Ironhorse

62

Hobbs worked his right foot into his shoe and sat back, looking at Virgil, with his elbows resting on the arms of the chair. He slowly shook his head from side to side.

“I know nothing about any of this,” Hobbs said. “Absolutely nothing.”

Virgil looked at him steadily.

“Who hired the Pinkerton agents?”

Hobbs raised his hand like a schoolboy.

“Afraid that, too, was my personal blunder,” Hobbs said. “What now, Marshal?”

“Tell me about Lassiter.”

“What would you like to know?”

“What you know.”

“Well... he’s one hell of an attorney. Not married. Divorced. I think. No children that I know of... this the type of information you’re interested in?”

“He in trouble?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Owe people money.”

Hobbs shook his head.

“I don’t think so. If so, I have no knowledge of such.”

Rose was standing close to me. The blanket was draped loosely off her shoulders, barely covering her breasts, and was open down the side, revealing the curves of her naked body.

“You can go,” I whispered to her.

“Oh, no,” she said a little too loudly. “I’m enjoying this.”

Virgil looked at Rose. Then me. Then he looked back to Hobbs.

“Maybe he’s in debt, I don’t know,” Hobbs said. “He’s a gambler. He gambles a great deal, that I know, cards, the races, everything. He’s a big spender, too.”

“On what?”

Hobbs shook his head. “Expensive taste, fine stuff, horses, carriages, clothes, women, everything, guns. I don’t know.”

“Guns?”

“He has a huge collection. Civil War and beyond. Works on guns in his spare time, repairing them, engraving them. A fine craftsman — exquisite, actually. Gives them as gifts. He’s a generous man. He gave me a fancy Derringer.”

Virgil turned the receiver of the Henry rifle in his hands so Hobbs could view the engraving clearly.

“Like this?”

Hobbs reached over his shoulder and retrieved a pair of spectacles from the breast pocket of his jacket hanging on the back of the chair. He put them on and looked at the engraving on the rifle and his eyes narrowed. He frowned for a brief moment and removed his spectacles. He looked up at Virgil with a steady gaze.

“Yes,” Hobbs said, “like that.”

Berkeley bounded up the stairs and came to the doorway out of breath. His big hands held on to each side of the doorjamb.

“Son of a bitch stole my black,” Berkeley said.

He took a big breath.

“After supper he asked me if I was a horseman. We got into a discussion about bloodlines,” Berkeley said. “Like a fool, I showed him my prizewinner. My Thoroughbred. He was in a corral next to the hotel here.”

Berkeley took another big breath.

“But not anymore,” Berkeley said. “The son of a bitch.”

“Mr. Berkeley?” a voice called sternly from the hall. “What on earth is happening here? What is with all the commotion?”

Berkeley turned. A man stepped up behind him. He was older, medium height, lean, with intense eyes and a groomed goatee.

“Governor, sir,” Berkeley said. “Um, we have a situation here.”

“What sort of situation?” the governor said sharply.

The governor looked into the room past Berkeley, to Hobbs sitting in the corner chair wearing one shoe.

“Chet?” the governor said. “What’s happening?”

The governor moved swiftly past Berkeley and came into the room.

“What’s the situation...?”

Rose took an abrupt step back, stepping on the blanket, and it dropped to the floor, leaving her standing buck naked.

The governor looked to Rose, then to Virgil, then to me, then back to Hobbs.

“What in the hell is going on here?” he said.