York was frowning. “How did a jailbird come to know of that branchline?”
“That Prescott character looked him up. Wouldn’t be surprised if the Santa Fe Ring didn’t pull some strings to get O’Malley sprung from the Kansas State Pen early.”
York thought about that.
Then he asked, “You think O’Malley’s capable of killing Cullen?”
“I do,” came the unhesitating answer. “But ‘capable’ doesn’t mean he did it. In a way, without my backing, it doesn’t make sense for him to have done so. After all, he wasn’t able to buy into the Bar-O.”
“I think he might be able to buy in, at that.”
“How so?”
York leaned forward. “Well, for one thing, maybe Prescott and the Santa Fe were willing to back him. And he’s also got himself very much on Willa’s good side now. There had been talk of him buying one of the smaller spreads that the Bar-O recently swallowed up. But O’Malley told her he’d much prefer to buy into the Bar-O itself.”
“Do you think he could manipulate her into that?”
“Not with me around.” York’s own quick remark made something stir in the back of his brain. Then he said, “You said we had business. What business is that?”
“We finished here?”
“Sure.”
Parker rose, tossed a half eagle on the table to cover generously the breakfasts and a tip, and they headed out onto the boardwalk.
As if Parker were the one who lived here, York followed him down and across the street. At first York thought they were headed to the newspaper, but the destination turned out to be next door to the Enterprise — the law office of Arlen Curtis.
York followed Parker into the big square single room. No secretary awaited, and only a few chairs at right and left served as a reception area. Much of the central space was taken up by a massive, heavy oaken table, which Curtis — a broad-shouldered, dark-bearded fellow in black who resembled General Grant — used for a desk.
The tabletop’s clutter included stacks of papers, a few thick legal tomes, ink bottles, pens in a drinking glass, and a lion’s-head press for applying seals. The walls were papered an undecorative faint yellow, and the back one bore several roll-down maps and a pigeonhole rack of papers and office supplies, with more legal books stacked on top. Below the rack a fat safe squatted like an eavesdropper.
Curtis stood, and a smile peeked out of the thicket of dark beard. “Right on time, gentlemen,” he said.
York blinked. Right on time?
Two client chairs were waiting. Both Parker and York shook hands with Curtis; then everyone took their seats. The lawyer flipped through several pages of a legal document, found what he was looking for, then looked up pleasantly at his visitors.
“With your permission,” the lawyer said, “I believe we can do without certain formalities.”
“We can?” York asked.
Curtis nodded. “There is only one bequest, Sheriff York, and it concerns you.”
“Bequest? What is this? The reading of a will?”
Curtis flicked another smile. “Well, of course. Hasn’t Mr. Parker made that clear?”
“He has not,” York said, giving the businessman a sharp sideways look.
“Mr. Curtis,” Parker said, sitting forward, “the sheriff and I had to discuss a few things first, which we have done. I didn’t think the purpose of this meeting needed to be one of them. We were in a public place, after all.”
York, frowning, said, “We were talking murder over breakfast, and that didn’t seem to be a concern! What the hell is going on here?”
Thick black eyebrows rose as the lawyer fixed his gaze on the sheriff. “Why, the reading of George Oliver Cullen’s last will and testament, of course. Mr. Parker here is the executor, and you, Mr. York, are the sole beneficiary.”
York sat forward on his hard chair. “Well, that’s absurd. Why would I be the beneficiary of anything? Why isn’t Cullen’s daughter, Willa, here? Surely, she inherits everything!”
Curtis raised a calming hand. “Sheriff York, if you will think back... during the difficulties with your late predecessor, Sheriff Harry Gauge, Mr. Cullen transferred all his holdings to his daughter. She does not need to inherit the Bar-O and all its assets, because she already owns them.”
York squinted at the lawyer. “Oh-kay... Then why...?”
The lawyer flipped a page of the legal document. “There is a parcel of land, actually several adjacent parcels, that Mr. Cullen has left to you. This property is separate from the Bar-O and its holdings.”
Still squinting, as if hoping to bring the lawyer into focus, York said numbly, “He left me some land.”
“Yes. If you will forgive my speaking out of school, the late Mr. Cullen indicated that he held you in high regard, sir, and that he had hopes that you and his daughter would, well... I believe you know what those hopes were. Mr. Cullen wanted to encourage you to maintain residence in this part of the world. And this bequest was his way of trying to accomplish that.”
York leaned back. “What land are we talking about?”
“Half an acre at the east end of town. To the rear of the livery stable.”
“What on earth would I do with that?”
Curtis shrugged. “That would be up to you. But if Trinidad expands, as it seems likely to, with the railroad’s interest in this town? That property could become quite valuable.”
York was shaking his head, as if trying to clear it of cobwebs. “That makes no sense! George Cullen was foursquare against the Santa Fe in this.”
The lawyer shrugged, tossing the document on the table. “This bequest was arranged well before the issue of the railroad spur arose. He felt Trinidad was bound to expand as long as the Bar-O continued to flourish. After all, George Cullen was responsible for this town’s very existence.”
York’s head bobbed back, like he was ducking a blow. “How do you figure that, Counselor?”
Curtis leaned forward, gesturing with an open palm. “The land on which this very town was built was once part of the Bar-O’s holdings. Ask Mr. Parker here. He can confirm as much.”
Bewildered, York glanced at the businessman, who nodded.
Parker said calmly, “The Bar-O land was purchased many years ago from the holder of a Spanish land grant, for virtual pennies. That included the flat stretch on which Trinidad now stands. I was in charge of the effort to build structures here and invite merchants in, selling to them at a loss. We wanted a town nearby. Going twenty-five or thirty miles for supplies was just too much trouble.”
York let out a humorless laugh from deep in his belly. “No wonder the old man was bitter,” he said, “when the Citizens Committee wouldn’t respect his wishes where the Santa Fe was concerned. He’d practically made a gift of the town to them.”
Parker nodded. “But George was wrongheaded in this, nonetheless. Trinidad will wind up just another ghost town if Ellis or Roswell gets the Santa Fe spur.”
York could not argue with that.
Half an hour was spent on paperwork, including the transfer of the deed to the east-of-town property. Hands were again shaken all around, and soon York and Parker were back out on the boardwalk.
Parker paused to light up a cigarette. “Any notions for what you might do with your newfound holdings?”
“None. As far as I’m concerned, it’s an annoyance. The old boy might have asked me if I was interested in being a damn land owner.”
Waving out his match, Parker said, “Most people wouldn’t object to such a burden. But I may have a notion for you. I’ll be in town till tomorrow. We’ll talk again.”
And Parker headed across the street, skirting a buckboard, leaving York behind.