This afternoon the building’s unostentatious interior — pale green walls, pounded tin ceiling, varnished wood floor, modest stage — was brimming with citizens and ranch folk, with children on hand, as well, even babes in arms, whose occasional squalling was at odds with the generally buoyant mood of the crowd. Many of the townspeople were dressed as if for church, and even the cowhands were in relatively clean attire. The unspoken rule here was no guns, and a table near the door made a temporary home to a collection of rifles and gun belts.
On the stage, with a podium central, were seated the members of the Citizens Committee, in dark suits and bright expressions. Among them were Willa Cullen, in a simple navy-and-white calico dress, her yellow hair piled high, and Santa Fe Railroad representative Grover Prescott, impressive in a gray frock coat and a dark, low-cut vest, with a small big-city bow tie. Next to Prescott was a similarly dressed, similarly eminent-looking Raymond L. Parker.
Caleb York, in his customary black with dudish touches, had been invited, indeed urged, to take a seat onstage but had demurred. It would be enough to sit in the front row and come up and speak his peace. This whole thing was something of an embarrassment to him. Nothing on this earth scared him much, but public speaking challenged that notion.
The mayor introduced Prescott, who took the podium.
“I am pleased to announce,” the distinguished figure said, his sonorous voice in tune with his neatly trimmed beard and hawkish countenance, “that an agreement has been reached with Miss Willa Cullen of the Bar-O Ranch for the right-of-way for construction of a Trinidad to Las Vegas branchline.”
The hall rang with applause and even some cowhand whoops. Prescott allowed this to go on for some time, not raising a hand to stop the ovation till it threatened to die of its own accord.
This was followed by Prescott repeating, almost word for word, his speech at the Citizens Committee meeting not so long ago, when he told of neighboring Las Vegas having “gone from a bump in the road to a booming community.” This went on awhile, though less than before, as on this occasion the sheriff did not interrupt with words of caution about the cons that went with the many pros of the venture.
After all, York was fully on board now. He’d soon have a pay raise and a house... and a lot more on his hands as Trinidad grew, though that prospect didn’t bother him much. He didn’t mind earning his pay.
And while Prescott and the Santa Fe had by any measure been unscrupulous in their efforts to secure the Bar-O’s right of passage, York had seen to it this past week that the railroad paid through the teeth to get the cooperation of one certain young lady.
That young lady Prescott was in the process of introducing right now: Willa approached the podium amid her own round of better than polite applause. She faced the crowd without notes, chin high, her strong, sweet voice easily heard.
“I know that the general opinion in this room is that the Santa Fe spur is a positive thing for our community,” she said. “And that has been my feeling from the start, as well. But I know, too, that some of you may wonder how I could take steps in this matter that are contradictory to my late father’s wishes.”
The hall got very silent.
“My father signed over the Bar-O to me some time ago,” she said. “Though I was not the son he would perhaps have preferred, he gave me increasing responsibility over the ranch these past several years. He knew that when the time came that I was on my own, I would operate our business however I thought best... and he trusted me in that regard.”
Every eye was on her, and even the infants were mute.
She continued. “My father may have lost his sight, but not his vision for this rough-and-tumble part of the world. He wanted what was best not only for the Bar-O but for Trinidad and the entire surrounding region, as well. I believe I would have come to convince him of the merit of the spur, though, of course, I can’t be sure. I have to follow my own instincts and desires. But in making this decision, I mean to honor him and the pioneer spirit he represents, and in no way diminish his memory or his name.”
She paused, and the room again broke into applause — no whoops this time. This was a respectful response.
“Toward that end,” she said, “I wish to turn the podium over to my father’s original copartner in the Bar-O, Mr. Raymond L. Parker.”
Few here knew much of Parker, but to what degree his name was known, it was viewed in a positive light. Applause greeted him, although the roof was in no risk of being blown off. Willa returned to her chair.
The dignified, white-mustached businessman came to the podium, thanked Willa and Prescott, and the committee, as well, then addressed the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a voice easily as commanding as Prescott’s, “as many of you know, the very land Trinidad rests upon once belonged to the late George Cullen. His goodwill and good intentions brought this town into existence. Many of the fine gentlemen on this stage were given their start when George Cullen encouraged them to be part of this community.”
Behind him, the members of the Citizens Committee were nodding.
Parker went on. “As executor of the George O. Cullen estate, I am here to inform you that several adjacent parcels of land to the rear of the town livery stable have been left by Mr. Cullen to your esteemed sheriff, Caleb York.”
Murmuring rolled in a wave across the hall. Willa Cullen, who knew nothing of this, sat forward in her chair, frowning in confusion.
“Caleb,” Parker said, with a gesture toward the front row, “would you come up and join me?”
York did so, stepping onto the shallow stage, taking a position to one side of the podium.
Parker said, “Sheriff York and I are pleased to announce a joint business venture. That venture involves the Santa Fe Railroad, as well, and some negotiations remain to be concluded... but we are confident in the outcome.”
Prescott was nodding at this, his smile not betraying the strain of having to deal with Caleb York a second time.
Parker raised his voice a level. “I will be providing the funds for the construction involved, and the sheriff will be providing the land.”
The murmuring began again, but Parker silenced it with a raised hand.
“Sheriff,” he said, turning to York. “Would you explain to these good people to what end we’re pooling our resources?”
York nodded and said to the sea of faces, “Trinidad will soon have a fine new train station. And I’m pleased to say it will be known as the George O. Cullen Depot.”
Then, as still more applause rang through the Grange Hall, Willa was suddenly at his side, looking up at him with those lovely blue eyes moist with emotion, taking his hands in hers. Spontaneously, with no thought of where they were, she embraced him. Embarrassed, York looked away and saw something of interest.
Bar-O foreman Whit Murphy rose from a back-row seat and went over to the table of guns, where he selected his holster with gun and cartridge belt, and slipped outside.
Willa released York and, embarrassed herself now, slipped back to her seat, as around her, some good-natured laughter mixed in with the continued clapping. York stepped down from the stage, and Prescott joined Parker at the podium, and they began taking questions from the audience.
Rather than return to his seat, however, York walked down the central aisle, garnering a concerned glance from Rita Filley, seated discreetly toward the back. He gave her a quick nod and went over to pluck his own gun belt from the table of weaponry.
When he stepped outside, he found the weathered, lanky Murphy, the gun on his hip now, about to unhitch his horse from the long post out front of the hall. No one else was around; the hard-dirt road was nearby; buggies and buckboards and such, and more horses, were parked behind the Grange.