by Janet Dailey
Her question drew an amused snort from him. He was smart enough to recognize a diversionary tactic when he saw one. She might fool others with her innocent act, but she hadn’t fooled him.
“There’s probably a half dozen such rocks like that around here. With a little imagination, you could call ’em pillars,” he replied, being deliberately as uninformative with his answers as she was.
Disappointment took the brightness from her eyes. As if realizing that, she averted her glance to the food remaining on her plate.
His reply drew a quick comment from the crowd. “It’s true, there are a lot of pillar-like rock formations, Fargo. But most of them aren’t tall enough to cast a long shadow.”
“What has that got to do with anything?” someone else scoffed.
Uncomfortable with all the amused glances aimed at him, the first speaker turned slightly defensive. “The way I always heard the story about the pillar, at a certain hour of the day, its shadow was supposed to point to the place where the gold was buried.”
“You watch too many old movies, Pete,” a voice mocked.
The comment drew a round of laughter and more gibes.
“What time of day was it, Pete? High noon?”
“Probably ten at night.”
“Are you sure it didn’t have to be a certain day of the year, too, Pete?”
After initially reddening at the razzing from his friends, the man called Pete finally managed to smile. “I never said it was true; only that it was the way I heard the story told.”
Through it all, Angie carefully concentrated on the food before her. But somewhere along the line, she had lost her appetite, and the steak that had been so tasty before now had about as much flavor to her as cardboard. All the while she struggled to appear only mildly interested in the run of conversation around her even as she strained to catch every scrap of information, useless or not.
“How much did they steal anyway?”
“Two hundred thousand, wasn’t it?”
“I thought it was a million or more.”
“Boy, are you dreaming? Back in those days, nobody probably ever saw a million dollars all in one place—unless it was Fort Knox.”
“It may not have been a million, but I bet it’s worth that now if a fella could find it.”
“Hey, Ima Jane,” Joe Gibbs called to the woman behind the bar. “Whatever happened to those old newspaper accounts of the train robbery and the shoot-out with the outlaws south of here? You know, the ones you used to have hanging on the wall?”
“On a shelf in the back room somewhere,” she answered, then volunteered, “I’ll see if I can find them.”
Leaving the bar, she pushed through the double swinging doors into the kitchen. Griff was at the grill, testing the doneness of the T-bone steak on it. A slender-built man with a gray crewcut and long, sour face, he tossed a brief, identifying glance in her direction, then switched his attention back to the steak.
On her way through the kitchen, Ima Jane checked to see how many orders he had yet to fill. Only one was clipped above the grill.
“As soon as you have that order dished up, cover the bar for me, will you?” she said and headed for the back storeroom.
“Where are you going?” His frown sent an eyebrow arching into the terrycloth band he wore around his forehead to keep the sweat from dripping onto the food.
Ima Jane stopped, a hand poised on the doorknob. “You’ll never guess who that body turned out to be,” she said to him, excitement over the news bubbling up again. She knew better than to wait for her husband to ask. If he never found out, it wouldn’t bother him a bit. “It was a man named Henry Wilson. But here’s the good part, Griff,” she rushed, seeing boredom set in. “He was the grandson of one of those outlaws who robbed the train. He came here years ago to look for the gold they stole.”
“How do you know that?”
She grew impatient that he should question the veracity of her information. “Good heavens, Griff, everybody has heard the story about the grandson turning up here years ago to search for the gold.”
“I’m not talking about that.” He brushed off her answer with a dismissing wave of the tongs in his hand. “I meant—how do you know that’s who he was?”
“Because his granddaughter is out front.” The smile she sent him went from ear to ear.
“She’s here,” he repeated in surprise. “Why?”
“She came to claim the body, of course,” Ima Jane replied, mildly exasperated that he hadn’t figured the reason out for himself.
“But that’s my point,” Griff argued. “Why would she come to Glory when the body’s not here?”
Ima Jane shrugged off the question as unimportant. The woman was here; that was what mattered. “She said something to Luke McCallister about wanting to see where the body was found. Don’t forget to watch the bar for me.” Turning the knob, Ima Jane gave the storeroom door an inward push. “I’ve got to find those old newspaper accounts of the robbery that we used to have hanging out front. You don’t happen to remember where I put them?”
“Third shelf, back by the napkin boxes.” The old adage “A place for everything and everything in its place,” Griff regarded as a law. The kitchen and storeroom were his bailiwick, and woe to the person who didn’t put something in its designated place.
“What about you, miss?” Joe Gibbs addressed the question to Angie. “Were you ever told how much was stolen?”
“No.” Unable to eat another bite of the now tasteless food, Angie laid her fork down and reached for her coffee, needing to keep her hands occupied with something. “I do know the amount varied with each newspaper. But I have no idea which one was accurate.” She tried again to be the one doing the questioning and glean more information without being obtrusive about it. “You mentioned something about a shoot-out?”
“Yeah. That happened when the posse caught up with them,” Joe Gibbs explained. “The robbers started shooting as soon as they saw them. When the gun battle was finally over, two of the gang were shot up pretty bad. Both of ’em ended up dying from their wounds. Ike Wilson—your ancestor—was the only one of the bunch to survive and stand trial. And they hung him.”
“Does anybody know where this shoot-out supposedly took place? You said something about it being south of Glory.” Angie lifted her coffee cup with studied casualness.
“It was on Ten Bar land.” On that, the rancher was definite. Then he tilted his head to one side, frowning in uncertainty. “I always had the impression it took place only a few miles from the ranch house. Have I got that right, Luke?”
“That’s the way I always heard it.” Idly swirling the few cubes in his drink glass, Luke sat all lazy and loose in his chair, most of his weight tilted against a wooden armrest. His glance strayed briefly to the rancher when he answered, then came back to Angie, vaguely watchful and amused. “The story goes that, supposedly, old King McCallister—the founder of the Ten Bar—heard the shooting, got some of his boys, and rode out to join the fray.”
“According to my dad,” Marge spoke up, “when King McCallister and his riders arrived on the scene, the tide of the battle turned in favor of the posse. But the railroad detective heading up the posse never gave him or his men any credit for it. He didn’t even mention King by name in any of his reports. Some of the folks around here were pretty upset about it, but King just shrugged it off.”
At least now, Angie understood why she couldn’t recall the name McCallister being mentioned in any of the various accounts she’d read. “You didn’t tell me that any of your family was involved in the capture of the outlaws,” she said to Luke, her smile gently chiding.
“The fight was pretty well over when they got there.”
Angie came back to her original question, still unanswered.
“Where did the shoot-out take place? I don’t think you ever said whether you knew its location or not.”
“I guess I didn’t, did I?” His mouth slanted in a smile of half mock
ery. “Now that I think about it, it isn’t very far from where your grandfather’s body was found. Ironic, isn’t it?”
The coincidence seemed somehow eerie. Rather than comment on it, she asked, “How far is ‘not very far’?” She smiled quickly, making a joke out of the question. “Something tells me the definition of ‘not very far’ in Wyoming isn’t the same as it would be back in Iowa.”
An answering smile crinkled Luke’s eyes, lethal in its attraction. “Probably not,” he agreed. “As the crow flies, it’s probably less than a mile.”
“I knew it would be different,” she declared. “In Iowa, we’d measure it in yards.”
“Here it is.” Ima Jane came out of the kitchen, carrying the framed newspaper accounts. On her way to Luke and Angie’s table, she snatched a bar towel off the counter and wiped the dust from the frame’s glass front.
Before she could show it to Angie, the heavyset rancher intercepted it and ran a verifying glance over the trio of age-yellowed clippings, then nodded in confirmation. “This is what I was talking about.” Joe Gibbs offered it to Angie. “All the facts are right here in these newspaper stories. The conductor got killed during the robbery. Shot him in cold blood, they did.”
Obligingly, Angie took it and skimmed the century-old articles mounted beneath the glass, then handed it back to Ima Jane. “Actually I have copies of these.”
“You do?” Ima Jane said in startled response.
Angie laughed at her look of astonishment. “It’s really not so surprising. There aren’t many family trees that contain a genuine outlaw. I grew up hearing bits and pieces about him. And like any kid, I became fascinated by the story and always wanted to know more.” She paused to choose her next words. “Obtaining copies of articles from newspaper archives isn’t all that difficult. I have a family scrapbook filled with mementos and stories about various members, including ones that have been written over the years about the robbery.”
“Well, isn’t that smart,” Ima Jane declared. “More people should make the effort to document their family history. I’ve been after Griff for years to do that for his. According to his grandmother, one of his ancestors served under Custer and died at the Battle of Little Big Horn. But do you think I can talk him into finding out if it’s true? Why, the way he digs in his heels in absolute refusal, you’d think I was asking him to open a can of spaghetti sauce and pass it off as homemade.”
Her analogy elicited a round of good-natured laughter and glances of approval directed at the sour-faced man behind the bar. It confirmed what Griff Evans had long proclaimed: every dish out of his kitchen was made from scratch or it wasn’t served. He not only butchered his own meat, but he also personally rendered the lard that was used to make his incredibly tender and flaky pie crusts.
Drawn by all the talk about the robbery and buried gold, Tobe West left the booth and joined the small group that had gathered around the attractive redhead. His sister, Dulcie, was right on his heels, as constant as a shadow.
“Can I see that?” He reached for the framed clippings Ima Jane held.
Without a moment’s hesitation, she passed it into his hands, then frowned absently as she searched the walls for an empty space among the numerous photos and memorabilia. “I need to find someplace to hang that up again.”
Rising onto her toes, Dulcie tried to get a peek at the yellowed articles her brother studied with such interest, then gave up the effort as futile and snuck a glance at the woman seated at the table across from Luke. Used to being ignored by adults, she was suddenly flustered to see the stranger looking straight at her.
“Hi, there. What’s your name?” A wonderfully warm smile curved the woman’s mouth.
Embarrassed by the sudden attention, Dulcie edged closer to her brother, trying to disappear behind him. Tobe glanced down at her, then appeared to realize the question had been addressed to her.
“That’s my sister, Dulcie.” He tossed out the answer and turned his curiosity toward the good-looking redhead. “I’m Tobe West. I work at the Ten Bar for Luke.” He bobbed his head in the direction of his employer.
“Angie Sommers.” She volunteered her own name, then switched her attention back to Dulcie. “Dulcie is a very pretty name.”
A thousand times Dulcie had wished for a more ordinary name. Never once had she considered her own to be pretty. The unexpected compliment had her blushing to the roots of her white-blond hair. But the corners of her mouth tilted upward in a tentative smile of pleasure that this woman should think it was.
At her failure to reply, Ima Jane stated the obvious. “Our little Dulcie is a bit shy, I’m afraid.” She then leaned closer to explain sotto voce, “Both her parents are gone. The poor dear’s an orphan. Such a tragedy for one so young.” She made a show out of noticing their plates and inquired in a louder voice, “Are you two finished here?” When Angie nodded that she was, Ima Jane signaled to one of the waitresses, indicating that the dirty dishes needed to be cleared away. “I hope you left room for some homemade pie,” she told Angie. “No one bakes a tastier one than my Griff.”
Angie pulled in a quick breath and exhaled it with a shake of her head. “No, thanks. I couldn’t eat another bite,” she said in utter sincerity.
“Would you like more coffee?” the waitress asked as she stacked their plates on her serving tray.
“I’ve had plenty, thanks.” Angie placed a hand over her cup, then glanced toward the front windows, noting the night-darkened world beyond them. “It’s getting late, and I’ve had a long day. If you could just bring me the check?”
“Don’t bother doing that, Liz,” Luke cut in. “Just put her dinner on my tab.”
“That’s generous of you, but if anybody is going to be owed favors around here, it’s not going to be you,” Angie informed him, then opened her purse and removed her wallet. “I’m paying for both meals, Liz.”
With a flick of his fingers, Luke motioned for the waitress to do as she was instructed. “Give the lady the check, Liz. I’m not going to wrestle her over it.”
While Liz retrieved the meal tab from her apron pocket, Ima Jane took advantage of the opening provided. “You’ll be needing a place to sleep tonight. Griff and I have a—”
“You’re out of luck this time, Ima Jane,” Luke interrupted. “Miss Sommers brought her bed with her. She has a camper parked outside.”
“Yes,” Angie confirmed, then asked, “is it all right if I park overnight in your lot?”
“Of course, it’s all right.” Ima Jane was quick to agree, relieved that Angie wasn’t going to slip entirely away from her. “I only hope it won’t be too noisy for you when everyone starts leaving.”
“As tired as I am after driving all day, I probably won’t hear a thing once my head hits the pillow.” With the fatigue of the long trip pulling at her, Angie suspected that statement was more true than she realized. She counted out the money to pay the check, added a gratuity for the waitress and laid it on the table with the check, then looked pointedly at Luke. “Would it be convenient for me to come out to your ranch tomorrow afternoon?”
“Collecting on that favor already, are you?” Amusement tugged at one corner of his mouth.
“Why not?” she countered, with a grin.
“Why not, indeed,” he murmured. “How does one o’clock sound?”
“That’s fine.” She snapped her purse shut. “How do I get there?”
“Ima Jane can give directions in the morning,” he said.
To which, the woman quickly agreed. “I’ll be happy to do that.”
“Thanks.” Rising from her chair, Angie slipped the long purse strap over her shoulder and sent a last glance at Luke. “I’ll see you tomorrow at one.”
“I’ll be there.” He nodded and watched as she turned and made her way to the door.
With her departure, Luke’s table was no longer the center of the room’s attention. Ima Jane returned to the bar, and Joe Gibbs drifted off to hustle a game of pool. Still poring ov
er the newspaper clippings, Tobe sat down in the recently vacated chair across from Luke. Dulcie crowded close to his arm and tried to see what was so interesting about the old newspaper stories.
Fargo frowned curiously at Luke. “Why’s she coming out to the ranch tomorrow?”
“She says she wants to see where her grandfather’s body was found.” There was a vague movement of his shoulders that said Luke didn’t completely buy into the reason she’d given.
Fargo grunted a response and stared at the door, his thick brows puckering together in a perplexed frown. “It still don’t make sense.”
“What doesn’t?” Tobe glanced up, almost glad of an excuse to quit reading.
“Her granddad coming all the way out here to look for the gold.” Fargo flung a hand in the direction Angie had gone.
Unable to follow Fargo’s thinking, Tobe asked, “Why wouldn’t he come look for it? If I thought I knew where it was, I’d sure be there looking.”
Fargo pounced on that answer. “That’s it exactly. Why did he think he knew where it was buried? According to her, there wasn’t any map pinpointing the location.”
“Just because she didn’t know about it, that doesn’t mean he didn’t have one,” Tobe reasoned.
“You’re probably right on that.” Fargo nodded after giving it some thought. “He must have had a map, else he wouldn’t have gone around askin’ people about mysterious landmarks.”
“He didn’t need to have a map to do that,” Tobe countered. “He could have been asking about places that were described in the letter.”
“What letter?” Fargo drew his head back in startled challenge.
“The letter they talk about in this article.” Tobe tapped a finger on the glass directly over the newspaper clipping about the outlaw’s execution.
