The chin came up, and the Adam’s apple followed. “I don’t see any reason why there shouldn’t be friendly discussion with the old man. No reason not to, uh, show him gentle like the error of his thinking. That spur will mean the world to this town!”
York nodded. “Your business would surely benefit.”
The bug eyes blinked and blinked. “And what would be wrong with that?”
“Nothing.” York leaned an elbow on the counter. “Have you had any private conversations with George Cullen on the subject?”
His chin was quivering, like that of a child about to burst into tears. “No. No, but I’m confident he will come around.”
York’s half smirk had no humor in it. “Why would you think that, Clem?”
Eyebrows rose. “Well, I, uh... don’t know if I should say, exactly. It’s something the mayor told me in confidence.”
“Okay, then. I’ll check with him. Wouldn’t want you to break a confidence. What time did you open up this morning, Clem?”
Knobby shoulders shrugged. “A tad late. I had to run some morphine pills out to the McLaughlin place. Got the dysentery out there.”
“When was that?”
“First thing. I rode out there around seven. By the time I got back and opened up, it was past nine thirty.”
The McLaughlin place was in the opposite direction of the Bar-O.
“They’ll back you up, the McLaughlins?”
More blinking. “Of course. But... but why should they have to?”
“Because George Cullen was murdered this morning, sometime between sunup and nine.”
York nodded and went out, leaving the druggist frozen behind him, Adam’s apple in mid-rise.
York’s next stop was the smallest of the storefronts, with its red-and-white pole and window painted with bold white letters:
Within, York found the undersized mayor in his typical white jacket with black bow tie, his slicked-back black hair and perfect handlebar mustache his own best advertising. Right now he was brushing clippings off the cape of his latest patron, telegraph manager Ralph Parsons, a scrawny, bespectacled soul for whom good grooming could do only a limited amount.
The space was home to a single, if fancy chair — carved oak with padded red-leather upholstery — and a big walnut-framed mirror over a marble counter lined with colorful blown-glass tonic bottles. The floor was bare wood planking; the side wall bore a Winchester hunting-scene calendar, a doorless cupboard of shaving mugs, and an assortment of nicely hand-lettered signs (SHAVING, LEECHING, BLEEDING and HOT & COLD BATHS). A few empty chairs along the rear wall waited for further customers.
York traded nods with Parsons on his way out, while the barber beamed at this potential customer.
“What’s your pleasure this morning, Sheriff?”
York settled into the chair as the barber/mayor covered him with a fresh cape. “Just a shave, Your Honor. The hair can wait till next week.”
Hardy was a pretty fair barber, and York just sat and enjoyed the ritual for a while, the hot towel, the brush whipping in its cup, and the lather applied. Not until Hardy was actually scraping the straight razor across his face did York risk a question between strokes.
“When did you open up this morning, Jasper?” No “Your Honor” this time.
The blade rose expertly up York’s right cheek.
“Right at eight, Sheriff. Always have a few customers who want a fresh shave before their shops open.”
Which was 9:00 a.m. in most cases, earlier for the Mercantile and the hardware store.
In the next pause, York asked, “And before that?”
The mayor, who was unmarried, usually took his breakfast at the hotel or at the café, and York, who had eaten at the former this morning, hadn’t seen him there.
Another stroke of the blade. He was starting on York’s throat now, his customer’s chin up. “Breakfast at the café. Why do you ask, Sheriff?”
At the next pause, York said, “I’ll get to that. How have you been getting along with Old Man Cullen lately?”
The barber continued the tender work — he rarely nicked a client. “We’ve always been friendly. I like the man. I believe he likes me. This current disagreement is just a passing thing. He’ll come around.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I just know he will, that’s all.” Hardy smiled to himself. “Anyway, I have a good idea he will.”
York said nothing more till the cape was whipped off and he’d given the barber a nickel and a grin. “Sure like to know the reason you’re so sure George Cullen will come to his senses ’bout Trinidad’s future and all.”
Hardy hesitated, then gestured to his fancy chair. “Well, it’s something the old man told me, seated right there. He said his own daughter was against him in the fight. I know the old boy well enough to figure he’ll buckle under to her. She’s all but running the ranch now herself, and he damn well knows it.”
“Jasper, I happen to know Willa hasn’t said a word to her papa about the way she really feels where the branchline is concerned.”
A big smile blossomed under the elaborate mustache. “That’s how he knows! Normally, she’d be fighting at his side. She kept mum, and that spoke volumes. What’s going on, Sheriff? What’s this about?”
York told him.
The news of Cullen’s death staggered the barber, who stumbled back into his own chair and sat, mouth hanging open, as if his jaw were broken.
“I... I can’t believe it,” he said softly. “Such a great man. There wouldn’t be a Trinidad without him. It’s a tragedy, Sheriff. It’s a goddamned tragedy! You’ll find the one who did this. I know you will.”
“I know it, too,” York said, stroking his chin. “Nice and smooth. Thanks, Your Honor.”
Mathers & Sons Hardware was similar in size and layout to the Mercantile, its windows promising seeds, farm implements, and household supplies. Floor-to-ceiling ladders ran on rails on either side for the higher shelves. You could buy nails by the pound here or a single nut and bolt. You could order a buggy from Denver and, out in back, purchase harnesses, hay, and grain. Buckets and pails and small barrels hung from the ceiling, as if gravity had changed its mind.
The scent of the place made York smile — oiled metal, tobacco, mineral spirits, and wood. It smelled like men getting things done. Still, though this was Mathers & Sons, the fleshy, fifty-some proprietor had only one son, and, in fact, his daughter Margaret, in her late teens, did the books and helped with the ordering.
From behind the counter, where his boy was running the register, the bald but lavishly mutton-chopped Clarence Mathers, an apron over his gray suit, greeted the sheriff with a smile and an extended hand. York reached over the counter to accept it. The clientele, running to ranchers and their employees and, of course, some town folk, was just thick enough in here that York suggested he and Mathers step out onto the boardwalk.
This they did, taking two of the waiting chairs lined up in front of the store; no others were taken.
“Had any words with George Cullen,” York said, “over this spur wrangle?”
“Well, I wouldn’t call it a wrangle,” the good-humored merchant said. “Difference of opinion. And I understand it. George sees things through his end of the telescope, and we see them through ours.”
“But you think he’s mistaken.”
He pawed the air. “Oh, my, yes. Got his head up his hindquarters on this one. Sure, it’ll hurt his spread for a time, but as things expand around here, the Bar-O will thrive more than ever.”