The Bloody Spur

Chapter Twelve

When Caleb York got to the café just before eight the next morning, it took him a couple of blinks to recognize Raymond Parker.

The distinguished city clothes were gone, and in their stead were a dark gray sateen shirt with arm garters and a cowhide vest, a yellow knotted bandana at the throat and, resting on the table beside him, an uncreased broad-brimmed hat, which took the place of the cemetery’s white stovepipe.

Suddenly York could see the frontiersman who lived within the big-city businessman, the onetime partner of George Cullen who’d helped carve out the Bar-O. Parker had mentioned that he’d bought a horse at Brentwood Junction and ridden into Trinidad... and the man wouldn’t have done that dressed in a newmarket coat, a double-breasted waistcoat, and fancy trousers.

A smile blossomed under the well-trimmed white mustache, and the tall figure at the small table by the window in the unpretentious café got to his feet and offered his hand. Again, the sheriff clasped hands with the visitor, and confident firmness sent its message to both.

York, in his usual black, removed his hat and hung it on a hook by the door nearby. He sat across from the businessman, a white enamel coffeepot and two matching cups already waiting. The café, as usual, was bustling. They served a good breakfast at about half the price of the hotel, and as long as you didn’t prefer linen to checkered tablecloths, this was your place.

“How clear is your morning, Sheriff York?” Parker’s voice was a husky mid-range growl as firm and confident as that handshake.

“Clear enough,” York said with a shrug.

“Good. There’s some business we need to attend to later.”

Business again. What business does a man with holdings in Denver and Kansas City have in Trinidad, New Mexico?

A waiter in an apron came over and got their order — griddle cakes for Parker, eggs and bacon and grits for York.

As they waited, Parker offered York a tailor-made cigarette from a silver case, a hint that the Denverite was no longer a man who spent much time in the saddle. York refused with a smile, and Parker lit up.

“We met on a buffalo hunt, George Cullen and I,” Parker said, sighing smoke, as if he were answering a question York hadn’t asked. “It was the start of both our fortunes, but looking back, I sometimes wonder. Was it our original sin?”

“Not many buffalo left,” York said as he poured himself coffee. Parker already had some.

“Less than a hundred of the animals, I hear. We hunted them for their skins and left the rest of the beasts behind to rot.” He shook his head. “Such easy pickings — kill one of the animals and the rest would gather around. Kill one, kill a whole herd.”

“Why was the meat left to waste?”

Parker let out more smoke, shrugged, his expression somber. “The government was paying us. They wanted to get rid of the food source for those poor damn Indians. That was something we didn’t think about at the time. And by the time it ever did occur to us, we’d kind of built up a grudge against the red man. Encounter a few hostiles and you aren’t filled with much sympathy. Anyway, we were young bucks and sought adventure and profit, and I won’t lie to you and say I’ve spent much time feeling guilty about it. Men get caught up in a life and they live it, and then, one day, it’s over. As it was for George Cullen.”

York cocked his head. “I knew him only in his later years, but he was as honest and brave an individual as I have ever met.”

“Here’s to George Cullen,” Parker said.

They toasted coffee cups.

Their breakfasts came, and they ate, with intermittent conversation limited to mostly how good the grub was and the weather and such like.

“So here we are,” Parker said, “all these years later, and the red natives are consigned to reservations and the scrap heap of history, and we are left to try to build something on what we did, whether it was right or wrong.”

“Civilization, you mean.”

“Civilization, exactly. If we are going to push out a whole goddamned people and take their place, don’t we have a responsibility to at least make the best of it? If we wind up bigger savages, how can we justify it...? These griddle cakes are first rate.”

“You should try the grits.”

He shuddered. “Must be a Southern cook back there.”

“I’m trying to read between the lines, Mr. Parker, and I’m thinking you believe your old partner was wrong to buck the railroad.”

“Oh, he was wrong, all right.” Parker grunted something like a laugh. “He could have a hard head, George Cullen. It’s a good thing his daughter has a more level one. My understanding is she’s in favor of the branchline.”

“She is, and she isn’t.”

Parker frowned, pushing aside a plate where one last bite of griddle cake swam alone in syrup. “Mind explaining that?”

“She was for the spur. Then, after somebody killed her daddy over it, she didn’t care to give the murderer his way. Or, I should say, right-of-way.”

“Ah. And where do you stand?”

York flipped a hand. “Nominally, I’m with the branchline contingent. They’ve promised me a raise and a house and general prosperity, to go along with Trinidad turnin’ into another Las Vegas.”

Parker’s eyes narrowed; those eyebrows were as pure white as the mustache. “Let’s back up to that word ‘nominally. ’”

York shrugged. “I like Willa. I’ll support her in whichever way she goes in this. If I lose this job, I have another waiting.”

“In San Diego. With the Pinkertons. For excellent pay.”

“That’s right.”

The white eyebrows lifted. “Kind of hard to ‘like’ a gal from that distance.”

“I’m kind of taking it a day at a time. We’ve had a bump or two in the road, Willa and me.”

“Such as you killing her fiancé?”

“You heard about that? Yeah.” York poured himself more coffee. “But into each life a little rain must fall. Anyway, my job right now is to find her father’s killer.”

“Getting anywhere?”

“No shortage of suspects when the victim was standin’ in the way of a whole town getting rich.”

Parker let out a lazy wreath of cigarette smoke. “Any particular suspect getting your attention?”

“Maybe one. What can you tell me about your other old partner? Burt O’Malley?”

Parker’s expression shifted, as if his bellyful of griddle cakes was suddenly giving him indigestion. “I did not share George Cullen’s enthusiasm for that man.”

York sipped coffee. “He seems decent enough. Affable. Concerned about Willa. Broke up about the old man. All his reactions are the right ones.”

“And that bothers you some? Because maybe they seem a little too right?”

“Not sure. When George Cullen was alive, O’Malley sided with him against the spur. Now he’s talkin’ otherwise. And he’s encouraging Willa to let him buy into the Bar-O with the money her daddy put away for him during his imprisonment. That George Cullen would do such a generous thing — for a partner who killed a man — says something good about both of them... doesn’t it?”

Parker didn’t answer right away. He dropped his spent cigarette to the floor and ground it out with his boot heel.

Then he said, “Ever wonder why I ceased being a part of the Bar-O, despite the depth of friendship between George Cullen and myself?”

“I have at that,” York admitted. “But what business is it of mine?”

“In a murder investigation,” Parker said, “possibly very much your business. That man O’Malley killed... Have you heard the story? His version of the story?”

York said he had. That a rich man’s son had forced himself on a woman both he and O’Malley loved. That the ruined woman had hanged herself the night before she and O’Malley were to be wed.

Parker gave up an elaborate shrug. “It may have happened that way. But at the trial there were those who said O’Malley’s woman and the rich boy were together because they wanted to be. That she intended to throw Burt over, and her suicide may have been something else. Something Burt himself did.”

Parker let York think about that for a while.

York did, then said, “And you thought his version of what happened was a lie.”

It wasn’t exactly a question.

Another, more casual shrug came from Parker. “I didn’t know then, and I don’t know now. But one thing I do know — Burt O’Malley was damn well aware that this Leon Packett character who he shot did not have a gun on him. Even if it was in a way justified, and Burt’s story about the tragedy that befell his loyal bride-to-be was not of his own invention, it was still murder. Cold blooded and well considered.”

“George Cullen believed him.”

“He did. And when George told me he wanted us to bank O’Malley’s share of Bar-O earnings during the man’s incarceration, I wanted none of it. I gave George the opportunity to buy me out. I’d been thinking about it a long time, anyway.”

“Oh?”

Parker nodded. “O’Malley always struck me as one of those smilers who slapped you on the back till it was time to slide a blade in. Anyway, I wanted a different kind of life — the big-city variety. You get older, and the dust and manure and the long damn days on a ranch can get to you. Plus, the future was calling. And I have no regrets to this day, leaving it all behind.”

York had only eaten half of his breakfast; what was left was cold, and he pushed the plate away. “You have only your suspicions.”

He nodded. “Only my suspicions. Or... mostly only my suspicions.”

“What else, then?”

Parker leaned in. “When he was released from prison, Burt O’Malley first came to see me — not to George Cullen, but to me. We had never really had a falling-out, O’Malley and myself, and I don’t suppose he even knew the role he’d played in my decision to sell out my interests in the Bar-O. So it wasn’t an unnatural thing, coming to see me... for a loan.”

“That’s why he came to you? A loan?”

Another nod. “Burt told me that he felt bad for George, now a blind old man with no sons to carry on. You and I know that Willa is as strong as any son, but Burt had no way of knowing that, at least not till I told him. And plenty of men would dismiss a daughter’s claim, anyway. What he wanted was a loan to put with the money George had put away for him... so that he could buy into the Bar-O to such a degree that when George Cullen passed, the ranch would be mostly his.”

“You turned O’Malley down.”

“Not at first. I did give it some thought. A week went by, and Burt came around and told me about the proposed spur and the windfall it would represent to the Bar-O. He offered to cut me in for twenty percent of his share of the Bar-O if I would just back him in his play. That’s how he put it — his play.”

“Nothing illegal about any of that.”

“No. But I sent him packing. And, obviously, he returned to the Bar-O, anyway, with the money that had been put away for him, and proceeded to cozy up to the old man and the daughter.”

York was frowning. “How did a jailbird come to know of that branchline?”

“That Prescott character looked him up. Wouldn’t be surprised if the Santa Fe Ring didn’t pull some strings to get O’Malley sprung from the Kansas State Pen early.”

York thought about that.

Then he asked, “You think O’Malley’s capable of killing Cullen?”

“I do,” came the unhesitating answer. “But ‘capable’ doesn’t mean he did it. In a way, without my backing, it doesn’t make sense for him to have done so. After all, he wasn’t able to buy into the Bar-O.”

“I think he might be able to buy in, at that.”

“How so?”

York leaned forward. “Well, for one thing, maybe Prescott and the Santa Fe were willing to back him. And he’s also got himself very much on Willa’s good side now. There had been talk of him buying one of the smaller spreads that the Bar-O recently swallowed up. But O’Malley told her he’d much prefer to buy into the Bar-O itself.”

“Do you think he could manipulate her into that?”

“Not with me around.” York’s own quick remark made something stir in the back of his brain. Then he said, “You said we had business. What business is that?”

“We finished here?”

“Sure.”

Parker rose, tossed a half eagle on the table to cover generously the breakfasts and a tip, and they headed out onto the boardwalk.

As if Parker were the one who lived here, York followed him down and across the street. At first York thought they were headed to the newspaper, but the destination turned out to be next door to the Enterprise — the law office of Arlen Curtis.

York followed Parker into the big square single room. No secretary awaited, and only a few chairs at right and left served as a reception area. Much of the central space was taken up by a massive, heavy oaken table, which Curtis — a broad-shouldered, dark-bearded fellow in black who resembled General Grant — used for a desk.

The tabletop’s clutter included stacks of papers, a few thick legal tomes, ink bottles, pens in a drinking glass, and a lion’s-head press for applying seals. The walls were papered an undecorative faint yellow, and the back one bore several roll-down maps and a pigeonhole rack of papers and office supplies, with more legal books stacked on top. Below the rack a fat safe squatted like an eavesdropper.

Curtis stood, and a smile peeked out of the thicket of dark beard. “Right on time, gentlemen,” he said.

York blinked. Right on time?

Two client chairs were waiting. Both Parker and York shook hands with Curtis; then everyone took their seats. The lawyer flipped through several pages of a legal document, found what he was looking for, then looked up pleasantly at his visitors.

“With your permission,” the lawyer said, “I believe we can do without certain formalities.”

“We can?” York asked.

Curtis nodded. “There is only one bequest, Sheriff York, and it concerns you.”

“Bequest? What is this? The reading of a will?”

Curtis flicked another smile. “Well, of course. Hasn’t Mr. Parker made that clear?”

“He has not,” York said, giving the businessman a sharp sideways look.

“Mr. Curtis,” Parker said, sitting forward, “the sheriff and I had to discuss a few things first, which we have done. I didn’t think the purpose of this meeting needed to be one of them. We were in a public place, after all.”

York, frowning, said, “We were talking murder over breakfast, and that didn’t seem to be a concern! What the hell is going on here?”

Thick black eyebrows rose as the lawyer fixed his gaze on the sheriff. “Why, the reading of George Oliver Cullen’s last will and testament, of course. Mr. Parker here is the executor, and you, Mr. York, are the sole beneficiary.”

York sat forward on his hard chair. “Well, that’s absurd. Why would I be the beneficiary of anything? Why isn’t Cullen’s daughter, Willa, here? Surely, she inherits everything!”

Curtis raised a calming hand. “Sheriff York, if you will think back... during the difficulties with your late predecessor, Sheriff Harry Gauge, Mr. Cullen transferred all his holdings to his daughter. She does not need to inherit the Bar-O and all its assets, because she already owns them.”

York squinted at the lawyer. “Oh-kay... Then why...?”

The lawyer flipped a page of the legal document. “There is a parcel of land, actually several adjacent parcels, that Mr. Cullen has left to you. This property is separate from the Bar-O and its holdings.”

Still squinting, as if hoping to bring the lawyer into focus, York said numbly, “He left me some land.”

“Yes. If you will forgive my speaking out of school, the late Mr. Cullen indicated that he held you in high regard, sir, and that he had hopes that you and his daughter would, well... I believe you know what those hopes were. Mr. Cullen wanted to encourage you to maintain residence in this part of the world. And this bequest was his way of trying to accomplish that.”

York leaned back. “What land are we talking about?”

“Half an acre at the east end of town. To the rear of the livery stable.”

“What on earth would I do with that?”

Curtis shrugged. “That would be up to you. But if Trinidad expands, as it seems likely to, with the railroad’s interest in this town? That property could become quite valuable.”

York was shaking his head, as if trying to clear it of cobwebs. “That makes no sense! George Cullen was foursquare against the Santa Fe in this.”

The lawyer shrugged, tossing the document on the table. “This bequest was arranged well before the issue of the railroad spur arose. He felt Trinidad was bound to expand as long as the Bar-O continued to flourish. After all, George Cullen was responsible for this town’s very existence.”

York’s head bobbed back, like he was ducking a blow. “How do you figure that, Counselor?”

Curtis leaned forward, gesturing with an open palm. “The land on which this very town was built was once part of the Bar-O’s holdings. Ask Mr. Parker here. He can confirm as much.”

Bewildered, York glanced at the businessman, who nodded.

Parker said calmly, “The Bar-O land was purchased many years ago from the holder of a Spanish land grant, for virtual pennies. That included the flat stretch on which Trinidad now stands. I was in charge of the effort to build structures here and invite merchants in, selling to them at a loss. We wanted a town nearby. Going twenty-five or thirty miles for supplies was just too much trouble.”

York let out a humorless laugh from deep in his belly. “No wonder the old man was bitter,” he said, “when the Citizens Committee wouldn’t respect his wishes where the Santa Fe was concerned. He’d practically made a gift of the town to them.”

Parker nodded. “But George was wrongheaded in this, nonetheless. Trinidad will wind up just another ghost town if Ellis or Roswell gets the Santa Fe spur.”

York could not argue with that.

Half an hour was spent on paperwork, including the transfer of the deed to the east-of-town property. Hands were again shaken all around, and soon York and Parker were back out on the boardwalk.

Parker paused to light up a cigarette. “Any notions for what you might do with your newfound holdings?”

“None. As far as I’m concerned, it’s an annoyance. The old boy might have asked me if I was interested in being a damn land owner.”

Waving out his match, Parker said, “Most people wouldn’t object to such a burden. But I may have a notion for you. I’ll be in town till tomorrow. We’ll talk again.”

And Parker headed across the street, skirting a buckboard, leaving York behind.

The sheriff, hands on his hips, was feeling flummoxed. But then something that had been said at the café made its way from the back of his brain to the front, and he hustled across the street himself.

York pushed through the door into the telegraph office, where skinny, bespectacled Ralph Parsons was behind the counter.

“Sheriff,” the operator said.

“Mr. Parsons,” the sheriff said.

He filled out a blank form, taking his time, then handed it to the operator.

“Get that right out,” York said.

“Will do, Sheriff. Quite a few words.”

“I’ll pay you for them.”

“The Kansas State Penitentiary! My. This sounds serious.”

“It is, Ralph. Would you like to know how serious?”

“If you think it’s best, Sheriff.”

York leaned across the counter and summoned his nastiest smile. “Should you reveal the contents to anyone, I might have to beat you to within an inch of your life.”

“But... you’re the sheriff!”

“That’s right. And that puts you in a difficult spot, Ralph. Because that leaves only Deputy Tulley to arrest me, and I’d fire him first.”

That apparently sank in quickly, because the operator’s fingers were flying even before York had stepped outside.