BY THE SECOND WEEK in August, the Denver Pacific was an ongoing concern. The Rocky Mountain News trumpeted the story in every issue and the townspeople talked of little else. There was a consensus that Denver would, after all, get its railroad.
Virgil worked closely with Will Byers on the project. The editor was a member of the board of trade, and he used his newspaper to laud those who had invested in the railroad. In slightly more than a week, they had raised an additional hundred thousand dollars. Virgil devoted every spare moment to the campaign, pressing the town’s merchants and businessmen to invest in their own future. The response, on the whole, had been notably positive.
Still, there was much to be achieved. Virgil was afire with enthusiasm and impatient with those who dragged their feet. The money raised to date represented only a tenth of the total funds needed. Construction was scheduled to begin the spring of ’66, and that left scarcely eight months to make the railroad a solvent proposition. There seemed too little time for all that remained to be done.
Of particular concern to Virgil was the sporting district. Some saloonkeepers and gambling impresarios had invested nominal amounts in the venture. Others, despite considerable arm-twisting, had proved reluctant and oddly cautious. Hesitant to trade on blood ties, Virgil hadn’t yet called on Earl. Today, however, he meant to rectify that oversight. The sporting crowd, though rolling in cash, seemed entirely too tight-fisted. He thought one of their own would do well to set the example.
Earl welcomed the visit. Until now, there had been no opportunity to raise the subject of David Hughes. He hadn’t seen Virgil since the night of the public meeting, and he’d been hesitant to broach the matter too openly. Even now, he was none too confident that Virgil could be dissuaded. Yet he’d promised Clint to try, and he never went back on his word.
After Virgil was seated, Earl closed the office door. He returned to the desk and lowered himself into the creaky chair. Offering Virgil a cheroot, he struck a sulfurhead and they both lit up in a haze of smoke. He smiled amiably.
“Clint tells me congratulations are in order. When’s the big day?”
“Week from Saturday,” Virgil said, puffing smoke. “We’re getting married at the Methodist church. You’ll be there, won’t you?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Not every day a Brannock gets hitched to the banker’s daughter.”
“Sorry I didn’t come by and tell you myself. I’ve been so damned busy I feel like a one-legged man in a kicking contest.”
“So I heard.” Earl flicked an ash off his cheroot. “How’re things in the railroad business?”
“Good enough uptown,” Virgil said pointedly. “Not so hot down here. That’s what I’ve come to see you about.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Denver’s been good to you, Earl. You’ve got a snazzy place and you’re bound to be making big money.”
“So it’s time to pay your dues. The town needs a railroad and everybody has to bear their fair share. I’d like to see you invest a sizable chunk in the Denver Pacific.”
Earl examined the notion. “I guess I’ll have to pass. I make it a practice never to take cards in another man’s game.”
Virgil’s gaze was inquisitive, oddly perplexed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve got no faith in your uptown crowd. I’d say the railroad’s a pretty iffy proposition.”
“You listen to me,” Virgil said shortly. “David Hughes has connections in Washington. He’s got a man there who’s working on our behalf right now. And when the land grant comes through—”
Earl interrupted him. “What land grant?”
“A cool million acres,” Virgil said, grinning. “Have you got any idea of what that’ll be worth?”
“No, can’t say that I do.”
“Well, I’ll let you in on a secret. Homesteaders and ranchers are always looking to buy more land. So we’re talking about a ten- or fifteen-million-dollar windfall. Denver Pacific stock will go straight through the roof!”
“Anything’s possible,” Earl observed neutrally.
“Mark my word,” Virgil said firmly. “Hughes will pull it off somehow. And you’d better get on the bandwagon now—or get left behind.”
A note of concern came into Earl’s voice. “Tell you the truth, it’s Hughes that bothers me. I think you’re in over your head, Virge.”
Virgil looked surprised, then suddenly irritated. “Suppose you spell that out for me.”
“Whatever Hughes has in mind, it’s not civic virtue. He means to line his own pockets on the deal, and devil take the hindmost. You could wind up holding the bag.”
“You sound like Clint,” Virgil grumbled. “He’s got some wild hair about Hughes, too. Tried to tell me I’d thrown in with a fast crowd.”
“You have,” Earl said reasonably. “Hughes runs everything in this town. That includes the mayor and city hall and Ed Case. They’re fast and they’re crooked, the whole bunch—top to bottom.”
Virgil waved his hand as though dusting away the problem. “Hughes does what he has to where politics are concerned. That has nothing to do with the railroad.”
“Believe what you want,” Earl said, just a hint of reproach in his voice. “But you’re liable to wish you’d listened before it’s over.”
“I’ll thank you not to lecture me. I’m more than able to look after myself.”
Earl appeared saddened. “You lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas. When you start itching, you won’t have to look any further than Hughes.”
Virgil stubbed out his cheroot in an ashtray. He stood, glaring down at Earl a moment, then marched to the door. As he went out, Monte appeared in the hallway.
“Well, hello there,” she said pleasantly. “Congratulations on your—”
Virgil brushed past her. Somewhat taken aback, she stared after him as he stormed off down the hall. A moment elapsed, then she turned and looked at Earl.
“What’s with your brother?”
“I think he just discovered an itch.”
“Itch?”
“Yeah, we’ve been talking about dogs and fleas.”
Earl managed a strained smile. Watching him, Monte thought it was a miserable attempt at humor. He looked like a man who’d just lost his best friend. Or an older brother.
The moon heeled over in the sky. All along Blake Street the dives were closing for the night. Drunks and stragglers crowded the boardwalks, slowly winding their way home. Lights began flickering out in some of the small saloons.
Clint stood beneath a lamppost. Every night, as closing time approached, he positioned himself midway along the street. Stubborn drunks often refused to be turned out of an establishment, and the disputes sometimes became violent. He moved quickly and decisively when that occurred. Any man who resisted spent the night in the town cooler.
Closing time always struck Clint as strangely unnatural. As the saloons and dance halls emptied, an eerie silence settled over the sporting district. The laughter and music, all the sounds of festive revelers, abruptly stopped. When the lights were extinguished, any sense of glamour went by the boards as well. Blake Street, darkened and quiet, was transformed into a bloozy, careworn hag.
Watching things shut down was a time of waiting and boredom for Clint. Tonight, as the street slowly cleared, his thoughts turned to Virgil. Earlier, he’d stopped by the Bella Union and talked with Earl. What he heard had left him all the more troubled, and somewhat at a loss. Virgil apparently wouldn’t listen to anyone, including Earl. His involvement with Hughes and his commitment to the railroad had clearly become a touchy subject. No amount of argument would faze him or change his mind.
What worried Clint most was Virgil’s obsessive ambition. He knew it wasn’t prompted by greed, the desire merely to accumulate wealth. By nature, Virgil was a generous man, charitable to a fault. Instead, the ambition sprang from a lifetime of hardscrabble farming, a bleak hand-to-mouth existence. Virgil was determined to better himself, gain acceptance and influence among the uptown crowd. Money was merely a means to an end, for he had his eye on a far greater goal. He wanted membership in Denver’s most exclusive club.
Clint fathomed all that easily enough. He understood that marrying a banker’s daughter was, for Virgil, a major step in the quest for status and prominence. Yet he failed to understand why Virgil would rashly form an alliance with Denver’s political kingpin. The decision seemed foolhardy and ill-conceived, born of ambition rather than common sense. He suspected that Virgil would be used and then discarded, perhaps made to serve as a scapegoat should the railroad fail to materialize. It bothered him even more that Virgil was the key figure in the drive to raise two million dollars. So much money was bound to cause sticky fingers.
Whether or not he’d misjudged the situation remained to be seen. Still, he had already considered and rejected the notion that David Hughes was a civic benefactor. Any politician worth his salt was, at the very least, a student of corruption and graft. And two million dollars was an inducement for all sorts of underhanded schemes. Should any of the money disappear, he felt certain that Virgil wouldn’t walk away clean. The greater likelihood was that Hughes and his cronies would somehow cover their tracks. Which left Virgil to be thrown to the wolves.
Shoving off the lamppost, Clint decided to call it a night. The street was quiet and almost all the dives were now dark. Up ahead, he noted a spill of light through the doors of the Acme Saloon. Drawing closer, he became aware of loud, unruly voices. He walked directly to the batwing doors and peered inside. A man was sprawled on the floor, blood leaking from his mouth. Standing over him, fists cocked and cursing fluently, was Frank Purdy. The bartender appeared to be shouting at both men.
Clint remembered Purdy well. The day he’d killed Sam Baxter, he had also performed a citizen’s arrest on Purdy. Short and wiry, with the strutting arrogance of a gamecock, Purdy fancied himself a dangerous man. While he’d threatened Clint for the arrest, nothing had come of it. In fact, since the incident, he had studiously avoided drawing Clint’s attention. Until tonight.
“Stand where you are!”
The whipcrack command froze everyone in the saloon. Clint pushed through the doors and walked forward, halting at the end of the bar. Purdy turned to face him, and a moment slipped past while they stared at each other. The man on the floor levered himself to a sitting position.
“What’s the trouble?” Clint asked.
“Personal,” Purdy said, his mouth a zigzag slit. “Nothing that concerns you.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Why’d you hit him?”
“None of your goddamn business! I done told you it was private.”
On sudden impulse, Clint decided to press even harder. He’d been on the lookout for a wise-ass, someone to use as an object lesson to other troublemakers. Frank Purdy’s antagonistic manner and sharp tongue made him a perfect candidate.
“Unbuckle your gunbelt,” he said evenly. “Drop it on the floor.”
Purdy laughed a wild braying laugh. “Hell’s bells, me and this feller are friends. You can’t arrest me for a little dustup that don’t mean nothin’.”
Clint smiled. “I’m not arresting you, Purdy. I’m posting you out of town—”
“You’re what?”
“—for a week, starting tonight. Now, drop that gunbelt.”
An evil light began to dance in Purdy’s eyes. “Whyn’t you back off and save yourself some grief? I ain’t broke no laws.”
“I’m the law,” Clint said with chilling simplicity. “And I just gave you an order.”
Purdy grinned ferociously. “You’re gonna play hell makin’ it stick.” His hand eased toward the pistol holstered at his side. “I won’t be bullyragged by nobody.”
“Go ahead,” Clint said in an ominously quiet voice. “I’d enjoy punching your ticket.”
Purdy seemed to be weighing the odds. As they stared at each other, he saw that Clint’s eyes had taken on a cold tinsel glitter. He marked a look that he’d seen before, the eager, curiously impersonal look of a mankiller. His mouth lifted in an ashen grin.
“Forget it,” he said in an aggrieved tone. “I ain’t all that hot to kill a lawman.”
“Purdy, listen close—I’ll only say it once more—drop your gunbelt.”
A short time later Clint deposited Purdy at the Overland Stage Line office. There was an early-morning stage to Central City, and Purdy was ordered to be on it. He understood there was no choice in the matter and wisely kept his mouth shut. A week in Central City seemed the better part of valor.
From the stage-line office, Clint walked over to Holladay Street. His humor was immensely improved by the thought that he’d put in a good night’s work. By morning, the story of Purdy being posted from town would have made the rounds. The sporting crowd, being quick on the uptake, would know he had sent them a message. He figured he’d earned himself a treat.
Belle London answered his knock. The house was closed for the night and she was in process of locking up. When he invited her out for a late supper—or an early breakfast—a devilish smile played at the corners of her mouth. She invited him instead to join her in raiding the kitchen larder.
The stove was still warm, and Belle put on a pot of coffee. Then she laid out cold roast beef, a loaf of home-baked bread, and a wedge of pungent cheese. Clint polished it off in quick order and finished with a slice of angel cake. When he pushed his plate away, she poured two cups of coffee and joined him at the table. She regarded him with an amused look.
“You worked up quite an appetite tonight, Marshal.”
Clint stirred sugar into his coffee. “Well, you know how it goes. Some nights are busier than others.”
She laughed a deep throaty laugh. “Around here we pray for Sunday all week long. I think God invented it especially for working girls.”
“Speaking of that, I’ve decided to pass on your offer. Hope the girls won’t take it personal.”
“Oh?” She raised an uncertain eyebrow. “Any particular reason you changed your mind?”
“Never changed it.”
“I don’t understand.”
Clint’s expression was that of a tethered ram. He looked her over with a bold, suggestive grin. “It’s you or nobody. I never was content with second-best.”
They sat there a moment, sparring without words, each imagining the thoughts of the other. She watched him intently, aware that he evoked feelings she hadn’t experienced in a long time. She had a weakness for a good-looking man, especially one who was assured and mildly audacious. Yet she warned herself to beware of emotional ties and promises. The man seated across from her was like a wild and spirited hawk. He would always soar free.
“Tell me,” she said tentatively. “What sort of arrangement did you have in mind?”
Clint shrugged, hands outstretched. “Name your own game and we’ll play by house rules. I’m easy to please.”
“Are you?” Her voice had a teasing lilt. “Was that why you turned down a whole houseful of girls?”
“Easy to please,” Clint said with a lopsided grin, “doesn’t mean a man can’t be particular. I’ve got an idea we’re alike in that respect.”
“I suppose we could try it out . . . see how we like it.”
“I’m of a similar mind myself.”
“Well, then . . .” A vixen look touched her eyes. “Would you care to join me in the boudoir?”
“Yes, ma’am, I surely would.”
Her lips curved in a sultry smile. She snuffed the lamp and led him from the kitchen. Upstairs, she admitted him to her private bedroom, which was frilly and feminine and smelled faintly of lilac. After she closed the door and threw the bolt, she turned with her arms held wide. He took her on her own terms.