The Bloody Spur

Chapter Ten

At 8:00 p.m. on a weeknight, the hotel restaurant was sparsely populated, more waiters than diners — a married couple here, a pair of traveling salesmen there. Folks around town tended to take supper earlier than this, but Caleb York figured the gent who’d invited him here was well aware of that fact.

Grover Prescott, in a tan frock coat with a tan-and-black vest and a tiny black bow tie, was seated alone at a table for four in the far corner of the dining room. The hanging kerosene lamps were turned to a muted glow, lending the dark wood, carved chairs, and linen tablecloths of the chamber an elegance not otherwise found in Trinidad, New Mexico.

Prescott stood and gave the approaching York the kind of smile reserved for close friends, thrusting his hand out for the sheriff to shake, which he did. The railroad man’s grip was a tad too tight, showing off some. He was almost as tall as York, a sturdy-looking individual, not quite fat.

York sat, and so did Prescott, who started right in.

“I’m very pleased you agreed to break bread with me, Sheriff,” Prescott said. “I was afraid I’d got off on the wrong foot with you at that Citizens Committee meeting the other day.”

“Not at all,” York said. “I have nothing against a free meal courtesy of the Santa Fe.”

“My understanding is that I misjudged you. That you’ve agreed to cooperate with the town fathers’ efforts to make this branchline a reality.”

York said, “Let’s just say I have an open mind.”

Prescott raised a forefinger. “And a realistic one. You’re too seasoned a westerner not to know that the future is coming. A man can stand by and wait for the future to come find him, and roll over him, or he can embrace it with open arms and be part of a new day.”

Just as at the meeting, everything this slicker said had a practiced sound.

A waiter in black livery arrived to take orders. Prescott read from the menu like a singer from sheet music.

“Let’s start with the chicken consommé, followed by the baked salmon à la Chambord. Then filet of veal à la Périgord, with asparagus, new potatoes, and artichokes. For dessert, blancmange... Shall I make that two orders of those selections, Sheriff York?”

“No.” His eyes found the waiter’s. “Just bring me a beefsteak, rare, thick. Fried potatoes. Coffee. Black.”

York’s host raised a hand. “Coffee later, perhaps if I can convince you to join me in dessert. For now, waiter, bring us a bottle of your best champagne.”

York went along with that. After all, he was the man’s guest. A bottle arrived, was opened; glasses were filled.

While they waited for the food, Prescott continued with what was clearly a presentation.

“I understand the Citizens Committee has discussed increasing your pay and providing you with suitable lodgings for a man of your stature.”

Somehow York didn’t figure Prescott was referring to his six feet one.

“They have,” York said. “Contingent on the spur coming through.”

Prescott reacted a little to the word contingent. Perhaps he’d figured Caleb York would have the vocabulary of a mountain man.

“You may be in a position,” Prescott said with a sly smile, “to help make that happen.”

York didn’t follow up on that — the chicken consommé arrived before he could. Just to have something to do, the sheriff told the waiter to bring him a cup, too.

When the soup was done and the next course had yet to appear, Prescott said, “You may wonder what I mean when I say you could be helpful in making this branchline a reality.”

“I don’t wonder, really,” York said. “You have heard that Willa Cullen and I are friendly, and have been told that I might be able to sway her toward selling you people the right of passage.”

Prescott, a trifle surprised, merely nodded.

“But surely you’ve also heard,” York said, “that Miss Cullen is already inclined to do business with the Santa Fe. Several members of the Citizens Committee seem well aware that Willa did not support her late daddy in his typically stubborn position.”

His expression suddenly grave, Prescott leaned forward. “Let me say, Sheriff, how terrible the Santa Fe finds the loss of George Cullen, one of the true pioneers of this region.”

“On the other hand,” York said, “his death seems to clear the path for the railroad and its branchline. One might even call it fortuitous.”

Prescott’s small plate of baked salmon à la Chambord came. He began to eat, as if that were preferable to actually confirming what York had said.

York continued. “Problem is, with Old Man Cullen murdered? Miss Cullen may not take kindly to any who might have had a hand in it.”

A forkful of salmon froze between plate and mouth. “Sir, what are you implying?”

York shrugged and leaned back in his hard, fancy chair. “Not implying a damn thing. Just that those with the best motive for the removal of George Cullen are sitting on the Citizens Committee. Well, most of them, anyway.”

Prescott swallowed his bite without taking time to taste it and said, “And now what are you implying, Sheriff York?”

“Again, no implication — just fact. You are a suspect in this crime as much as any of our esteemed town fathers. By the way, where were you this morning, between sunup and, say, ten a.m.?”

Prescott pushed away the half-eaten plate of salmon. “I took breakfast here at the hotel around eight. I’m sure you’d have no trouble finding witnesses. At nine I met with Trinidad’s new bank president, Harold Turner, to discuss the branchline and how it might benefit his business.”

Turner was new in town and had not yet been added to the Citizens Committee, although that seemed inevitable.

York asked, “Have you availed yourself of a horse while visiting our fair community? Bought or rented an animal, or perhaps rented a buggy or buckboard?”

The friendly manner was gone, a coldness taking its place. He knew he was being interrogated.

“Not as of yet,” Prescott said. “My business has been confined to town thus far. Eventually, I might be visiting the Bar-O and other, smaller spreads. I have a right of passage to arrange, as you’ll recall?”

The main courses arrived, the veal with asparagus, potatoes, and artichokes for Prescott, the rare steak and fried potatoes for York. They ate in silence. The steak was nice and bloody, just the way York liked it.

While he waited for dessert, Prescott said, “May I ask what your intentions are where Miss Cullen is concerned?” Then the railroad man realized his words sounded other than what he’d meant, and added, “Where the branchline is concerned.”

The waiter brought York his coffee.

“If you want Miss Cullen’s cooperation,” the sheriff said after a sip of the stuff, “this murder will have to be solved first. And I aim to do that.”

“What if... as you speculate... the motive has some fool killing Cullen to facilitate the Santa Fe spur?”

York shook his head. “I don’t believe the misguided actions of one individual would be enough to make Willa Cullen turn against what she sees as a positive thing for this community, and even her own business.”

“You sound sure of that.”

“I am. But until that individual is found, the entire Citizens Committee... and yourself... will seem tarred with the same brush.”

Prescott nodded. His coldness was gone, but so was the politician-like manner. “The Santa Fe Railroad would be most grateful to you, sir, should you find the one who did this.”

York’s eyes tensed. “I wouldn’t be looking for a reward.”

Rewards, like collecting taxes, were a part of a lawman’s due recompense. But this sounded a little too much like a bribe.

Prescott raised a placating palm. “Understood. But we would put our support behind you, Sheriff, and encourage the Citizens Committee to keep you on and make good their promises of better pay and superior housing.”

York smiled. “Why do I think there’s been some behind-the-scenes discussion among my employers to just put me out of the picture?”

The railroad man shifted in his chair. “Well, you did go around town this morning, questioning each of the town fathers in a murder investigation. Making them feel like... suspects.”

“That’s because they are suspects. So are you.”

Prescott only smiled at that. “Since I’m not guilty of anything more than attempted persuasion, that doesn’t trouble me, Sheriff. And should your inquiry be successful, I will be in a position to make other recommendations that would be of considerable benefit to you.”

“Such as?”

Prescott shrugged. “As Trinidad’s population grows, so will its law enforcement requirements. In addition to a county sheriff, there’ll be a need for a chief of police and the staff of officers that would go with it, expanding in relation to the population.”

“I already have a job.”

“Many communities give individuals like yourself multiple positions and multiple paychecks. With my connections, you might also find yourself with deputy U.S. marshal duties in the territory.”

York knew Prescott was right — his friends the Earps in Tombstone had held multiple positions in the manner the railroad man described. It had all worked out well till a certain October afternoon near the O.K. Corral.

The sheriff sat up. “As long as you don’t try to influence my investigation in any way, Mr. Prescott, I don’t see why we can’t be friendly in this.”

“Good. Good.” A smile became a frown. “One question, Sheriff. What do you know of this Burt O’Malley?”

York shrugged. “He was one of the three men who founded the Bar-O years ago... but he did time for a gunfight that went sour. He returned a few days ago, and he and George Cullen seemed to pick up where they’d left off.”

Prescott’s expression seemed wary. “And O’Malley agreed with Cullen about blocking the spur?”

“Apparently. But I wouldn’t put much stake in that.”

“Oh?”

York shook his head. “O’Malley wouldn’t likely cross Cullen on such a topic right after getting back in the man’s good graces. Why? What’s your concern?”

Prescott’s eyes were tight; his forehead was furrowed. “Just that he might represent Cullen’s obstinate point of view where the railroad’s concerned. Perhaps as sheriff, you could convince the man to leave. He’s a convicted murderer, after all.”

Again, York shook his head. “That I won’t do for you, Mr. Prescott, however friendly we might be. The man served his time, and, anyway, I don’t necessarily think he’ll echo Cullen’s anti-spur line. But if he does, that’s his right.”

The forehead smoothed, but the eyes remained tight. “But you will... work on Miss Cullen?”

“Don’t much like the way you put that.”

“Just... use your influence on her is all I mean to say.”

“Don’t much like that, either. Don’t go ruining our wonderful new friendship, Mr. Prescott.”

Another placating palm came up. “I meant no offense.”

York’s smile lacked humor. “Few who give it do. I will share my opinion, which is favorable to your position, with the young woman. But I won’t try to bring her around to my thinking save for some honest talk.”

Both palms came up now. “I can ask no more.”

York sipped the last of his coffee. “What I can do is find a murderer, and maybe that’ll put Willa Cullen in a place that’s friendly to you and your wishes.”

Prescott’s dessert arrived — blancmange, cream and sugar thickened with gelatin. “Won’t you join me, sir?”

“No thanks,” York said, standing. “I’ll leave you to it. I’m late for my evening rounds.”

And he left the railroad man there to enjoy one sickeningly sweet spoonful after another, with a smile that made York wonder who’d got the best of this meeting.

The evening rounds Caleb York had referred to were generally the duty of Deputy Tulley, whom the sheriff ran into on the boardwalk just down from the hotel. They paused in the shade of the overhang, the street nearby painted blue ivory by a full moon.

The bandy-legged deputy stood with his scattergun cradled in his arms. “Out for a stroll, Sheriff?”

York sighed, eyes traveling. “Just thought with a murderer on the loose, maybe you could stand another pair of eyes tonight.”

“Whoever done that deed,” Tulley said and spat some tobacco, “has surely crawled in his hidey-hole. He’s a sneaky sort, tryin’ to blame that killin’ on some poor horse that wouldn’t throw a man iffen you dug a spur in his flank.”

“Does look quiet.”

“Quiet as a damn dead dog.” Tulley’s eyes flicked down the street. “Fairly lively down at the Victory.”

“That’s where I was headed.”

“Need some backup, Sheriff?”

He settled a hand on Tulley’s shoulder. “No. You maintain your regular route. You’re right. This isn’t some mad killer. It’s a cold-blooded bastard who picked a blind man for his victim.”

Tulley’s face wadded itself up. “Does sound like somebody needs killin’.”

“Does at that.”

He left the deputy to walk Main and check the alleys and the residential areas on either side, then headed down to the Victory. Music and laughter and talk spilled out the batwing doors, along with the yellow glow of the kerosene chandeliers within.

After stepping inside, he saw perhaps two dozen cowboys and townsmen having a good time, some bellied up to the bar, others dancing with the satin-wrapped girls. A fair number played poker or faro, though none of the other games of chance were going. Honky-tonk piano cut through a haze of cigar and cigarette smoke. Lovely Rita Filley, the hostess, was threading through, giving customers a smile and sometimes a pat on the shoulder.

Whit Murphy was playing poker at dealer Yancy Cole’s table in the company of several of his Bar-O cowpokes, as well as Alver Hollis and his porky sidekick, Landrum. No sign of Trammel. York wandered over and got a look of inquiry from the ruffled-shirt, shuffling-between-hands Cole, who nodded toward an empty chair. York shook his head and instead stood, arms folded, watching, positioned behind Murphy.

As the cards were dealt, the Preacherman — in his usual black, hat and all — said, “Evening, Sheriff.”

“Evening,” York said, then nodded to the pig-faced Landrum, who said nothing but worked so hard at scowling, it was comical. “Where’s your other friend?”

“Lafe Trammel?” Hollis collected his cards with tapering fingers. “Well, that nasty gash you give him this mornin’? Your friend Doc Miller stitched that up some. He took to his bed at the cantina with a bottle of tequila.”

“No gal?”

“No gal. Little rest’ll do the boy good. ‘I will bring health and healing,’ Jeremiah, thirty-three, six.”

The Preacherman looked at his cards, then glanced up, and York’s eyes met his.

York said pleasantly, “ ‘So I turned my mind... to investigate... and to understand the stupidity of wickedness. ’ Believe that’s Ecclesiastes, something, something. Tell him I said howdy.”

Hollis smiled benevolently. “Glad to, my son.”

Whit Murphy tossed in his cards and said, “Goddamn!” He cashed in his chips, got back a buck and a half from Cole, and scooted his chair back to wander over to the bar in his bowlegged way, tugging down his high-beamed Carlsbad hat, muttering.

The Bar-O foreman hadn’t made it to the bar when York was beside him with a hand on his sleeve. “A word, Whit?”

Murphy shrugged and followed York’s lead to a table up front with nobody else nearby.

“Beer?” York asked him.

“Why not?”

The sheriff went over and got a couple of warm beers from bartender Hub Wainwright. He delivered one to Murphy and sat beside him with the other. York sipped some foam off and smiled. Murphy gulped some beer, too.

“Sorry to interrupt your fun,” York said.

Murphy grunted, wiping foam from his droopy mustache with his sleeve. “You didn’t interrupt no fun at all. I lost pert near five dollars. You think that Preacherman’s a cheat or somethin’?”

York had another sip. “Oh, probably. But not likely tonight. He doesn’t want to attract any undue attention.”

“Dressed like a circuit rider? Ha. But... why not?”

“Well, he’s here to kill somebody, Whit.”

“Hell you say!”

“Sometime before he leaves town, he’ll goad somebody into pulling and blow the poor bastard’s guts out. That’s how he does it.”

“Does what?”

“He’s a hired killer. If you think he’s cheatin’ you at the card table, which right now I doubt, you need to do just what you did — throw in your cards and walk away.”

Alarm spiked in the foreman’s eyes. “You don’t think he’s here to kill me, do you, Sheriff?”

“No. Not unless you got depths I ain’t become aware of yet. But I do think he might kill a man who called him a cheat, even if it was just for free.”

Murphy’s Adam’s apple bobbled. “’Preciate the warnin’, Sheriff. What, uh, what’s it you want with me, anyways?”

York had another swig of the warm brew. “This is the first chance we’ve had to talk since this morning.”

“Since Mr. Cullen got killed, you mean.”

“That’s right. You’ve heard that it was a put-up job? Not accidental at all?”

Murphy wiped more beer from his mustache with his sleeve. “I heard. Mr. O’Malley said as much. Miss Cullen knows, too. She’s broke up about it but tries not to show it. Ain’t seen her cry nary a drop.”

“She’s a tough girl.”

Murphy’s humorless half smirk raised one side of the droopy mustache. “She’s tougher than most, but it’ll still get to her. I ain’t ashamed to say I shed a tear or two my own self. He was a fine old fella. Done a lot for me.”

“How far back did you go with him?”

“Oh, ten years or more. I was just another cowhand on the spread. He saw somethin’ in me and kind of took to me and moved me up. When he made me foreman three years ago or so, I couldn’t hardly believe it.”

“Tell me about this morning.”

Murphy shrugged. “Little to tell. It was just after sunup. He was already on that chestnut he was partial to. Said he was goin’ out for a ride, and I said I’d be happy to keep him company. Of course he saw right through that — knew I was just tryin’ to worm in and keep him from ridin’ off by hisself.”

“He do that often? Ride off alone?”

A shrug. “I wouldn’t say often. But now and then, the mood would take him. I get it. I get that a man sometimes want to be by hisself. A proud man like Mr. Cullen, his sight gone, he sometimes has to feel like a whole man, even if he ain’t no more.”

“And that was the last you saw of him?”

“Last I saw him. Last we spoke.”

Murphy sipped beer. So did York.

“Now, Whit. Think carefully. Is there anything else pertinent you can think of?”

“Pert near what?”

“Anything that might be important, considering that we know the old man wasn’t really thrown from that chestnut. That somebody murdered him.”

Murphy’s eyes found the floor. “No. Not really. Only thing, maybe... no. No, nothin’.”

“Started to sound like something, Whit. What did you see?”

“Nothin’ else this mornin’.”

“Another time, then? Something suspicious? Come on, Whit. Any small thing could be important.”

“Might be nothin’.”

“Could be something.”

Murphy took a gulp of beer, swallowed it down, and said, “Mr. O’Malley seems like a fine feller.”

“Yes, he does. But what about Mr. O’Malley?”

“I seen him and Mr. Cullen fighting.”

York straightened. “Fighting? Come to blows?”

“No! No. They was on the front porch, talkin’. And it got right heated. They was yellin’ at each other. Red in the face and shovin’ each other.”

“You said they didn’t come to blows.”

“Well, they didn’t! Shovin’ ain’t blows. Nothin’ hard enough to knock one or the t’other down. But they was riled, very damn riled.”

“What was it about?”

Murphy pawed the air. “Weren’t my business. I felt kind of... embarrassed like. I don’t think they seen me. I was on my way back to the bunkhouse, and I just got there all the faster.”

“But you saw enough to tell that they were arguing. Heatedly.”

“I did.”

“Was Willa around?”

“No, sir. She would’ve been to bed by then. Was midnight or thereabouts.”

“What were you doing up that late, Whit?”

“Headin’ out to the privy. So I was a good distance from the porch at the time. Didn’t hear a word, just the sound of an argument. Couldn’t make out nothin’... but wasn’t tryin’ to.”

York nodded. “You mention this to anybody? Willa maybe?”

Murphy’s eyes flared. “No, sir! And I ain’t about to say nothin’ to that O’Malley feller, neither.”

“No?”

“No! What if he’s a murderer?”

York couldn’t argue with that. He dug a half eagle out of his pocket and tossed it to Murphy.

“Have another go at the cards,” York said, “on me. Just don’t accuse that Preacherman of cheating.”

“Even if he is?”

“Especially if he is.”

Murphy ambled over there, half a beer in hand, and filled the seat he’d vacated not long ago.

York was just sitting there, mulling the conversation with Murphy, when Rita settled in next to him. She was wearing a blue-and-black satin number that cupped her full breasts lovingly; her dark hair was up in a mass of curls; her full lips were rouged red, her cheeks touched red, too.

“Fascinating character to talk to?” she asked. “Whit Murphy?”

“He knows a thing or two.”

“About this murder of yours?”

York frowned at her. “It’s all over town, is it?”

“You surprised? You went around questioning every city father this morning.” She shook her head, and the curls bounced; so did her bosom, a little. “Terrible thing. That George Cullen was the bedrock of this community.”

“He didn’t see it that way. He was all about the Bar-O. If the old man’d had the vision his daughter has, then maybe—”

Big brown eyes got bigger. “The daughter, huh? You and Willa kiss and make up, did you?”

“Not really.”

That made Rita smile. She and York had gotten friendly in recent months. He’d become quite familiar with her fancy remodeled quarters upstairs.

She flicked the tin star on his chest. “Why don’t you take that off and have a little fun?”

“I don’t cotton to the company.”

“I hope you mean the Preacherman, and not yours truly.” She shrugged. “Preacherman’s been behaving himself.”

“He’ll kill somebody before he’s through. Right at that table.”

“You really think so?”

“He’s a hired gun, Rita, with a built-in cover story. Please keep that pretty head of yours out of the line of fire when he’s around.”

She frowned. “You think he killed George Cullen?”

“No. Not his style.”

“So we have two killers in town.”

“No,” York said. He held up three fingers.

“Who’s the other one...? Oh. You.”

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

“Would you like to come upstairs, Caleb?”

Very much, he would have liked to come upstairs. But somehow, right now, with Willa back in his life... for how long, and in what way, he couldn’t say... he was better off letting Rita down easy.

“Honey,” he said, “I am working. Maybe tomorrow.”

“I’ll be here,” she said.