by Ray Tassin
A rebel yell drifted in from the street. Some still-not-sober puncher heading home after a night on the town, Danner thought idly. Removing his hat, he dropped it to the floor by his chair, waiting for Melinda to give him a tongue lashing for the little incident outside.
Danner fished his pipe from his coat pocket and began packing it before he remembered how Melinda disliked "the smelly thing." Shrugging, he thumbed the last of the Ridgewood tobacco into the bowl. Melinda didn't seem to hear when he scratched a match on his boot sole and touched it to the tobacco. She continued to ignore him, staring out the window. But the usual solace of the pipe was missing for Danner. Maybe he was just too tired.
Finally Melinda turned from the window and sat down at the desk, still without looking at Danner. Her dark features showed no signs of temper—just a tight composure.
"I saw you bring in two prisoners," she murmured. "Who are they?"
The question, and the mildness, caught Danner by surprise. He studied her carefully for a moment before answering.
"Sam and Ears Dooley."
This brought a sharp glance from Melinda, her eyes betraying the question she didn't ask— but which Danner answered anyway.
"They're the two younger brothers of the three Dooleys who staged the Spaulding robbery and—"
"I know," she interrupted. Then she picked up a leather-bound book from the desk. "I've been reading your report book. You state that they robbed the freight officer here the night before the Spaulding robbery so that you would be out chasing them while their three brothers held up the train at Spaulding."
Danner nodded wordlessly and her eyebrows arched upward.
"You must value your fighting abilities rather highly, Mr. Danner." She clipped the words precisely. "Personally, I find it difficult to believe that five hardened badmen could be that afraid of one man."
Flushing, Danner stiffened against the back of the chair, but when he spoke, the tone was mild. "One man—myself or anyone else who can pull the trigger of a shotgun—can be mighty mean when protected by the locked door of an express car."
"The express agent wasn't very mean."
"He wasn't getting paid to fight."
Melinda flipped through the report and continued talking without looking up. "This says you gave up the chase when your horse went lame— that you returned to Richfield, learned of the robbery at Spaulding, and left to investigate. You've filed no reports since then," she finished coldly.
"I've been a little busy," Danner said, and shrugged. "I waited around here until I got a tip on the other two Dooleys; then I went after them. Just got back."
"I would like a brief oral report now," she said, "and I'm sure the GPC management will want a complete written report as soon as possible."
The cool determination on her face sent anger coursing through him. His eyes burned from lack of sleep.
"At Spaulding our subagent, Ma Grim, told me three hooded men were hiding inside the station when the train stopped for water. The expressman opened up when they threatened to shoot Ma. They took the strongbox and rode southeast. They had plenty of time to get clear of the territory, but I followed anyway, using a horse I took along in a cattle car. I found them an hour's ride away—dead—shot by an accomplice who met them there."
"You couldn't possibly know all that," she scoffed, slapping the report book on the desk top.
He rubbed his eyes wearily. "There was plenty of signs around. The fourth man smoked several cigars before the Dooleys arrived. The strongbox, open and empty, was still there between where the Dooleys and the fourth man sat talking. When the Dooleys started for their horses, the fourth man shot them in the back. Ike Dooley had time to turn and get off one shot before he died. The fourth man rode off. I followed his tracks to the main trail and lost them there."
Melinda jumped to her feet and circled the desk to stand over him, her finely shaped face now pale, her mouth drawn thin. "If all that is true," she challenged, "then why does everyone in this town think you killed the Dooleys and made off with the contents of that strongbox?"
With great care Danner eased up from the chair and stood towering over her. "Is that what you believe?"
"I don't know," she cried, waving her hands in frustration. "My father trusted you completely. I never knew him to be wrong about any man. But there must be some basis for all this talk. Who started it? Who—"
"If I knew that," Danner said with deceptive mildness, "I'd know the name of the fourth man."
"And you have no idea who he might be?"
Danner hesitated, thinking of the empty cartridge cases he had found near the Dooleys— cases different from any he'd ever seen before. But he'd told no one about them, and he saw no reason to tell Melinda, so he shook his head.
Arms folded across her firm bosom, Melinda moved in a small circle and came back to face him intently. "And I suppose," she said, with a hint of sarcasm, "that you also think the murder of my father was nothing more than another attempt to keep you away from Spaulding?"
Shaking his head, Danner sat down on the edge of the desk. "Except for a lame horse, I would have been chasing Ears and Sam for a week. The Colonel must have been riding on the east road and run into the fourth man—and have seen something that made it necessary for the fourth man to shoot him."
"I found him in our stable," Melinda countered.
"There was blood all over his saddle and horse," Danner said. "He rode a long way after he was shot."
Melinda considered it for a while, her face drawn intently. "Maybe," she said, then dismissed the matter with a slight wave of her dainty hands. She seemed now to be wrestling with something she wanted to say—as if she didn't quite know how to frame the words. Finally she stared directly into his eyes.
"By noon today," she said coolly, "the Richfield Railroad will be a part of the Great Plains Central Railroad system. I—well, there's something you should know—"
Danner interrupted. "You don't owe me any explanations," he said. "I know we've been losing money."
"My financial condition is no concern of yours," Melinda snapped, eyes flashing. "I just wanted to tell you before the train gets here that father acknowledged his debt to you by providing a lifetime job for you. The GPC officials have agreed to honor his wish by keeping you on the payroll."
Danner shrugged. "If I like them, I'll stay. If I don't, I'll move on."
Her lips settled in a firm line, emphasizing the hardness that had grown to be a part of her nature since the Colonel had died. But she remained silent. Danner couldn't condemn her for her attitude. He'd loved the Colonel as much as she had and he understood how the loss had changed her. Nevertheless, her suspicions of him rankled inside him.
The distant whistle of a train reached Danner then and he pulled out his pocket watch, suddenly aware of the passing of time.
"The nine-twenty is coming in," he said. "We better go meet the new management." He eased up from the chair and moved over toward the door, awaiting a reply from Melinda.
"Wait for me outside."
Danner nodded and went out to the platform. When she joined him, he sensed a change, perhaps the hair a little more neatly arranged, if possible. For just a fleeting moment her eyes mirrored her displeasure at his disheveled appearance; then she turned away.
Side by side they moved along the platform to the waiting room, then passed through it. Billy McDaniel looked up from his work long enough to grin at them. The telegraph key chattered pleasantly. As they reached the trackside platform, the train came into sight along the curve to the northeast, growing larger and louder.
The smell of creosote and smoke tinged the air, a familiar and comforting odor to Danner. Even the clanging of the approaching locomotive brought a strangely pleasant feeling to him. The train began losing speed as it neared the station. Then the engine rumbled by the platform, steam billowing forth. Steel wheels screeched along steel rails, bringing the train to a halt with the front passenger coach now parallel to the platform.
A drummer left the coach first, followed by two punchers and a middle-aged woman. Danner wished he'd had the time to get cleaned up before the train arrived. He fidgeted for half a minute before any other passengers disembarked. Then a stately and lanky old man came down the steps and walked to the platform briskly despite his advanced years.
Just behind the old man came a younger six-footer, broad of shoulder and nervous of movement, clad in an immaculate black suit, white shirt and string tie. Pale eyes flashed forth an intolerance that contrasted oddly with a polished smugness about thinly drawn lips.
Melinda started toward the two men and Danner hung back. When the younger man spotted Melinda, a smile spread across his face, washing away the lines of bitterness.
"Melinda, my dear, it's wonderful to see you again," he said.
Danner moved forward slowly, trying to hear her answer, but the locomotive whistle drowned out the words. The young man removed his bowler hat, revealing sandy hair carefully groomed. Hat clutched in his hand, he tried to hug Melinda to his chest, but she pushed him away gently. The movement brought his left side into view and Danner felt the pangs of sudden shock. The left sleeve of the young man's coat was empty—neatly tucked into a side pocket.
Understanding washed over Danner then, for the man's story showed plainly. Here was a proud man, once an active outdoorsman, judging from his well-developed shoulders. The loss of his arm had soured him, turned him bitter and intolerant.
Melinda shook hands with the older man. Then the oldster lighted a long black cigar. He gestured with it while he talked.
After the train pulled away Melinda introduced Danner to the new arrivals. The old man turned out to be G. C. Corbin, president of GPC. The other one she presented as Tom Wainright, Corbin's nephew, who would manage the branch from Richfield to Midwestern.
Both officials eyed Danner carefully—the older one with the shrewdness of a man accustomed to the ways of all kinds of men, Wainright with a bare nod, hardly taking his eyes off Melinda. With an effort Danner avoided looking at the empty sleeve.
Old man Corbin suggested they adjourn to the company office. Melinda and Wainright led the way; Corbin joined Danner behind. The walk was a silent one until they reached the office door. There Wainright stepped aside to permit Melinda and his uncle to enter, but stepped in front of Danner. His voice grated when he spoke.
"That will be all for now, Mr. Danner. We have some business to transact. You may go about your duties." He started to turn into the inner office, hesitated, and added, "By the way, we expect our front office personnel to dress neatly and keep clean-shaven."
Danner's chest swelled with anger, but he nodded silently and turned away.
CHAPTER TWO
Through a fog Danner heard a pounding on his hotel room door. He rolled over and buried his head under the pillow. The pounding on the door started again.
"What the devil do you want?" Danner demanded. The noise stopped.
"Mr. Wainright wants to see you in his office." The voice sounded like Leroy, the railroad office boy.
Fatigue burned in his eyes as Danner picked up the heavy B. W. Raymond watch from the bedside table. Judas! Only two o'clock in the afternoon. He'd been in bed only three hours. He groped under the bed, grunting with satisfaction when his hand found a boot. Savagely he hurled the boot against the door.
"Mr. Danner, please!" The high-pitched voice squeaked with fear. "Mr. Wainright is very insistent."
"Boy, you tell Wainright and anyone else who'll listen that if anyone touches that door before tomorrow morning, I'm going to put a couple of bullets through it."
Silence greeted him. Finally he heard footsteps retreating down the hall. Then he buried his face in the pillow and slipped back into the fog.
When Danner awoke again, morning sunshine burned against his face. Consulting his watch, he found he'd slept till mid-morning. Half an hour later he relaxed in a tub of steaming water in the back room of the hotel barbershop. The heat made him lazy, but his mind cleared gradually. He thought idly of Leroy's message from Wainright, then decided that whatever it was could wait until he finished removing the accumulated scum of the long pursuit. By eleven o'clock he emerged from the barbershop freshly shaved and wearing new nankeen trousers with matching buff-colored shirt, and a dark brown Stetson. Not so new were his polished Wellington boots, wide shell belt and soft leather holster. He felt slightly self-conscious in the new clothes and scowled at one passer-by who seemed to be looking too closely at him.
The usual Saturday crowd filled the street, a curious mixture of grangers, townsfolk and riders. Buckboards, grain wagons and buggies dotted the length of the street. Saddle horses stood in small clusters here and there, mostly in front of saloons. Heat waves danced off the street amid rolls of acrid dust.
Danner sauntered along the walk, staring straight ahead as if no one else were in sight. Some of the people he passed ignored him, their animosity showing plainly. But everyone left a clear path for him along the walk.
The Silver Dollar Saloon reeked of stale beer as he drew abreast of the batwing doors. Danner moved past the hardware store, then stopped abruptly. He retraced his steps and entered the store. A bell attached to the door jingled, and Uncle Bennie plodded up from the back of the building. Danner waited for him at the counter in front of the weapon display.
"Have you heard from Kansas City?" Danner asked.
"Yep," Uncle Bennie snorted. "Came in yesterday." He reached under the counter, almost losing his steel-rimmed glasses as he bent over. He withdrew a large brown envelope and dumped out a folded sheet of paper and an empty cartridge case. Danner picked up the shell and rolled it between his thumb and index finger. It was the same shell he'd asked Uncle Bennie to send to Kansas City for identification—one of the three he'd found near the bodies of the Dooleys. It looked like an ordinary .45-caliber shell case, except for a small pin sticking out of the side near the rim. Uncle Bennie adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat.
"The report says it goes to a LeFaucheaux pin-fire revolver, twelve millimeter," Uncle Bennie said, squinting at the case.
"Never heard of it," Danner grunted.
"No wonder," Uncle Bennie snorted. "They wuzn't but a few hundred of them ever shipped into this country. The Rebs got them from France during the Rebellion. They didn't get but one shipment because a pin-fire ain't a very handy weapon in a pinch—takes too much time to reload. That little pin sticking out of the side of the shell case has to fit into a slot in the cylinder wall, which takes a lot more time than a regular pistol."
Danner considered the information thoughtfully. The war had been over sixteen years, and many better weapons were now available even this far west. The odds against a rare pin-fire gun turning up here were beyond calculation. He took the brown envelope from Uncle Bennie and scanned the report. His attention caught on one paragraph and he read it again: When the trigger of the gun comes back, the pin is forced into the side of the shell at a ninety-degree angle, which fires the charge. But the pin in this particular shell goes in at a sixty-degree angle, which means the gun that fired it is defective and
can be identified easily if you can find the weapon.
The final page of the report was a sketch of the gun, actual size. Danner studied it carefully, then showed it to Uncle Bennie.
"Have you ever seen a weapon like that— maybe a repaired one? Or had a call for pin-fire shells?"
The old storekeeper shook his head.
Danner paid the service charge on the report, then stuffed it back into the envelope.
"Was that the cartridge that killed the Colonel?" Uncle Bennie asked.
"No." Danner stuck the envelope in his hip pocket, nodded at the dissatisfied merchant, then left the store, thinking of the defective pin-fire that could be "identified easily." The Spaulding robbery had been a carefully manipulated operation, all the way down to the murder of the Dooleys. It seemed impossible that a mind capable of such planning would leave behind a p
ossible link to himself. Yet that was exactly what had happened. Danner started on toward Wainright's office, changed his mind and cut across the street toward the courthouse. Wainright had waited this long—he could wait long enough for a check on the prisoners.
Sheriff Brant sat glumly at his desk, his brow wrinkled in worry. He nodded without speaking.
"Cheer up, Dan," Danner chided. "You'll live to be a hundred."
" That should cheer me up?"
Danner eyed him closely. The sheriff was noted for a gloomy attitude.
"Alec Browder was in earlier today to see the Dooleys," Brant said, fixing a piercing stare on Danner.
Frowning, Danner settled slackly in a chair at the end of the battered desk. "How long was he here?"
"Half an hour. I don't like it, Jeff—Browder showing an interest in that pair. They're up to something. Ears Dooley raised the devil all yesterday and most of the night—was still acussin' this morning. But it's been three hours since Browder was here and Ears hasn't said a word since then." The old man paused to catch his breath. "I went back there twice and Ears was just sitting and grinning."
It was beginning to fit into place, Danner thought. Outside of a few petty thefts by drifters, only five robberies had occurred since the Colonel had hired him. Each time he'd caught the bandits, and each time they'd been men close to Browder. But all had taken their prison terms without implicating Browder. A cunning brain like his could have planned the Spaulding robbery. Tuso had just enough brass to have executed the plan, as well as the Dooleys, and could have failed to understand the foolishness of leaving the empty shells behind.
Idly, Danner rubbed the back of his neck, then stopped as a new thought occurred to him. "Dan, you've lived in this area most of your life, haven't you?"
