The Bridge

28

Virgil nodded to the model in front of the window.

“This bridge was blown up,” Virgil said. “Three men died, they were killed.”

Cox shook his head.

“This can’t be,” Cox said.

Virgil nodded.

“’Fraid so,” Virgil said.

“Two days ago?” Cox said.

Virgil nodded.

“Any idea who would do this?” Virgil said.

Cox looked to the floor for a long moment. He shook his head slightly, then walked to the big desk and dropped into his chair.

“Leave us, Jessup,” Cox said.

Jessup just looked at Cox for a moment.

“Now,” Cox said. “I don’t need you standing there looking like you are looking. Just leave.”

“Certainly, Mr. Cox, sir,” Jessup said, and closed the doors behind him.

“You know this to be a fact?” Cox said.

“Not seen it firsthand,” Virgil said, “but that was the telegram.”

Cox placed both of his hands squarely on the desk in front of him.

“Why am I just receiving this information?” Cox said.

“The lines were down,” I said.

“Just recently fixed,” Virgil said.

“When the communication connection was reestablished,” I said, “we were contacted.”

Cox stared at me blankly.

“To confirm, we made contact with the way station just a while ago,” I said. “The bridge being blown up and deaths were confirmed.”

“Got any idea why somebody’d do this?” Virgil said.

Cox looked away, then leveled a look at Virgil but didn’t respond to Virgil’s question.

“You got enemies?” Virgil said.

“I’ve spent most my life putting people in jail, Marshal,” Cox said. “I have plenty of enemies.”

Cox stood. He put his hands in the pockets of his Englishman’s robe and walked slowly over to the bridge model. He looked at the model with a sad expression on his face as he shook his head slightly from side to side.

“Walton Wayne Swickey,” Cox said.

“Who’s Walton Wayne Swickey?” Virgil said.

Cox stared at the bridge model, not saying anything.

Virgil looked to me, then back to Cox.

“Who is Walton Wayne Swickey?” Virgil said again.

“A powerful, money-grubbing man,” Cox said.

“Where would we find him?” Virgil said.

Cox shook his head.

“I don’t know.”

Virgil looked to the model, then to Cox.

“Why?” Virgil said. “Why would he do this?”

“Because I got the bid to build the bridge and he did not.”

“Any other reason?” Virgil said.

“Like what?” Cox said.

“You tell me,” Virgil said.

“I can’t imagine any reasons,” Cox said.

“No other bad blood between the two of you?” Virgil said.

“No,” Cox said. “Nothing I’m aware of. I never knew the man until I bid against him, did not know him from Adam. I was warned, when I went up against him, though, that he was a ruthless, not-to-be-trusted sonofabitch.”

Cox looked back to the model and shook his head.

“But this?” Cox said. “Why anyone would do something so atrocious as this, Marshal, is beyond me. Even Swickey. Losing a goddamn contract? Well, hell, that offers no logical reason, or explanation for such awful nonsense as this, no matter how burned or scorned one might be. Just nonsense.”

“He live here,” I said. “In Appaloosa?”

Cox shook his head some.

“I don’t know. He was here for the bidding,” Cox said. “Not sure where he lives, though.”

“You have no idea?” I said.

“No.”

“And no idea of his whereabouts?”

“No, I don’t know where he is,” Cox said. “I’ve not seen him, but I’m not around here full-time. In fact, I just returned to Appaloosa last week.”

“From?” Virgil said.

“Philadelphia.”

“When was the last time you saw Swickey?” I said.

“The day I was awarded the contract to build the bridge and he was not.”

“What were your parting words?” I said.

“No words,” Cox said. “He just smiled at me. A devil’s smile, conjured up from the bowels of hell.”