Frontier of Violence Read online

  “We already went through that last night,” Bob replied. “Like I told you then, we just try to do our jobs the best we can.”

  “And I can attest that your best is mighty fine. Making me look forward all the more to living and doing business here in Rattlesnake Wells.”

  “Well, I hope it works out good for both of us,” Bob said. “The time for your big opening is getting mighty short. I guess you’ll know better after the Crystal Diamond has been running for a while, how it’s going to work out for you business-wise.”

  Gafford nodded. “The ultimate test, that’s for sure. But I already have faith everything will go fine in that regard. Some very key components to my saloon’s success, as a matter of fact, will be arriving today on the train. Not only the prize guns for the shooting contest but also the performers who will give the Crystal Diamond one of its many distinctions. We discussed this yesterday. I just thought I’d stop by and remind you.”

  “I hadn’t forgotten.”

  “I’m hoping, of course, that you’ll be available to meet Miss Dane and her troupe with me. And I will be sure to explain to them how the quick attention and bravery of you and your men ensured that the Crystal Diamond is still standing for them to perform in.”

  “I’ll be around,” Bob said. “But you need to get a crew to work pronto on cleaning up all that spilled coal oil before an unintentional spark floats in from somewhere and does accidentally what those coyotes last night couldn’t get done on purpose.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course,” Gafford said anxiously. “I’m on my way there now. I just wanted to stop by and once again express my profound thanks.”

  “Consider it done. No need to keep saying it.”

  As he turned toward the door, Gafford said, “I already have some carpenters lined up to finish that back stairway and a few other touches. Your friend Bullock was kind enough to provide the names of some reliable men I intend to hire for the cleanup. As far as ongoing security for my establishment, as per your suggestion from last night, remember I have Simon Quirt, also arriving on the train, already in charge of the prize guns. Once he gets here, I thought I would turn the matter of broader security over to him as well. I’ll make sure he discusses any arrangements with you.”

  “That’d be good. Like I said, I was wanting to talk to him anyway.”

  CHAPTER 9

  By the time Fred got to the office, Bob had finished going through the stack of wanted posters without turning up anything useful.

  Together, the two lawmen then spent most of the remainder of the morning trying to gain some background on McQueen and Murphy by other means. Bob’s conversation with Gafford about cleaning up the coal oil gave him an idea to try and use the accelerant to possibly trace the pair. Returning to the Crystal Diamond, where a three-man cleanup crew was starting in with a strong mixture of scalding water and lye soap applied vigorously with stiff-bristled brooms, they found a partially emptied keg of the fuel and what appeared to be a newly purchased pail out behind the building. Up on the balcony, they found a second such pail.

  From there they proceeded to Krepdorf’s General Store in Old Town, the area’s biggest retailer of such goods, hoping one of the clerks would remember a matching sale. Having no luck with this inquiry, they went back to New Town and began asking the same questions at the smaller, scattered businesses there that dealt in similar items.

  On the fourth try, they found a fellow dealing hardware odds and ends out of a tent who admitted to selling the pails and a keg of coal oil that matched the brand of what Bob and Fred had found behind the Crystal Diamond. Trouble was, the sale had been to a single individual, a man who matched the descriptions of neither McQueen nor Murphy. And, since the hardware salesman had set up shop only a couple of weeks earlier, he didn’t know the purchaser’s name or anything about him other than he said he was clearing some farmland northeast of town and needed the oil to burn a pile of timber and brush that he’d cleared.

  The physical description the hardware man provided—thirtyish, average height, dark hair and beard, dressed in standard working man’s attire—was uselessly vague. But then, right at the very last, he did provide something useful by mentioning the horse he helped the alleged farmer load the keg onto. It was a tall palomino with a sizable notch missing from one ear—the result of a bullet, its rider claimed, that came too close while once fleeing outlaws on the trail.

  “So the fella who actually purchased the coal oil might be the one who went on to hire Murphy and McQueen,” Bob muttered as they walked away. “But the description we got for whoever it was—not even the part about wanting it to help clear farmland, which is an obvious lie—sure don’t do us much good for narrowing it down any.”

  “Not the description of the buyer, no. But the description of the horse he used to haul away his goods,” Fred said, scowling thoughtfully, “now that is a different matter.”

  “How so?”

  “Because I remember seeing that horse around before. Ain’t that many palominos around to begin with, and especially not many with a bullet notch out of one ear. That’s the part that stuck in my mind.”

  Bob reached up and absently touched his ear that had recently had its own close call with a bullet. “Just don’t mistake me for no palomino,” he muttered.

  “That scratch of yours is nothing compared to the notch I’m picturing. This horse I’m talking about has a serious hunk of meat missing.” Fred’s scowl deepened. “Right at this minute, I can’t recall exactly where or when I saw the blamed thing. But it wasn’t too long ago, I’m sure of that. Just let me chew on it some—it’ll come to me.”

  “Chew away,” Bob told him. “We find that horse, we find the man who bought the coal oil. And that is one hombre I am mighty interested in talking to.”

  “I know, boss. It’ll come to me.”

  * * *

  On their way back to the marshal’s office, Bob and Fred ran into the Macy brothers, who were headed that way also. “We’ve had some sleep and a late breakfast so we’re reporting for duty,” Peter announced. “We figured after the trouble last night and the train coming in today, you’d probably want us to be on hand as soon as possible.”

  “You figured right,” Bob said. “As a matter of fact, the train is due in less than an hour and I figure it would be a good idea for all of us to be around for that. It’s carrying the jeweled guns as well as the entertainers that are going to be a big part of what Gafford is counting on to make his saloon a success. If somebody is serious about knocking him out of business, they likely won’t stop with that arson attempt last night. Strikes me that raising Cain with his show people might be something else that crosses their mind as a way to cause him grief.”

  “Makes sense,” said Vern. “We got in their way the first time—no reason we can’t do it again. Heck, we might even make a habit of it.”

  “Making a habit of getting in the way of troublemakers,” Bob told him, “is kinda what lawmen are supposed to do.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The train came hissing and shrieking into the station right on schedule, fifteen minutes past noon. There was less of a crowd gathered to meet it than Bob had expected—and less of one than August Gafford would have preferred, that was for certain. But Gafford, once again dressed in all his finery, played it to the hilt anyway. He was waiting on the station platform with huge bouquets of flowers for the ladies, and his booming voice was in fine form as it announced each member of the troupe.

  There were five in all.

  Miss Alora Dane led the way onto the platform to accept her flowers and a big hug from Gafford. She was a short woman pushing forty, by Bob’s judgment, but wearing it very well with precisely applied makeup and lush, scarlet-painted lips framing a dazzling smile. Her hair was a carefully piled mass of blond, and her figure was spectacularly curved and boldly displayed by a form-hugging dress. Every red-blooded man who wasn’t on hand for the arrival of the train that day and thereby not privy to this breathtaking visi
on would be mentally kicking himself for weeks to come.

  The remaining two gals, the singers and dancers known as the Diamond Dollies, were definitely not hard on the eyes, either. One was a saucy redhead named Essie, the other a butter blonde named Becky, with smoldering brown eyes. Both were a half-dozen or so years younger than Alora, and Bob would later learn that their full names, respectively, were Estelle Pruitt and Rebecca Levitt. Although it wasn’t mentioned during the public introductions, it turned out they were married to the musicians of the troupe—Oliver Pruitt, a plumpish, round-faced sort who played piano, and Lyle Levitt, a lanky banjo and trombone player whose broad smile revealed a set of prominently bucked teeth.

  Once the entertainers were all presented and met with appreciative applause, Gafford signaled for one final thing to be brought out. A tall, lean, narrow-eyed black man clad in a charcoal gray frock coat and flat-crowned Stetson stepped forward holding a leather briefcase. As he moved fluidly across the platform, his eyes swept continually to all sides and the tails of his coat flared out slightly to reveal a pair of tied-down holsters encasing pearl-handled Colt .45s on each hip.

  “That hombre’s got the look of a gun wolf if ever I saw one,” muttered Fred, standing beside Bob.

  “Name’s Simon Quirt,” replied Bob. “And you’re right—that matching set of holsters and hoglegs ain’t just for show.”

  As they continued to watch, Quirt turned the briefcase flat and held it out to Gafford. Gafford unsnapped the clasps and opened the case. Then, taking it from Quirt, he tipped the open case slightly and held it up for all bunched around the platform to see. In hollowed-out pockets of maroon felt rested the brace of gold-plated and bejeweled dueling pistols, reflecting glints of sunlight as Gafford slowly turned them this way and that.

  “Here they are, ladies and gentlemen,” he proclaimed. “The much-heralded first prize in the shooting contest that will begin the grand opening of my new saloon, the Crystal Diamond. Up until now, Rattlesnake Wells has been in the midst of an exciting gold rush. But, in just a matter of days, I am going to add to that the dazzle of diamonds!

  “See for yourself”—Gafford began dramatically sweeping one arm as he named off what it was he wanted to be seen—“first of all, these one-of-a-kind bejeweled pistols . . . Secondly, the glamorous Diamond Dollies, who will be performing exclusively at my establishment . . . And, last but by no means least, the most breathtaking jewel in all of the West, Miss Alora Dane!

  “All of it right here in Rattlesnake Wells, for your distinct pleasure and enjoyment. Be sure not to miss a single event or a single moment of excitement!”

  When the applause had died down and the crowd began to disperse, Gafford motioned Bob up onto the platform, where he made rather hurried introductions between the marshal and the entertainers. It didn’t take long for Bob to spot that the bright smiles displayed for the public only minutes earlier were not nearly as wide or bright for him.

  “The train that brought these weary souls into Cheyenne was plagued with numerous delays and difficulties, making their layover before starting out for here very short and not terribly pleasant,” Gafford explained. “Therefore, they are extremely exhausted and want little else but the restful comfort that awaits them in the rooms I have reserved at the Shirley House Hotel. For these reasons, Marshal, I trust you’ll understand if we shorten the lengthier amount of time I planned on talking with you and your brave men . . . But only temporarily, I assure you. As soon as these good folks are adequately rested and refreshed, I will arrange that lengthier audience. I suggest dinner this evening in a private dining hall at the Shirley. Say seven o’clock? You and all of your deputies are urged to attend.”

  Bob had little choice but to concur. He’d had enough of an introduction to the troupe to suit himself, but didn’t want to deprive his men of either the recognition they deserved or the chance for a fine meal at the Shirley. Whether or not Simon Quirt—the one member of Gafford’s group Bob for sure wanted to talk with at greater length—would be part of the dinner, he didn’t know. But he’d see to it they had their talk, one way or another.

  “I trust, in turn,” he said to Gafford, “that in addition to getting Miss Dane and the others comfortable in the hotel, you’re also not going to waste much time getting those guns into the vault at the Starbuck Territorial Bank. It’s right across the street from the Shirley.”

  “I assure you that will be taken care of posthaste,” Gafford replied. Then he smiled. “In the meantime, I further assure you that Mr. Quirt will continue to keep them very secure.”

  “I got ’em this far,” said Quirt, leveling a flat gaze at Bob. “Until they’re handed over to the shootin’ contest winner, I fully intend to keep right on makin’ sure nothing happens to ’em.”

  “That’s real good to hear,” replied Bob, meeting his gaze evenly.

  A pair of wagons had pulled up alongside the platform during this exchange. One had rows of passenger seats bolted to the floor of its bed; the other had a common hauling bed already loaded with trunks, various-sized suitcases, and a handful of cased instruments. Gafford and Quirt found room to climb aboard the hauling rig. The entertainers were assisted into the seats of the other wagon and then both rolled away toward the Shirley House Hotel.

  “Those wagons are carrying some mighty eye-pleasing gals,” said Fred as his eyes followed them. “But why do I have a feeling they’re also carrying trouble that we’ll be dealing with before too much longer?”

  “I don’t know,” Vern said, sighing wistfully. “But if it comes to that, all I can say is that I never saw trouble wrapped in such a fine-looking package as Miss Alora Dane.”

  * * *

  Two men stood at the back corner of the train station. They’d been standing there, out on the fringe of the crowd, all during Gafford’s introductions and bloviating. One of them had come in on the train; his suitcase rested on the ground beside him. The other had ridden up only a short time ahead of the train’s arrival; his horse was ground-reined only a few yards away. The pair remained inconspicuously back out of the way after the crowd filtered away and the four lawmen had quit the platform and were making their way up Front Street.

  The train passenger was tall, trim, dressed in a well-cut corduroy jacket and a black string tie worn at the throat of a boiled white shirt. A Colt .45 with a shiny black handle rode in a cross-draw holster on his left hip, and a wide-brimmed, cream-colored hat sat on a headful of gray-flecked hair. His facial features were clean-shaven and quite handsome, complete with penetrating blue eyes and a cleft chin.

  The appearance of the second man, the horseman, contrasted considerably. His clothes were rumpled and dusty, his broad, hard-featured face unshaven. He had small, suspicious eyes set too close on either side of a blunt nose. The bottom half of his face was dominated by a wide, thick-lipped mouth that always seemed to have a cruel twist to it.

  “I still say we should have hit the train out in the open country,” said the unshaven man, whose name was Eugene Boyd. “We could have had those guns and the rest in our possession by now. After, that is”—here his mouth curved into a lewd smile—“we’d given those ‘entertainment’ gals a chance to do some real entertaining for us.”

  “You have a one-track mind, and the route more often than not goes through a sewer,” said Clayton Delaney, the handsome man.

  Boyd shrugged. “I don’t pretend otherwise. Never have, never will. To my recollection, the kind of stuff I’ve done for you over the years ain’t too often required a lily-pure outlook on things.”

  “I wish I could, but I can’t deny that,” sighed Delaney. “The difference between you and me is that I, on occasion, have had a twinge of remorse over some of the things we’ve done. I don’t believe you ever have.”

  “When a thing is done, it’s done,” Boyd grunted. “Frettin’ about it afterward only muddles a body’s thinkin’ about what’s in front of ’im in the here and now. Frettin’ and regrettin’ don’t gain you a damn thing
except maybe causin’ a misstep on account of havin’ your mind clouded by what you can’t go back and change anyway.”

  “You keep things nice and simple, I’ve got to give you that,” said Delaney with a wry smile. “Which is exactly what I viewed hitting the train not to be. Yes, we could have gotten the guns and the rest quicker. But we also would have ended up with a posse or two—one of them likely manned by U.S. Marshals, since railroad interests would be involved—thundering on our trail.”

  “We’ve outrun posses before. Includin’ ones with federal marshals in ’em.”

  “True. But it was never a hell of a lot of fun, was it? And it usually cost us some men in the bargain. This way”—he held up one of Gafford’s flyers advertising the upcoming shooting contest—“we can accomplish the same end without all that grief. Hell, if I can win the contest, we’ll gain what we want legally. How would that be for a change?”

  Boyd scratched his bristly jaw and scrunched up his face. “Don’t know how it’d be. Ain’t something I’ve tried very often.”

  “Well, look at it as a new experience, then.”

  “Uh-huh. Listen, I know you’re a mighty good shot at plinkin’ targets and such . . . But what if you don’t win the contest?”

  “Then we resort to a plan for taking those prize guns.” Delaney scowled. “I mean to get my hands on them, one way or another. You know the reason why. But even if we do end up having to take them by force, it will still be easier relieving an individual of them rather than staging a train robbery. What’s more, the only law we’d have to worry about—at least anywhere close—would be that bumpkin marshal and his deputies we just saw leave here. If any federal law decided to get involved, it’d be days before they could ever get up here to join in.”