Approaching the cowboy, York said, “Where you off to, Whit?”
The droopy-eyed, droopy-mustached foreman was walking his horse away, moving slow, but moving.
A touch of gruffness was in his voice. “Speechifyin’ ain’t my idea of a good time.”
“No argument. Hold up there a second.”
Murphy, reins in hand, brought his steed to a stop and faced the sheriff. “Not really in the mood to talk, York. I got things to do out at the Bar-O, and I had no urge to listen to such twaddle.”
“What twaddle would that be?”
“Tearin’ down Mr. Cullen’s wishes while pretendin’ to hold him up. Probably a big ol’ picture of him’ll be hangin’ in that station, like he approved of the thing.”
“Probably.” York eased closer. “You know, Whit, we haven’t had a chance to talk, you and me... since the O’Malley unpleasantness.”
The foreman’s eyes tightened to slits. “What’s to talk about? Since when was you and I friendly?”
It was true that they’d had a run-in or two when York first came to town.
York said, “Thought you might be interested to know Burt O’Malley denied he ever had that set-to with the old man on the porch. The one you told me about? Oh, O’Malley said they argued some or, anyway, the talk got heated. But he claimed it was the night before, not that morning. And that it never came close to blows.”
Murphy shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Who cares what that lyin’ blackguard said? He hired that Preacherman to kill you, didn’t he? Miss Willa says he confessed as much. She heard it from his own lips.”
York nodded. “She did. I did. But the peculiar thing is, O’Malley never admitted to killing George Cullen, either accidentally or on purpose. To his very end, he said he loved the old man.”
Murphy’s lip curled into a sneer that lifted the droopy mustache on one side. “Funny way to show it. And a man who hires a gunman to kill another, he don’t likely kill accidental.”
York smiled just a little. “You know, generally I’d agree with you. But maybe O’Malley didn’t do it. And maybe it was an accident.”
The foreman was shaking his head and frowning. “You’re not makin’ sense, Sheriff. And I got better things to do than listen to such palaver.”
Murphy seemed about to mount his horse when York’s voice stopped him sharp. “Whit! There’s something I haven’t mentioned to Miss Willa. I found a mess of blood caked on a post on that porch. Human blood, Doc Miller says. Enough to show that somebody took a hell of a knock.”
Reins still in hand, Murphy said, “That so?”
“It’s so. I’ve taken that section of the post as potential evidence. Tucked it away in my safe. In there, as well, are pieces of bone collected just off the porch, near that post. Likely the doc could match them up to the hole in George Cullen’s head, were we to dig him up. But that’s as far as I’ve taken this so far.”
Murphy snorted a humorless laugh. “Why bother? O’Malley’s your man, and he’s dead.”
York’s chin came up, and his gaze glared down. “Suppose it wasn’t O’Malley that argued that morning with George Cullen. Suppose it was you, Whit.”
The close-set eyes showed white all around. “You’re out of your blasted mind, Caleb York! I loved that old man!”
York nodded. “So did Burt O’Malley. I believe you. But the old man wasn’t the only one you loved out at the Bar-O, was he?”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’ve been yearnin’ for Willa Cullen for a long, long time. Way before I got to town. And all that time you thought you were the son that George Cullen never had. You two were close — that’s true enough. So close that maybe you thought the old man would be just fine with you marryin’ his daughter and takin’ over the Bar-O.”
The eyes were slits again. “Careful what you say, York!”
“I generally am. For instance, I think that morning... the morning George Cullen died... you finally got it out in the open. Brought up a subject you figured would please the old man. Told him of your intentions, how you hoped to marry his daughter and keep the Bar-O a going concern.”
The foreman was trembling with rage. “I’ve heard enough of this...”
“But Cullen wasn’t having any of it, was he? You were just some lowly cowboy he groomed into a decent foreman — a good hand, but not anybody good enough for his daughter. A man like George Cullen was the king of his little kingdom, and that made his daughter a princess. Some uppity trail hand wants to wed her? Ridiculous! Insulting. Even infuriating. Hell, the old boy may have started the fracas. I saw him do the same the night before, with Newt Harris. He’d been kinda erratic of late, ol’ George. Being blind goes hard on a big man like that.”
Jaw muscles pulsed at either edge of the thick mustache. “You best be careful what you say, York. What you do. You don’t have a damn thing on me!”
“You didn’t mean to kill him. You really did love that old man. But when he insulted you, belittled you, and then came at you with his fists up, you grabbed him and knocked him back. Slammed him a good one.”
Murphy said nothing, but the trembling continued.
“Whit, you were the only one, really, who could’ve loaded the body up in a buckboard and staged that business with that chestnut of his. Like he ever would’ve been thrown by a gentle horse like that.”
Murphy was shaking his head. “Can’t prove nothin’. Not a damn thing.”
York shrugged. “Maybe not. But somebody out at the Bar-O may have seen or heard somethin’. Lou Morgan, maybe, workin’ the barn. Harmon in the cookhouse. Whole bunkhouse of cowhands.”
The foreman snorted. “Anybody said anythin’, they’re damn liars.”
“Oh, I haven’t investigated yet. And I also haven’t told Willa what I think. Once I do, though, you’ll be finished at the Bar-O. She won’t need any evidence. Just my say-so.”
Murphy’s hand hovered over his holstered .45.
York raised his left hand nice and easy. “Now, that’s one way you can go, Whit. But would you please step away from that horse of yours? ’Cause my bullet might go through you, and I’d hate like hell to wound that animal.”
Murphy slowly moved away from the horse, and York moved with him in a half circle.
“I suppose you might take me,” York said, as if merely ruminating. “You never know in a gunfight. You might be the man to kill Caleb York. Stranger things have happened.”
Now York was poised with his hand over the .44 in the low-slung holster.
“Or,” York said, “you could saddle up, head out to the Bar-O, gather your things, and find somewhere else to be.”
Murphy froze, hand still just above his holstered weapon. “And... and you’ll tell Willa Cullen what?”
“That you got a letter from home and had to tend to things there.”
“What things?”
“Why, you never said, Whit. You just told me you had family matters that needed seein’ to. Your only job will be to never set foot in Trinidad again, or on the Bar-O. Give me your word on that, and I won’t come looking for you. And I won’t investigate further.”
Murphy’s smile was in the midst of a glare. “Why should I trust you?”
“Because I’m taking a risk, too. You see, I promised Willa I would kill the man who killed her father. If she finds out I just let that man ride off on his own, well, she might not look too kindly on that.”