Whit Murphy, sitting quietly and taking all of this in, said, “Sheriff, if it’s the small spreads that give up that right of way, it’ll be a higgedly-piggedly thing that the railroad won’t much cotton to.”
Caleb nodded. “You could be right, Whit.”
“And iffen that spur goes in at Ellis or Roswell or somewhere’s, it won’t hurt the Bar-O none. So why get involved with the railroad, anyhow? Bunches of men building the thing and spookin’ the herd, then trains rollin’ through, rilin’ ’em further.”
Caleb shrugged. “If it’s inevitable, and I think it is, why doesn’t the Bar-O benefit from that? Sell beef to the railroad workers. Sell that strip of land for a whole lot of dollars to the Santa Fe.”
Whit snorted. “Sounds to me like you just want that big raise and that house.”
Caleb grinned. “Well, of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?”
O’Malley, who’d been studying Caleb, said, “You might have to pay too high a price, Sheriff. A bigger town, a Las Vegas — size town? Might find yourself a target every day of the week. Oh, I heard about that boy whose hand you broke this morning in Trinidad. That was a nice stunt. But he may come back at you, and that’ll be nothin’ compared to the parade of gunnies that’ll come lookin’ to make themselves a reputation in a boomtown version of Trinidad.”
Caleb’s smile again was barely there. “I appreciate the concern, Burt. I guess you know how bad things can turn out in a gunfight.”
O’Malley’s smile in return was similarly faint. And neither man had a smile in his eyes.
“I do at that, Sheriff,” O’Malley said. “By the way, you wouldn’t have ridden out here just to check up on me, would you?”
And now Caleb’s smile blossomed. “Not just to check up on you, Burt. You stayin’ in town or...?”
“I’m staying here at the Bar-O, with these here gracious Cullen folks, for a short while. But after that, I’ll be stayin’ on in this part of the world. Might be I’ll go into the cattle business myself. Thinkin’ about buyin’ a spread.”
“I didn’t think being in prison paid all that well.”
O’Malley grinned. “Let’s just say I made some wise investments. And when I get a spread of my own, I won’t be selling no right of way to the railroad. No, sir. I’m with George on this.”
“Well,” Caleb said, making a sigh out of it, rising, “I’ve said my piece. I told the Citizens Committee I’d give it a try, and I have. That’s all you’ll hear from me on the matter... Burt, Whit, George. Have a pleasant evening... and thanks for the brandy.”
Willa took his arm again and walked him through the living room. Caleb plucked his hat from the wall peg, and she opened the door for him. He seemed a little surprised when she slipped out with him, then shut the door behind her, sharing the porch with him.
“Caleb,” she said, “I appreciate what you tried to do.”
He frowned at her. “How so?”
She was standing close to him. “I told you before. Daddy’s wrong about this! That branchline would be a real boon to Trinidad, and to the Bar-O. If... if you don’t meet the future, it’ll come looking for you!”
“That’s nicely put. But I don’t want to cross your father. Like I said, I’ve said my piece.”
She shook her head. “No, Caleb. Keep it up. I haven’t started working on him yet, not wanting to upset him... but when I do start in, I’ll need your help.”
She got on her toes and kissed him on the mouth, taking him by surprise, but the kiss lingered enough for him to get over the shock of it and enjoy it some.
And when he rode off, wearing the silliest smile she’d ever seen on him, Willa Cullen knew she had an ally.
At least.
Chapter Four
Caleb York, after taking a late lunch alone at the hotel where he roomed, remained at his table by the window, reading this week’s edition of the Trinidad Enterprise in some borrowed sunshine.
He had slept in, having played poker at the Victory till the wee hours. Anyway, mornings were quiet enough that his deputy could handle things — and knew where to find him to rouse him if need be.
Again, he wore what was becoming his lawman’s allin-black uniform, but for the light gray, pearl-buttoned shirt. His Colt .44, not strapped down, pointed its holstered nose at the parquet floor.
The Trinidad House Hotel, the town’s only such establishment, was typical in that its rooms were merely serviceable, while its lobby and dining room promised much more.
Under a high ceiling with cut-glass chandeliers, York was surrounded by dark wood, fancy chairs, and linen tablecloths and was attended by a waiter in black livery, who kept the sheriff’s coffee cup brimming. The lunch had been typically good — an oyster omelet, a specialty of the house morning, noon, or night — and he sat digesting it as he read the front-page story of his near gunfight with that boy yesterday.
He had to give editor Penniman credit for getting the details right and only mildly exaggerating the jeopardy of the incident. The newspaperman hadn’t been a witness to the near shooting but had gathered accurate enough eyewitness accounts. While not relishing being badgered by the man, York knew Trinidad could do far worse than the Enterprise.
Every town could use a paper to record murders, street fights, dances, pack-trains, church affairs, and highway robberies — all the things that said civilization had come west.
“May I join you for a moment?”
York glanced to his right and — speak of the devil! — there stood Penniman himself.
“Please,” York said, gesturing to the empty chair across from him at this table for two.
The editor sat, removing his derby and placing it beside him at the table. The waiter came and delivered a cup of coffee without being asked. Penniman sugared it, sipped, then smiled, eyes wide and glittering.
“Well?” he asked, nodding to the paper that York was folding and placing to one side.
“I’m no expert on the art of writing,” York said, “but you know how to get things across, and what I read’s factual as far as it goes.”
“How far does it go?”
“Mite too far. You’re trying to make a hero of me.”
The editor shrugged. “Well, you are one. And you’re a boon to this community.”
“Like the spur?”
A smile flashed below the well-trimmed mustache. “The spur is just a possibility, Sheriff. You’re a reality. Someone famous among us. You make newcomers like me in Trinidad feel safe and at the same time... proud.”
York sipped coffee. “Why proud?”
The little man’s shrug was big. “You could wear a badge most anywhere. Las Vegas would hire you in a finger snap. Abilene. Dodge City. Tombstone. Of course, Tombstone did have a little trouble with having famous lawmen on the job a while back... but you take my meaning.”
York glanced out the window beside them. “I like it here. I might make too regular a target of myself in towns of that stripe.”
Now the eyes, sharp and dark, narrowed. “That so? Rumor is you’re thinking about going to the big city. San Diego, to be exact. Going back to detective work with the Pinks.”
“Not a rumor.” York sipped more coffee. “That’s been a plan of mine that keeps gettin’ derailed.”
“It will really get ‘derailed’ when that branchline comes in.” Penniman leaned forward. “I hear you’ve been offered a hefty raise and a rent-free house of your own if the spur comes to be. And, anyway, isn’t a man like you a target anywhere you go?”