VIRGIL LEFT THE WAREHOUSE shortly before nine o’clock. The morning was bright and sunny without a cloud in sight. Westward, the mountains loomed against a brilliant azure sky.
Walking uptown, Virgil appeared lost in thought. His expression was abstracted and he seemed vaguely preoccupied. People who greeted him on the street got an absent stare in return. He looked like a man with problems.
The complexities of the situation were like quicksand. Virgil had the sense of being sucked deeper and deeper into a bog from which there was no escape. Late yesterday, he’d sent his office clerk with a message for David Hughes. The wording of the note was stiffly formal, demanding a meeting with Hughes and Luther Evans early this morning. Hughes’ reply was little more than a terse acknowledgment of the request.
Oddly enough, Virgil’s personal life had never been more tranquil. Elizabeth was expecting sometime in the spring, and she was radiant in the way of a woman with child. She kept herself busy with the house and church activities and greeted him every night with exuberant happiness. She was, as well, his confidante in all he dreamed, his grand vision of the future. Yet, for all their closeness, there were certain things that Virgil shared with no one. She knew nothing of today’s meeting.
On another note, Virgil was somewhat less sanguine. All day yesterday, he’d been distracted by worry for Clint. Then, to his great relief, Clint had returned to town early last night. Talking with him, Virgil realized that the aborted trap had done nothing to quell the younger man’s determination. If anything, Jack Quintin’s escape had merely inflamed Clint’s rage. Virgil had argued far into the night, urging caution and a degree of restraint. His contention was bluntly stated: the killing of Quintin was not worth the life of still another Bran-nock. He wasn’t at all sure that Clint had gone away convinced.
There were times when Virgil questioned his own motives. No less than Clint and Earl, he wanted to see Quintin punished. Yet he genuinely believed that the law, rather than men acting on their own, should dispense justice. The war had soured him on brutality and killing, and revenge no longer seemed an excuse for summary execution. He sought quietude and harmony, a life free of hate and bloodshed and violence. On the battleground of war, he had killed until his soul felt leeched of compassion. He knew the feeling of seeing another man die at his hand, and the memory revolted him. He wanted never to kill again.
For all that, there was nothing passive about Virgil. His opinion of himself was grounded in assurance and the knowledge that he possessed certain attributes. He was a man of determination and integrity, and he never backed off from what he considered to be right. His beliefs stemmed from the conviction that there was no substitute for honor and moral courage. While he set himself up as no man’s judge, he had small tolerance for subterfuge and corruption. He knew that the meeting today would put those beliefs to the test.
Hughes and Evans were waiting in the lawyer’s office. When Virgil entered, they greeted him with the jocular warmth of old friends. Hughes waved him to a chair beside Evans and then resumed his own seat behind the desk. For a time, Hughes attempted to make small talk, as though to draw Virgil out. Finally, when there was no response, he gave Virgil a pleasantly inquisitive look.
“Well, now,” he said, “what can we do for you? Your note sounded just a trifle imperative.”
Virgil nodded soberly. “Yesterday afternoon something came to my attention. It involves you and Luther—and the railroad.”
“Oh?” Hughes said in an avuncular voice. “What might that be?”
“I have reason to believe a conflict of interest exists. At the very least, some people might view it as chicanery.”
“Indeed?” Hughes’ reply was overdrawn, a little too guileless. “Surely you’re not referring to Luther and myself?”
“I’m afraid so,” Virgil said. “I wanted to give you a chance to answer the allegations.”
“Commendable,” Hughes said with a patronizing smile. “Exactly what are the nature of these allegations?”
Virgil’s expression was unreadable. “I’ve been told that you and Luther have formed a construction supply company. According to my source, you’ve already ordered the supplies shipped west by the Union Pacific.”
“All quite true,” Hughes said blandly. “But why should that concern you?”
“I also understand that you propose to act as sole supplier of construction materials for the town’s railroad.”
“Does that bother you for some reason?”
“All depends.” Virgil paused, eyebrows raised. “Do you plan to provide those supplies to the railroad at cost—or at a profit?”
“Come, now,” Hughes said with veiled mockery. “Aren’t we allowed a profit on our investment?”
“Some folks might figure you’re profiting at the town’s expense.”
“On the contrary, Virgil. It’s simply good business.”
“It’s sharp business,” Virgil countered. “And however you spell it, it’s conflict of interest. How can you sell the railroad supplies—and call it legitimate—when you’re both on the board of directors?”
“No, not really,” Hughes temporized. “I think you would find it a fairly common business practice.”
“I doubt anyone in town would agree with you.”
“You’ve no reason—”
“Let me finish,” Virgil cut him off. “I’m reliably informed that Luther has been paying rummies and drifters to homestead land north of the town.” He stopped, looking directly at Evans. “Is that true?”
Evans fidgeted uncomfortably. “What if it is? There’s nothing illegal about it.”
“Why do you want all that land, Luther?”
“Why else?” Evans muttered aloud. “I’m in the land business.”
“Like hell!” Virgil pressed him. “Your homesteaders will deed it to you and then you’ll sell right-of-way to the railroad—at an inflated price!”
“Careful now,” Hughes cautioned. “You’re very close to accusing us of conspiracy.”
“Your word, not mine,” Virgil said. “But if the shoe fits . . .”
The two men stared at each other in silent assessment. After a moment, Hughes steepled his hands, tapped his index fingers together. “As a matter of curiosity, how did you come by your information?”
“When the sporting crowd wouldn’t invest in the railroad, I started nosing around. My brother Earl put me on to Luther’s homestead operation. He said it had all the earmarks of a bunco game.”
“And the supply company?”
“Yesterday afternoon I received a shipment of liquor. The freighter told me your order was the talk of the town in St. Louis. Apparently the UP forgot to keep it under their hat. I just put two and two together.”
“How resourceful,” Hughes said with perfect civility. “And I presume you’re here today to make some sort of proposal?”
Virgil hesitated a moment. When he spoke, there was an undercurrent of authority in his voice. “I think you’d be wise to disband the supply company. As for the right-of-way, Luther should consider donating it to the railroad. Call it a gesture of civic generosity.”
“You’re crazy,” Evans sputtered. “I’ve already got a ton of money invested in that land.”
Hughes silenced him with a look. Then, with a chilly smile, his gaze moved back to Virgil. “What if we refuse? Am I to assume there’s an or-else attached?”
“If you refuse,” Virgil said bluntly, “I’ll take the story to Will Byers. Once it hits the newspaper, I suspect that’d do the trick.”
“You realize what would happen?”
“Well, for one thing, it would bring the railroad to a dead stop. For another, I imagine you and Luther would have to hightail it out of town.”
“I rather doubt that,” Hughes scoffed. “You seem to forget I’m a man of some influence. No one would seriously believe that I intended to bilk the railroad.”
Virgil smiled. “One way to find out, isn’t there?”
There was an instant of calculation while Hughes studied him. Virgil stared him straight in the eye, challenging him, and at last the lawyer shrugged. “Let me propose a more amicable solution. Suppose I were to offer you a share in the supply company as well as an interest in the right-of-way profits? Would that dampen your civic conscience?”
“No sale,” Virgil said, getting to his feet. “I’ll wait till tomorrow for your decision. Then I go to Byers.”
“Be reasonable,” Hughes protested. “You can’t expect me to undo all these arrangements overnight. I’ll need some time.”
“How much time?”
“Well, I should think a couple of weeks would do it.”
“You’ve got a week, and that’s it.”
Virgil stalked out of the office. The door closed behind him and an oppressive stillness settled over the room. For a protracted interval the lawyer and the land speculator sat staring into space. At last, Hughes seemed to recover himself.
“Well, well,” he said slowly. “It appears we underestimated our young friend.”
“Confound it!” Evans fumed. “I told you right from the start we couldn’t trust him. Goddamn farmers are worse than preachers.”
“He’s not a farmer any longer. As you’ve just seen, he plays a very shrewd game.”
Evans hawked as if he’d swallowed a bone. His eyes watered and his face turned red. “You’d better stop praising the bastard and figure a way out of this mess. He’s got our butts nailed to a tree.”
“Perhaps,” Hughes mused. “And then again, perhaps not.”
“For Chrissake! Don’t start talking in riddles.”
“I was just thinking of alternative measures. Perhaps we ought to have a talk with the mayor.”
“What the hell does Stodt have to do with anything?”
“Our honorable mayor has the ear of Mr. Edward Case. It occurs to me that we might prevail on him in our hour of need.”
“You’re not talking about—”
“I believe I am,” Hughes said with wintry malice. “Suppose you run down and fetch the mayor. Tell him it’s important.”
The shadow of a question clouded Evans’ eyes. But then, as though he thought it wiser not to ask, he rose and walked toward the door. As he went out, Hughes leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. The corners of his mouth razored in a slow smile.
Ed Case seemed to him the perfect man for the job.
Clint walked from the Denver House shortly before ten o’clock. He turned downtown and proceeded toward the Overland Stage company. Outside Hughes’ law office, he bumped into Virgil.
Something about Virgil’s manner struck him as peculiar. Oddly distracted, Virgil seemed on edge and unusually abrupt. He sidestepped the question when Clint inquired his business with Hughes. Quickly changing the subject, he asked instead where Clint was headed. He listened with only half an ear to the reply.
As they talked, Luther Evans hurried out of the law office. He looked surprised, as though somehow upset to find them together. Casting Virgil a dirty look, he crossed the street and entered city hall. Virgil pretended not to notice the look, even though his own features suddenly grew overcast. He turned away from the law office and Clint fell in beside him.
A block downstreet they parted. Hesitating outside the Overland company, Clint watched as his brother trudged off in the direction of the warehouse. His instinct told him that trouble was brewing, and he wondered why Virgil had acted so closemouthed. Then, glancing back upstreet, he saw Evans and Mayor Stodt emerge from city hall. His unease deepened when they rushed across to Hughes’ law office. He decided to have another talk with Virgil.
Inside the stage-line company, he entered the private office of Ben Holladay. Today’s meeting had been arranged after his return yesterday from the aborted holdup. Waiting with Holladay was the territory’s chief law-enforcement officer, U.S. Marshal Wilbur Smith. He had ridden over earlier from Golden.
Holladay’s introduction was rather perfunctory. While he was civil, his distaste for the marshal was evident. Smith was a bony man, with shrunken skin and knobby joints, almost cadaverous in appearance. A troubled expression settled over his features as he listened to Clint recount the failed robbery. He looked vaguely critical.
“Anyway,” Clint concluded, “the dead horse wasn’t any help. Nothing in the saddlebags to tie him to Quintin’s gang.”
“Is that it?” Smith inquired.
“Pretty much,” Clint said. “By the time I got back to my horse, they had a half-hour’s lead. So there wasn’t much sense in trying to trail them.”
“No sense a’tall,” Holladay added. “Especially when they had you outnumbered. You would’ve just got yourself ambushed.”
Smith furrowed his brow. “What about the livery stable here in town? Could the owner identify the dead horse?”
Clint smiled faintly. “I’ve already asked him. Way he put it, one horse looks like another. He’s not what you’d call a cooperative witness.”
Smith nodded. “And the driver—the shotgun guard . . . any luck there?”
“That’s a washout, too. The gang was masked and it all happened pretty fast. Neither of them could make positive identification.”
“Well . . .” Smith paused, wagged his head. “Sounds like you haven’t much of a case.”
“Why the hell not?” Holladay growled. “Clint tailed ’em out there and saw the whole thing. He’s an eyewitness.”
“Maybe so,” Smith said tentatively. “But a court would need some sort of collaboration. It’s just his word against theirs.”
“Jeezus Christ,” Holladay said. “He’s a duly sworn lawman. Our town marshal.”
Smith shrugged off the objection. “It just don’t make no never-mind. A judge would dismiss the case faster’n scat.”
“You won’t know that till you try.”
“Lemme make myself clear, Mr. Holladay. I’ve got no intention of tryin’. It’d be a waste of time.”
“In a pig’s ass! I want those bastards arrested.”
“Then bring me some proof that’ll hold up in court.”
“Goddamn political hack!” Holladay exploded. “That’s your job, not ours. What the hell do you get paid for?”
Under Holladay’s ugly stare, Wilbur Smith jackknifed to his feet. He nodded curtly, flicking a painfully embarrassed glance at Clint, and walked out.
When the door closed, Holladay slammed a meaty fist into the desktop. His eyes were hot with rage. “Worthless good-for-nothin’ sonovabitch! He hasn’t got the balls of a ten-year-old girl. He’s scared.”
“Looks that way,” Clint agreed. “What was he before they pinned a badge on him?”
“A ribbon clerk,” Holladay fumed. “Worked in a mercantile store, for God’s sake.”
“Guess it never hurts to have connections.”
“I’ve heard the sorry bastard’s related to the governor. Nobody else could’ve got him the appointment.”
“Well, no matter,” Clint said. “We’ll just have to tend to it ourselves.”
Holladay fixed him with an evaluating look. “You say that like you’ve got something in mind.”
Clint’s eyes were curiously opaque. His voice was barely audible, but there was an undercurrent of deadliness in the words. “Some men are just bound to get themselves killed.”
“You’re talking about Jack Quintin.”
“Let’s call him the late Jack Quintin.”
“Appears to me he’s still alive and kicking.”
Clint smiled. “No, he’s not, Ben. He’s as good as dead.”