerk nodded.
Danner ducked his head in thanks and turned to Wainright, who hadn't moved. "Now?"
"If you don't mind," Wainright nodded, turning. Danner followed him out to the platform. Wainright seemed unsure of himself as he groped for words.
"I—I guess you've heard about the warehouse and train robberies." He glanced at Danner, keeping his body turned so that his empty left sleeve was out of sight.
"I've heard," Danner said coldly.
"Some other thefts have occurred also—little things, mostly, like kegs of spikes, sledge hammers, even two flatcar-loads of rails." He squirmed uncomfortably. His embarrassment puzzled Danner.
"And you think I might supply the answers," Danner challenged him, "because your biggest shipper—"
"No!" Wainright protested, flushing. "No, I just wanted to make sure you understand what is going on because—well, I want you to return to your job and straighten out this mess."
Amazement struck Danner like a huge fist. He could only stare at Wainright. What a galling thing it must have been for Wainright to come to him with such a request. The deep red stain on Wainright's face showed his discomfort, yet Danner saw no indication of remorse or self-reproach. Danner waited for satisfaction to creep into his chest, but it didn't come. And, suddenly, he knew it never would. Nothing that hurt the railroad could ever please him, even a railroad controlled by Wainright.
"Well, are you interested?" Wainright demanded.
Slowly, Danner shook his head. "You can't stop thieving unless you are willing to prosecute the thieves."
"I know. I only ordered the release of the Dooleys to please our biggest shipper."
"And to show me who was boss."
"Now, look—"
"Browder," Danner interrupted, "is a master thief and likely is behind all your trouble, all the way back to the Spaulding robbery before you came here."
"I can't believe that."
Danner smiled thinly. "That's why we can't work together."
"Suppose I agree to prosecute anyone you arrest?"
"You have a special agent to make your arrests."
"Green?" Wainright shook his head. "He's been discharged already. Look, I know I've treated you badly—that you have every right to refuse me. But you have my apology and a promise that I'll back you to the limit in the future. And I'll give you a nice increase in salary."
A strong urge to accept worked on Danner. Railroading was his way of life and he didn't kid himself about how much he missed it. Even now he could almost feel the rattle of a coach under his feet and the surging power of a locomotive. He seemed to smell the smoke and hear the whistle sound its forlorn cry. Then he noticed Wainright staring at him with growing bitterness and he clamped his jaws shut.
"It just wouldn't work out."
"What more can I say or do?" Wainright demanded.
Danner shrugged. "Your uncle must have a number of capable special agents he can send out here."
"I've already tried that. It will be weeks before one is available and the line needs help now— your kind of help."
"Too bad." Danner started to turn away.
"It must please you greatly to see me crawl like this," Wainright blazed with sudden fury. "That was the word you used, wasn't it? 'Don't come crawling to me for help,' you said."
Now Danner knew for certain that he had made the right decision and he retreated farther behind his shield of indifference.
"It wouldn't work out."
"I'm sure of it." Wainright's temper flared. "I only made the offer because Miss Richfield insisted. It was against my better judgment, particularly in view of the circumstances surrounding that Spaulding robbery." Wrathfully and with no little arrogance, he whirled and strode along the platform toward the office building.
Danner knew a moment of melancholy as he watched the retreating back, for he'd lost forever any chance of returning to the railroad that had been his life for so long.
Danner left his horse in the stable behind the hotel and walked around to the hotel porch and settled in a chair. Sooner or later Lona would come by here. Idly he watched people drifting about.
Noon came and with it the heat reached an uncomfortable high. Stretching, Danner took a final look eastward along the street, but failed to see Lona. Then he moved along the plank walk to the small city park. He found the Swensen wagon, but not Lona. She might be lunching with the Ralstons. He waited by the wagon until nearly one o'clock, then returned to the hotel.
The dining hall was empty when he entered. He sat facing the door that opened out onto the hotel lobby and had nearly finished his dried apple pie when he saw Melinda Richfield pass by the door. He finished the last of the bitter black coffee, paid his tab and stepped into the lobby. Melinda stood at the registry desk talking to the clerk. Danner headed for the street door, but didn't quite reach it before he heard Melinda call to him.
He turned and watched her approach, seeing the stubbornness of her squared shoulders and tightly drawn lips.
"Have you a moment?" she asked. Danner nodded toward a couch in the front corner of the lobby and followed her to it.
"I want you to reconsider the offer Tom Wainright made to you this morning."
Danner shook his head. "I can't help him."