VIRGIL STARED LISTLESSLY OUT the window. He watched a roiling bank of clouds with a farmer’s eye for the weather. He thought it would be an early winter.
A week had passed since the shootout on Blake Street. While his arm was still in a sling, he was all but recuperated. Yet he felt cooped up in the house and couldn’t seem to shake a sense of brooding. He was bothered by loose ends.
Yesterday he’d met with Walter Tisdale. After affixing his signature to the contract, all his business interests, as well as the house, had been transferred to the banker. In exchange, he had received a draft for a sum in excess of a hundred thousand dollars. By all rights, the transaction should have pleased him greatly. He was departing Denver a far richer man than when he’d arrived. Yet his mood was dark and strangely defeated.
Thinking about tomorrow only made it worse. Their tickets were already bought and he would depart with Elizabeth on the morning southbound stage. Earl, who was hobbling around on a cane, was scheduled to leave at about the same time. He and Monte were ticketed on the westbound, their final destination San Francisco. For Virgil, the only note of levity was the added fifty thousand in Earl’s bankroll. He still chuckled at the thought of Ed Case being sandbagged by Clint.
Turning from the window, he walked back through the house. He found Elizabeth in their bedroom, packing clothes in a large carpetbag. All their other belongings had been crated and would be held for shipment by freight wagon. Elizabeth looked around as he appeared in the doorway. She blew a stray curl off her forehead.
“Almost done,” she said. “One more bag and we’re all packed.”
“Good,” Virgil replied without any great interest. “Think I’ll take a walk. You don’t need me, do you?”
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere special. Just thought I’d get a breath of air.”
A sudden foreboding swept over Elizabeth. Fear was an emotion with which she was all too intimate. She felt weighted with dread that the violence would somehow flare anew. Her one hope was to put Denver behind them, without more killing. She’d already come too close to being a young widow. She wanted Virgil alive.
Yet now the expression in his eyes touched her with a cold chill. All week she’d watched his mood worsen and his temper grow shorter. Some dark complex of fear and premonition told her that his brooding had nothing to do with tomorrow’s departure. Nor was she convinced that being forced to leave his brothers was the sole cause. The thought jumped through her mind that it was something else entirely. The thing she feared most.
In a small voice, she said, “You’re not considering anything foolish . . . are you?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” she said softly. “I just hope it’s not your conscience bothering you. Is that it?”
Virgil’s tone was severe. “Got me all figured out, huh?”
“You promised Father!” She entreated him with her eyes. “You said you wouldn’t do anything to upset the arrangement.”
“I promised nothing,” Virgil said, his voice strained. “What people assume is their own lookout.”
The problem stemmed from Clint’s talk with the mayor. Clint had warned the city-hall crowd that Virgil should be allowed to depart in peace. David Hughes, after being contacted by Walter Tisdale, had interpreted all this as an overture for a truce. He’d asked Tisdale to pass along a message. So long as Virgil kept quiet about the railroad, no further trouble would develop.
When Tisdale delivered the message, Virgil had immediately put things straight. No truce had been requested, and he felt himself under no obligation to remain silent. Tisdale had argued long and persuasively; he urged Virgil to think of Elizabeth and their new life together. Why jeopardize all that, he’d asked, when exposing Hughes would accomplish nothing of lasting value? Unwilling to quibble over it, Virgil had agreed to consider the argument. But he’d promised nothing.
“What difference does it make?” Elizabeth said now. “We’re leaving here tomorrow. What happens is no longer our concern.”
Virgil gave her a hangdog look. “You’re probably right. I just have a hard time convincing myself of that.”
“Why bother?” she said in a hushed tone. “You can’t save the world.”
“A man has to live with himself, Beth.”
“What about our new life? Don’t spoil it at the last minute—for nothing!”
“You worry too much. All I said was, I’m going for a walk.”
“Virgil.”
“Yes?”
“I love you,” she said with unclouded simplicity. “Please be careful . . . for me.”
Virgil brushed her lips with a kiss. “Stop your fretting. I’ll be back soon.”
Outside, he paused for a moment on the porch. His eyes were drawn westward, to the mountains. Towering against the horizon, the snowcapped spires stood like a column of majestic sentinels. Even after all these months, it was a sight that still held him somewhat spellbound. He hated to leave it.
A brisk walk brought him to the warehouse. He resisted the urge to step inside and have a last look around. His father-in-law had already hired a local man to manage the business and everything appeared in order. Still, it rankled that he was now an outsider, no part of an idea he had nurtured into reality. He felt gripped by bitter resentment.
Turning away, he headed uptown. He was surprised by the intensity of his own feelings. Like some storybook dream, Denver had captured his imagination. He’d visualized himself as a community leader, a man of prestige and prominence. In his mind’s eye, the vision had included the railroad and a town grown to a flourishing metropolis. All that would happen. Denver would become a financial center and a hub of development, but he wouldn’t be around to share in the realization. For him, the dream was dead.
Walking along, he wondered if it wasn’t sour grapes rather than conscience. He was embittered at having lost, and that bitterness was directed at David Hughes. Then a greater truth registered, jolted him into a state of acute awareness. His conscience had nothing to do with being drummed out of Denver. He was simply unable to compromise principle with pragmatism. The town and the people who had come to trust him were part of it. But he owed himself even more. His honesty was not for sale.
Uptown, he proceeded directly to the Rocky Mountain News. As he stepped through the door, Will Byers turned from talking with his pressman. The mechanical crank of the press jarred the floor and drowned out all street noise. Byers waved and hurried forward.
“Good to see you, Virgil. How’s the arm?”
“On the mend,” Virgil said. “Ought to be good as new by the time we get to Texas.”
“You’re actually leaving, then?”
“Bright and early tomorrow.”
Byers waved him to a chair. After seating himself, the editor stared across his desk. “I heard you were going to Texas. But no one seems to know the reason.”
Virgil smiled. “Guess I got bit by the railroad bug. Figured I might put one together down there.”
“Texas?” Byers said doubtfully. “Are any of the major lines building in that direction?”
“Not yet,” Virgil admitted. “But I calculate it’s only a matter of time. Lots of cows in Texas.”
“What do cows have to do with railroads?”
“Well, right now Texans trail-drive their herds. It’d be lots easier to ship by rail, and more profitable, too. I plan to get my foot in the door before it happens.”
“Sounds ambitious,” Byers remarked. “Where will you start?”
“Austin,” Virgil said. “That’s the capital, and nobody builds a railroad without a charter. Guess I’ll have to learn something about politics.”
“How do you plan to finance the venture?”
“I’m no greenhorn on that score. Once I’ve got the state charter, I’ll head for Washington. A land grant ought to attract plenty of investment money.”
Byers nodded. “You’ve certainly done wonders here, Virgil. Except for your fund-raising efforts, Denver might never have had a railroad.”
“Now that you mention it,” Virgil said, suddenly somber, “that’s why I dropped by. I’d like to give you an earful about the Denver Pacific.”
“An earful?” Byers said blankly. “I don’t understand.”
“Suppose we start with David Hughes.”
Virgil wasted no words. In short order, he outlined Hughes’ scheme to establish a separate construction company. He then revealed Luther Evans’ plan to acquire right-of-way north of town. Conflict of interest, he noted, was far too charitable a term. They intended to bilk the railroad.
When he finished, Byers sat as if nailed to his chair. So complete was the editor’s astonishment that his eyes were like those of a blind man. He looked oddly disoriented.
“I can’t believe it.” His voice was shocked. “David Hughes and Luther Evans! It just isn’t possible.”
“Yeah, I know,” Virgil said gloomily. “That’s how I felt, too. I got over it quick enough, though.”
“Good Lord, it boggles the mind! How can you be so certain?”
“Easy,” Virgil observed. “They admitted it straight to my face. Hughes even tried to buy me off.”
“You couldn’t be mistaken? He actually attempted to bribe you?”
“No bones about it. He outright offered me a share of the spoils.”
“What was your response?”
“In so many words, I told him to go to hell.”
“And then?” Byers asked, a hitch in his voice. “Was that the end of it?”
“No,” Virgil said shortly. “When he couldn’t buy me off, he tried to have me killed. That gunfight last week was rigged especially for my benefit.”
Byers gave him a bewildered look. “I understood it was a personal affair. Something to do with the war and your parents . . . a border raid.”
Virgil nodded wearily. “I’m not denying the personal side. I’m only saying he used Quintin to get at me. It was a put-up job.”
“How do you know?”
“Will, let’s not get sidetracked. What Hughes tried to do to me isn’t here nor there. It’s what he’s done to the town that counts.”
“What is it you’re suggesting?”
“I want it made public,” Virgil explained. “A story in your newspaper seems like the best way to do it.”
“You—” Byers stopped, suddenly flustered. “You want me to expose David Hughes.”
“Yeah, I do,” Virgil said resolutely. “Otherwise he won’t be stopped.”
“I’d need proof! I can’t libel a man in print with allegations.”
Virgil stared him in the eye. “How about a sworn statement? You can quote me word for word.”
Byers pondered it a moment, and then, almost as though he was thinking out loud, he raised the critical point. “What about the town? Do we serve Denver’s interests by exposing Hughes? We must have that railroad, Virgil!”
“You’ll get it,” Virgil assured him. “The story will force him to ditch his scheme. He’ll have no choice but to play it square.”
“Won’t he be forced to resign from the railroad as well?”
“Not likely,” Virgil said cynically. “It’s his railroad, and Denver’s his town. I found that out the hard way.”
Byers studied his downcast expression. “I notice you’ve started wearing a gun. Are you still in danger?”
The butt of the Remington pistol protruded from the waistband of Virgil’s trousers. He tugged at his jacket to cover it from view. “Hard times demand hard measures, Will. A man has to look to his own defense.”
“In that event, maybe I should buy a gun. I might need one after I run the story.”
Virgil grinned. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down. You’re too good a newspaperman.”
“Here!” Byers shoved pen and paper across the desk. “Start writing your statement.”
“Glad to, Will.”
Byers bounced out of his chair. He rushed toward the rear of the room. “Hold the press! We’ve got an extra to get out.” Some while later Virgil emerged from the newspaper. His conscience was clear, even though he knew he’d catch hell when he got home. Elizabeth was sure to pitch a fit.
Turning upstreet, he suddenly tensed. Luther Evans was walking toward him, and he had the uncanny impression that it was no chance meeting. He took a tight grip on himself.
“Well, Brannock.” Evans halted directly in his path. “I hear you’re leaving town.”
“You heard right.”
Evans watched him with a slight fixed smile. “You were wise to keep your mouth shut. Nobody profits from a fight.”
“Stand aside,” Virgil said quietly. “You’re blocking my way.”
“Want to ask you something. You don’t mind a question, do you?”
“Ask and be damned.”
Evans eyed him suspiciously. “You’ve been holed up with Will Byers for the last hour. What were you talking about?”
Something snapped inside Virgil. He knew he’d been badgered and threatened for the last time. He also knew there was no way around Evans’ question. His eyes suddenly turned cold.
“I just told Byers the whole story. He’s going to print it in the paper.”
“He’s what?”
“You heard me,” Virgil said deliberately. “I gave him a sworn statement. You and Hughes are finished.”
“You dirty bastard,” Evans muttered, eyes garnet with rage. “You went back on our deal.”
Virgil smiled. “Somebody misinformed you, Luther. I don’t deal with crooks.”
“Goddamn you—!”
Evans’ hand dipped inside his coat. He came up with a bulldog pistol and fired as Virgil pulled the Remington. The slug scorched the edge of Virgil’s sleeve and shattered a storefront window behind him. He touched the trigger and the Remington belched a sheet of flame. The bullet struck Evans in the chest and his mouth opened in soundless amazement. He took a shuffling step backward and then the light went out of his eyes. He fell dead.
Will Byers ran out of the newspaper. He slowed and walked to where Virgil stood staring down at the body. He tried to speak, but his voice failed him. A moment elapsed, then Virgil looked around. His mouth lifted in a tired smile.
“One down, one to go, Will. Hughes is yours.”