“Mr. Talon? I-”
“Call me Milo.”
“Milo, there was a man in the restaurant, an old man. He frightens me.”
Baggott? I described him.
“No, this was a stranger. I have never seen him before. Well … I don’t believe I have. He … he keeps staring at me.”
“You’re a very pretty girl.”
“It wasn’t like that. I know how men look at me when they think I’m pretty, and I know how they look when … when … well, when they are thinking other things.
This was not that way. Then he began asking questions.”
“Questions?”
“Oh, it sounded like the usual things. He said he was surprised to see such a pretty girl in a town like this. I didn’t say anything, and then he asked me how long I had been here. I told him ‘Not long’ and stayed away from his table until I had to serve his meal. He kept asking questions, and I was frightened. He … he seemed to want to know about me, who I knew, how long I had been here, how I got the job.
“Finally I told him I was busy, that there was much to do in the kitchen and then-I shouldn’t have, but he frightened me and I-”
“You did what?”
“I told him if he had any questions to ask he should ask you.”
“Me?”
“Well, I was scared. You’ll see what I mean when you see him. He’s a big old man, quite fat … well, maybe bulky is the word. I’m not sure all of it is fat.”
“What did he say to that?”
“That’s why I’m here. I ran out the back door and hurried right over here because when I mentioned your name I thought he was going to swear. I mean, it was his expression, the way he sat up so sharply.
“Until then it had all been so casual, so offhand. Suddenly he seemed angry. He said, ‘What’s he got to do with this?’
“I didn’t know what he meant and I told him so. I said, ‘What do you mean by this?
He’s simply a friend, that’s all, and I am busy. I haven’t the time to answer personal questions, and Mr. Talon would be glad to help you if there is any way he can.’ “
“Good girl,” I said. “How did he react to that?”
“He was quite angry. Impatient, too. He twitched around in his chair as people sometimes do when they are irritated. Then he said, ‘I was simply talking to you. I have nothing to say to Milo Talon.’ I had not mentioned your first name, but he knew it.”
“Thanks, Molly. You’d better get back to the restaurant. I’ll be down in a little while.”
Her eyes went past me to the open suitcase and the things spread on the bed. I thought for a moment she was going to faint and then she said, “Oh, my God!” There was something so frightened in the way she said it that it was almost prayerful.
She turned and started for the door and I caught her arm. “Molly, don’t be afraid.
You don’t have to be afraid.”
She stared at me, then pulled her arm away. She opened the door and I said, “Molly, why don’t you tell me all about it?”
She went out and closed the door behind her, and I turned back to the bed to see what she had seen.
For a moment I just stood there, looking. The open suitcase, the packet of letters, the painting—
What was it that caused her to exclaim? What had she recognized? The painting? The area pictured in the painting? The suitcase? The suit?
Bundling it all together, I hastily stuffed it back in the suitcase, strapped it up, and shoved it under the bed. Certainly no place to hide anything but I wanted to see that man. I needed to see him.
Who was he? How did he fit into the pattern and how did he happen to know my name?
Why should my name have upset him?
When I reached the restaurant, he was gone.
Dropping into a chair, I ordered something to eat and after a bit German Schafer came out. “I seen him.” His tone was grim. “I don’t know what the tarnation is goin’ on, but when he comes around-”
“Who?”
“Hovey. That Pride Hovey was in here. He et here. Right over yonder.”
“Did he see you, German?”
“No, he never. Don’t know’s he’d know me anyhow. That there was a long time ago but we should have hung him then.”
“Nobody was sure if he was the fifth man. You can’t hang a man without evidence.”
“He’s done enough since to hang him a dozen times over. I never knew a man deserved hangin’ so much.”
“The way I hear it there was never any evidence. What I want to know is what he’s doing here.”
“He smells money. You know and I know that Hovey never turned a hand that didn’t promise money.”
“What was the straight of that fifth man story, German? I’ve heard it a half dozen times but from nobody as close as you.”
“I was there. At least I was there when that Apache talked. That pay-roll wagon went out with a driver and three guards to it. They were carrying sixty thousand in gold coins.
“An east-bound wagon found them. The driver and the guards were dead, the wagon burned, and the gold gone. They buried the dead men and came into town with the story. Couple of weeks later, we caught ourselves an Apache.
“Sure, he knew all about the fight, only they had, this here Injun claimed, been driven off. Those five men put up a heavy fire and there were too few Injuns so he claimed they just give up and rode off. Now you know and I know that no Injun is going to get hisself killed for nothing.
“Five men, he claimed. Four soldiers and the big man they were chasing when they found the wagon. That Apache, he claimed they killed nobody but they lost one themselves and had two wounded. That Apache, he claimed he knew the man they chased, but that night the Apache killed himself or was killed by somebody who then threw the gun into the cell with him.”
“I remember the talk.”
“There was a-plenty of it. Hovey had come in, wounded in the arm, with a story of being’ chased by Apaches.
“Trouble was, when those teamsters came back through town and was asked about it, they said those soldiers must have been killed after being taken because three of them were shot in the back.
“You know what was said. Some figured Hovey had done it but when the mob was goin’ to hang him, that lawyer …? Dickman? Yeah, that was his name. He showed up and talked ‘em out of it. There were some said Hovey got to Dickman first and put him up to it. Anyway, Dickman left right after, went to the coast, and set hisself up in fine fashion, with whose money I dunno.”
“I remember the talk. Some said that Hovey rode up to them hunting help and after the Indians were driven off, he opened fire on the soldiers and killed three of them while they were lyin’ on the ground watchin’ for Injuns, then swapped shots with the last man and got himself wounded.”
“When he come back a few years later most of the old crowd were gone. The Army had moved their men out and others had gone off to the mines, so he stuck around, mixin’ in a lot of shady stuff.”
“What happened to the money?”
“Good question. Some folks believe he only brought a part of it back and most of that went to Dickman. Nobody ever did see any new gold coins about and there’s some as believe Hovey buried most of that gold out in the hills and has never been back for it.”
“Isn’t likely.”
“It is, though. The Apaches ride that country all the time. Nobody but a durned fool would go down there for any reason at all. That gold, the most of it, might still be there.”
We sat quiet for a little while, each busy with his own thoughts. Pride Hovey had a hand in a lot of shady doings, folks suspected, but they’d never caught him at anything.
He bought and sold cattle, made a few deals for mining claims, occasionally bought stock or whatever from Mexicans who came up from below the border. The word was that he dealt in cattle stolen down Sonora way.
Over the past six or seven years his enemies had a way of disappearing, just dropping from sight,
unexpected like, and he got the reputation of being a bad man with whom to have trouble.
Now he was here, asking questions of Molly Fletcher, and furious to know that I was involved.
Why it should matter, I could not guess. Here and there I’d had a few difficulties, but so far as I could recall I’d never stepped on his toes.
Pride Hovey was not the kind of trouble I wanted. To find a lost girl was one thing, but too many fingers were trying to get into the pot, and I didn’t like it. I’d taken Jefferson Henry’s money so I’d best find his girl and get out … fast.
The sun had set when I returned to the street. A lone buckboard drawn by a team of paint horses was trotting out of town, going west. Two cowboys were sitting on the bench in front of the Red Dog Saloon, drinking beer. It was supper time in town and most of the townspeople were either already eating or washing up for it.
It was a time of night when a man feels the lonesomes all wistful inside. It was time I went home. Ma was getting no younger and it was a big ranch she had. I thought with longing of the great old mansion my father had built, probably the largest house in that part of the country at the time, but he was building for the woman he loved and he was a builder. He had worked with timber all his life and it was like him that he built the best for her.
Only the clerk was in the lobby but I crossed to the desk and turned the register around to read the names. “Expecting somebody?” he asked.
“Curious,” I said. “Just wondering who’s in town.”
“It’s a slack time,” he said, “half the rooms are empty.”
Hovey’s name was not on the register. My own name was the last on the list.
Where was he then? Did he have a friend in town?
When I was in the room with the chair propped under the knob, I got the suitcase from under the bed and opened it.
Placing the letters, notebook, and painting to one side, I checked the pockets of the suit. On closer examination it proved more worn than I’d at first believed, but I found nothing.
Despite that, the suit disturbed me. I checked to see if anything was concealed in the lining, turned the lapels back, but found nothing.
In the distance there was a roll of thunder. Rain coming and the country could use it, but that meant any tracks left on the prairie would be washed out. Another chance probably gone.
Still, I’d take a ride tomorrow if the rain had stopped. Another talk with Pablo might pay off. There was a brief spatter of rain against the windows, then a rushing downpour. Footsteps passed in the hall and I waited, listening, until they had gone on by.
What was I so spooky about? Was it because I’d seen the Arkansawyer? Or Hovey? Returning the suit, shirts, and other clothing to the suitcase, I closed it and put it aside.
Then, with pillows propped against my back, I sat on the bed and began checking the letters.
All seemed to be addressed to Stacy Henry. Most of them seemed to be the kind of life, death, and burial letters such as women write to each other. Someone was having a baby, and they were planning a shower. Another girl was getting married, and somebody’s father had died, such a nice man.
And then …
As to the other matter, I would sign nothing. Control is imperative. You must think of Nancy. It is her future as well as yours. From all you say, Newton has changed, become more like his father, although I always felt they disliked each other. Remember, dear, if the worst comes there’s that boy your mother befriended. He had no education, but he was loyal and he thought of her as somebody very special, and of you the same way. You will remember his name, although I have forgotten it. He had a place in the mountains. I remember your mother speaking of it, and she spoke also of a store named Harkin’s or something of the kind where he bought supplies.
Suddenly excited, I put the letter down and got to my feet. Harkin’s was, of course, Larkin’s where I had just been. “A place in the mountains” sounded like a lead.
Staring down at the street, I felt an odd stirring of some memory, something scarcely tangible, yet—
No. It would not come. I’d return to the letters and the notebook.
Chapter Eight.
Getting up from the bed, I walked to the side of the window and looked down into the street. All was dark and silent, only a little light from the windows.
What was it that haunted me so? Some vague memory, perhaps, or some conversation only half remembered.
There was a growing irritation in me. This was not the life I was used to. I’d spent most of my life so far out on the plains, in the desert or the mountains, and there was where I was most at home. Yet I knew that much of my problem lay right here in town.
My thoughts went back to Jefferson Henry’s private car side-tracked near the water-tank for several days. I agreed with the cowhands in the saloon, it was no place to be.
It was hot, windy, and miserable out there when a man could be any place he wished.
Why there? Obviously, to meet with someone. Who? Why? Did he have others searching for his granddaughter? And the scream in the night? The scream of a man in agony.
When morning came I’d better saddle up and ride out there. Another talk with Pablo might help as he might have recalled something not mentioned before. That Mexican was a good, solid man and I liked him. He was my kind of people.
Returning to the bed, I opened the second envelope. It contained no letter, only two recent newspaper clippings.
PIONEER MINING MAN DIES Nathan Albro, pioneer mining man with interests in Butte, Pony, and Black Hills mines, died late today after a fall from his horse. He was well known in the area as a developer of mining properties and railroads. He is survived by a former wife, Stacy, now Mrs. Newton Henry.
The second clipping, dated only a few days later, was equally brief. The item was buried among local news and advertisements.
Ask for Double Stamp Kentucky Bourbon Whiskey, $3 per gallon.
Scarlet flannel ladies’ vests and hosiery at the Lucky Strike Cash Store. Come early as they are going fast.
.44 Winchester cartridges. 750 per box at the Boston Store.
The Town Shooting Club will agree to a match of any six of its members … you pick ‘em … against any equal number of men in the Territory, for any sum from $50 to $1,000. To shoot at glass balls or pigeons, pistol or rifle, snap-shooting or wheel and fire at the word. Put up or shut up.
ROBBERY OF OFFICE
Sometime between 7:30 p. M. last night and 8 a. M. this morning the business office of Albro & Co. was broken into and the safe forced.
John Cortland, bookkeeper, assures us the safe contained nothing of value. On the advice of Nathan Albro himself, contained in a note to his heirs, the safe had been emptied following his unexpected death, Friday last.
Fitch & Cornwell’s.
HUNKDORI.
For the Breath.
So … somebody had started to move as soon as Nathan Albro died. The breakin did not sound like the work of an ordinary thief or cracksman, although the work might have been done by an expert. The safe had been opened because somebody had reason to believe it contained something of value.
Irritably, I put down the clippings. Too much was at stake of which I knew nothing, and with every step I became more deeply involved. Worst of all, I had no idea who my enemies were nor what they wanted except that at least one man wanted Nancy Henry.
Where was she?
Jefferson Henry had implied that his son was dead, but what had happened to Stacy?
Was she also dead? The Magoffins had apparently been involved in some plot with Newton Henry to circumvent Newton’s father. No doubt each wanted the same thing. But what was it?
Stacy had been advised to sign nothing. That implied she possessed something of value that could be signed away, and that made sense. Jefferson Henry, people said, loved power. Power in his world meant money, stock, control, leverage. Did Stacy hold stock they wanted? Had she possessed something in her own name that Jefferson wanted?<
br />
What about the note to his heirs that Nathan Albro had left? Had he suspected something?
If not, why would he leave such a note? Certainly, the heirs had acted swiftly-and fortunately-as it developed.
Nothing in my life had prepared me to deal with activities in the business world.
I knew a little of horses, dogs, and men, something less of women. I had handled cattle, worked in mines, and had seen a lot of town-site speculation as had everyone in the west. Beyond that I was an innocent.
Jefferson Henry was a railroad man but with wide interests in other areas.
To protect myself, and also the girl I was to find, I must learn a great deal and learn it fast. If there was time.
What did I mean, protect the girl I was to find? Nothing in my arrangements with Henry said anything about that, yet already the feeling was strong that she would need protection, that she was a lamb among wolves.
Penny Logan. She was a woman known to be bright about finance. She had handled her own property well and she kept the market quotations for the stockmen. Undoubtedly she heard much talk among those who came to her small shop, and there were several big stockmen in the area. She might be able to answer a few questions.
Again I returned to what might be the most important question. Why had they hired me in the first place?
Did they believe I had special knowledge? Did they, perhaps, believe that I knew where Nancy Henry was? Was the offer to spend fifty thousand dollars searching for her actually a bribe to tell where she was? Or to bring her in? Was I watched so that I might lead them to her?
For a moment I ran over in my mind some of the girls I’d known, but none of them seemed to fit the bill. That is, I knew who they all were, where they lived, who their parents were, and like that.
Another idea suddenly occurred. That breakin had come very quickly on the death of Nathan Albro. Just how much time had transpired between the two? Maybe Albro’s fall from the horse had been contrived? Had he been murdered and then the safe opened?
At daybreak I was in the saddle and riding. The letters and notebook I brought with me, tucked away in my saddlebags.
Milo Talon (1981) Page 6
