Prescott’s frown stopped just short of a scowl. He paced as he spoke, but his eyes remained on York. “Tell me, Sheriff, are you against change? You surely realize that any booming community experiences growing pains. There will be churches and schools and flourishing businesses, and yes, the occasional desperado and dance-hall girl. But isn’t that a small price to pay?”
Caleb’s sly, shy smile was one Willa knew well. “Mr. Prescott, I am neither for what you propose nor against it. You haven’t really proposed anything yet. I just want to make sure, when you do, that my friends don’t buy a pig in a poke.”
Mayor Hardy cleared his throat and said, “Sheriff, we appreciate you sharing your astute point of view. But perhaps we can learn from the mistakes of our neighboring community, particularly with a seasoned lawman like yourself to guide the way.”
Caleb grinned and said, “Not for my current pay you can’t.”
That raised some laughter and even got a smile out of Prescott — a forced one, but a smile.
“Thank you for your insights, Sheriff,” Prescott said with a dismissive nod. Then he turned toward the city fathers at their elevated table.
“Mr. Harris,” Prescott said to their host, with a gesture around the room, “this is a fine establishment you have here. But are you aware that Las Vegas has become the territory’s most important mercantile center? That since the railroad came in, over a million dollars in wool, hides, and pelts have been shipped out of there?”
Now Prescott turned to the town barber.
“Mayor Hardy, what is the population of Trinidad? Perhaps three hundred hardworking souls? Las Vegas is over twenty-five hundred in population now. You are at a crossroads, sir. Your fine little community can grow and thrive or risk becoming just another ghost town in the Southwest when times change and leave you behind.”
Again, the railroad agent turned to address his audience.
“How can you enjoy the prosperity that has made a mecca of your neighbor? Very simple, my friends.”
Prescott waved a slow hand across the air, tracing an invisible pathway.
He said, “The Santa Fe Railway intends to build a spur between Trinidad and Las Vegas, a branchline that will transform your community into a vital part of the cattle trade. But that is just the beginning. Your town will expand with new money, new blood, and fresh opportunities. We ask for your blessing, and your cooperation.”
George Cullen stood.
The milky eyes trained themselves on the source of the voice that promised so much. The white-bearded chin came up, and a firm, determined voice came out.
“Mr. Prescott, you paint a pretty picture,” Willa’s papa said. “And you present this great opportunity to the citizens of Trinidad as if it’s up to them to make this happen. But you and I know the truth, sir.”
“Mr. Cullen,” the railroad man said quietly, just a little defensive, “the Santa Fe does not go into a community blindly.”
A murmur went up around them at this gaffe, and Prescott immediately understood his slipup.
“What I mean to say, sir,” Prescott said quickly, “is that my company’s policy is to inform a locality of our intentions, to seek their counsel and their support.”
“I am happy,” the old man said, sounding not at all happy, “to offer my counsel, but not my support. You are well aware, sir, that I control the vast majority of the cattle range in these parts. And I have no intention of granting you passage.”
And her papa sat.
“Mr. Cullen,” Prescott said through a strained smile, “with your cattle holdings, you will benefit as much as anyone — more than anyone — by having a railhead in your backyard. In addition, during the construction of the spur, we will need beef. I am more than happy, sir, to make arrangements with you to have our men fed. And, of course, the Santa Fe will pay generously for the right of passage. That remains for private negotiation, naturally, but do know that we are prepared to pay handsomely for these rights.”
Without rising, Papa said, “If I was to do business with you and the Santa Fe Ring, I am the one who would pay ‘handsomely.’”
The Santa Fe Ring her father referred to was a powerful cabal of attorneys and land speculators, with ties to the railroad, who had made a fortune in New Mexico through political corruption and fraudulent land deals.
Papa was saying, “Not only would your branchline disrupt my range, it would make it easier for my competitors to the south, from Texas to Mexico, to compete with the Bar-O.”
“Sir—”
“No, sir. Right now the Bar-O has a short, two-day cattle drive to Las Vegas, and that gives us a market advantage that I have no intention of giving up. My fellow ranchers here should keep that in mind. At any rate, I’m quite satisfied to have things stay as they are.”
Her father stood forcefully, and Willa rose, as well, then took his arm and guided him down the aisle between chairs, though truth be told, he was the one creating the forward motion.
She had seen him through the store and outside, down to where the buckboard waited, and had even helped him up into his seat when she noticed Caleb York had followed. He stood on the boardwalk, in the blue shadow of its overhang, at the edge of the steps down to the street, hat still in his hand.
Why exactly she went to him, she couldn’t say. He hadn’t called out to her or even motioned, but she knew that he wanted a word.
She came over to the foot of the steps and looked up at him. Tall as he was, he fairly loomed over her.
Quietly, almost whispering, he said, “Is the old boy all right?”
Her father, up on the buckboard, was visibly trembling.
Sotto voce, she said, “He’s fine. He’s just mad, that’s all.”
“I don’t blame him.”
She glanced over her shoulder at her father and then back up at York with a frustrated frown, speaking softly. “Caleb, the thing is... I’m not sure I agree with Papa. I haven’t spoken a word about it to him as yet, because I know how much it riles him... but he may be wrong about this.”
“That so?”
She shook her head, and a yellow tendril came loose and dangled over an eye. “The railroad’s the future, Caleb. There’s no escaping it, and... and I’m not sure we should if we could. The branchline really will be a boon to Trinidad.”
“Future’s hard to avoid,” York admitted. “And towns like this one either grow or fade.”
Her frown turned confused. “I thought you didn’t much care for what that railroad man was peddling.”
He shrugged. “I just don’t like being sold a bill of goods. There’s generally two sides to things, and it’s best to consider both. Anyway, there’s a whiff of snake oil about that big bug Prescott.”
She nodded.
Then an awkwardness settled in.
“Well,” she said. “I should be getting back to the Bar-O.”
“Well,” he said. “Suppose you should.” He smiled a little, gave her a respectful nod, and headed back inside.
For a moment there, it had been as if they were on speaking terms.
For a moment.
She got up on the buckboard and drove her father out of town.
When Caleb York returned to the meeting at the rear of Harris Mercantile, the discussion had broken up into groups of three and four. One such group included the Santa Fe man and three of the small-ranch owners. Perhaps Prescott figured he might be able to assemble a passageway through those lesser spreads.
York doubted that was a possibility. Cullen land had grown to include what had been the Gauge properties, when Willa’s late fiancé had left his holdings to her. The other ranches formed a patchwork quilt that only rarely intersected and represented a small proportion of range at that.