The Preacherman, in his deep, mellow voice, asked, “What have you done to my friend, Sheriff?”
He met the man’s eyes. “He wanted a fair fight. He came to the wrong place.”
Trammel, off to York’s right now, was still down in the dust, whimpering, a pile of limbs tossed here and there.
The Preacherman said, “ ‘An angry person starts fights; a hot-tempered person commits all kinds of sin.’ Proverbs twenty-nine, twenty-two.”
“I know the one about turning the other cheek, and if your friend gets up, encourage him to do so and see what happens. You fellas sleep in?”
Pausing briefly to process that, Hollis said, “We did. We made a rather late, raucous night of it.”
York grinned. “Well, gunning a man down, like your friend here did, that’ll take it out of you. So... you weren’t out riding this morning?”
The Preacherman’s hard eyes narrowed. “No. Is there a reason why you’re asking? Is that why you’re poking around our horses?”
“A man was murdered out on the Bar-O range.”
“How tragic. ‘No murderer has eternal life abiding in him. John three, fifteen.’ ”
York turned his grin sideways. “Well, I guess you’d know. This particular murder? Wasn’t really your style.”
“That so?”
“This was a faked accident. A man supposedly throwed off his horse. You like to take care of your victims in public. Like them to go for their guns first, with plenty of eyes on ’em.”
“I have no victims, Sheriff.” The shoulders beneath the black suit coat lifted and lowered. “I live in a dangerous world, however, as do you. And at times I must defend myself.”
York nodded. “You see, that’s why I know you won’t draw on me right now. No one to see it but your two gutter ride-alongs. And their kind of testimony might not stand up when the circuit judge comes around.”
The Preacherman’s smile seemed beneficent. “Why would I want to shoot you, Sheriff? My friend Trammel here... Get up! Get on your feet...! He picked a fight, and he lost. ‘For each will have to bear his own load.’ Galatians six-five.”
“You didn’t ask who was killed.”
“I don’t know many folks around these parts. But do pass along my sympathies to the family of the departed. Afraid I don’t read over the dead no more. They’ll need someone local.”
With a nod, the Preacherman gathered his flock, and they departed, no doubt back to the loft where the ladies of the choir awaited them.
Chapter Ten
At 8:00 p.m. on a weeknight, the hotel restaurant was sparsely populated, more waiters than diners — a married couple here, a pair of traveling salesmen there. Folks around town tended to take supper earlier than this, but Caleb York figured the gent who’d invited him here was well aware of that fact.
Grover Prescott, in a tan frock coat with a tan-and-black vest and a tiny black bow tie, was seated alone at a table for four in the far corner of the dining room. The hanging kerosene lamps were turned to a muted glow, lending the dark wood, carved chairs, and linen tablecloths of the chamber an elegance not otherwise found in Trinidad, New Mexico.
Prescott stood and gave the approaching York the kind of smile reserved for close friends, thrusting his hand out for the sheriff to shake, which he did. The railroad man’s grip was a tad too tight, showing off some. He was almost as tall as York, a sturdy-looking individual, not quite fat.
York sat, and so did Prescott, who started right in.
“I’m very pleased you agreed to break bread with me, Sheriff,” Prescott said. “I was afraid I’d got off on the wrong foot with you at that Citizens Committee meeting the other day.”
“Not at all,” York said. “I have nothing against a free meal courtesy of the Santa Fe.”
“My understanding is that I misjudged you. That you’ve agreed to cooperate with the town fathers’ efforts to make this branchline a reality.”
York said, “Let’s just say I have an open mind.”
Prescott raised a forefinger. “And a realistic one. You’re too seasoned a westerner not to know that the future is coming. A man can stand by and wait for the future to come find him, and roll over him, or he can embrace it with open arms and be part of a new day.”
Just as at the meeting, everything this slicker said had a practiced sound.
A waiter in black livery arrived to take orders. Prescott read from the menu like a singer from sheet music.
“Let’s start with the chicken consommé, followed by the baked salmon à la Chambord. Then filet of veal à la Périgord, with asparagus, new potatoes, and artichokes. For dessert, blancmange... Shall I make that two orders of those selections, Sheriff York?”
“No.” His eyes found the waiter’s. “Just bring me a beefsteak, rare, thick. Fried potatoes. Coffee. Black.”
York’s host raised a hand. “Coffee later, perhaps if I can convince you to join me in dessert. For now, waiter, bring us a bottle of your best champagne.”
York went along with that. After all, he was the man’s guest. A bottle arrived, was opened; glasses were filled.
While they waited for the food, Prescott continued with what was clearly a presentation.
“I understand the Citizens Committee has discussed increasing your pay and providing you with suitable lodgings for a man of your stature.”
Somehow York didn’t figure Prescott was referring to his six feet one.
“They have,” York said. “Contingent on the spur coming through.”
Prescott reacted a little to the word contingent. Perhaps he’d figured Caleb York would have the vocabulary of a mountain man.
“You may be in a position,” Prescott said with a sly smile, “to help make that happen.”
York didn’t follow up on that — the chicken consommé arrived before he could. Just to have something to do, the sheriff told the waiter to bring him a cup, too.
When the soup was done and the next course had yet to appear, Prescott said, “You may wonder what I mean when I say you could be helpful in making this branchline a reality.”
“I don’t wonder, really,” York said. “You have heard that Willa Cullen and I are friendly, and have been told that I might be able to sway her toward selling you people the right of passage.”
Prescott, a trifle surprised, merely nodded.
“But surely you’ve also heard,” York said, “that Miss Cullen is already inclined to do business with the Santa Fe. Several members of the Citizens Committee seem well aware that Willa did not support her late daddy in his typically stubborn position.”
His expression suddenly grave, Prescott leaned forward. “Let me say, Sheriff, how terrible the Santa Fe finds the loss of George Cullen, one of the true pioneers of this region.”
“On the other hand,” York said, “his death seems to clear the path for the railroad and its branchline. One might even call it fortuitous.”
Prescott’s small plate of baked salmon à la Chambord came. He began to eat, as if that were preferable to actually confirming what York had said.
York continued. “Problem is, with Old Man Cullen murdered? Miss Cullen may not take kindly to any who might have had a hand in it.”
A forkful of salmon froze between plate and mouth. “Sir, what are you implying?”
York shrugged and leaned back in his hard, fancy chair. “Not implying a damn thing. Just that those with the best motive for the removal of George Cullen are sitting on the Citizens Committee. Well, most of them, anyway.”
Prescott swallowed his bite without taking time to taste it and said, “And now what are you implying, Sheriff York?”
“Again, no implication — just fact. You are a suspect in this crime as much as any of our esteemed town fathers. By the way, where were you this morning, between sunup and, say, ten a.m.?”