Burnham pointed a forefinger at Warlow. “Take our dead friend down and bury him in the snow out back. You and Moody do the hauling. Sivley, you go on ahead of ’em and have a good look-see and make sure nobody’s about. Can’t be having gawkers.”
“So,” Warlow said, getting up slowly, frowning in slightly confused thought, “does this change anything?”
Burnham turned his eyes on them, both the good and the milky one. Gestured with open hands.
“We’ll come back here and enjoy the hospitality of our dead host,” he said. “Whiskey and food and warm beds, like the man said. In a day or two, this storm will let up and we’ll be on our way.”
“What about Caleb York?”
Burnham made a face, then shrugged. “If he turns up, I’ll deal with him. If he doesn’t . . . our dearly departed former associate on the floor over there may have been right. I’ll have to let my little grudge go for now, and be satisfied with the hauls from two banks. I can return on my own time, when the weather’s friendlier, and I’ve slipped York’s mind.”
Sivley coughed into his bloody towel, adding to it, then said, “If we’re fixin’ to hole up here, after all, when darkness comes? We should haul Maxwell’s remains out some, a ways off from the town. Can’t have somebody stumblin’ over him.”
“Can’t have that,” Burnham agreed. “But for now—get that bastard out of here. Can’t you fools see I’m tryin’ to eat my breakfast?”
* * *
Half an hour later, Caleb York was prowling the living quarters of the late Bliss Maxwell, his .44 in hand, his black frock coat sweeping like a cape behind him. The guests of the dead man he’d discovered in the snow out back were nowhere to be seen.
But the signs of them were everywhere. York had come in through the kitchen, shouldering open the door and ready to go into blazing battle. What he found, in a chamber redolent of bacon grease, was a table with dirty dishes on it, and a sink where on the counter nearby a few telltale drops of blood had been missed by the cleanup crew.
Those few droplets seemed to confirm his notion that Maxwell had been killed up here, as the corpse down below was accompanied by no bleeding out, meaning the man was dead already when he was given his temporary wintery grave. The sheriff—not knowing the blood spots near the mound of snow came from Ned Sivley coughing them up—was surprised there had been any blood at all.
And stuffed in a drawer were two very blood-soaked towels, starting to get crusty but mostly still wet.
Elsewhere in the apartment somebody hadn’t flushed the fancy indoor privy and York thoughtfully did it for him. There was a claw-foot bathtub that nobody seemed to have used lately. Facing bedrooms in the hallway had the rumpled sheets and blankets of careless guests, but what interested York most were the saddlebags.
A pair, slung over a chair, in either room. Their pouches contained sacks of paper money and coin—some of the paper money banded in Bank of Las Vegas wrappers. York made a quick tally that took the jackpot into the thousands—fifteen at least.
Before, there could have been little doubt in his mind that Burnham and his bunch were the men who’d holed up here, including slitting their host’s throat. Now there was no doubt at all. The gang had ridden through the night to Las Vegas, knocked over the bank, and ridden back to hide out in Maxwell’s digs, and wait out the weather.
York was able to transfer all of the money into the two pouches of one saddlebag. He could take it with him and walk it down to the jailhouse and put the stolen money in his safe. Still, this was the west end of Main, near the church, and his office was at the east end, near the livery stable. Not a terribly long walk, even in this storm.
But the men who took this money, and who had been staying here, were still in town. Where? Up to what?
Perhaps he should wait here for them to come back, to emerge from the cold into his warm welcome....
That door he’d shouldered through, however, had splintered some and might give his presence away. Waiting outside didn’t appeal to him—wherever he positioned himself, he could be come up on from behind. And it was still damn cold, for just standing around.
Were they on foot? He didn’t figure they were on horseback, otherwise they’d have taken along the saddlebags of loot.
What the hell were they up to in Trinidad?
Maybe this was personal. Maybe this was about finding and killing a certain Caleb York before the Burnham boys continued south to a warmer clime and no extradition. That would put them out there somewhere in his town, looking for him—maybe setting up an ambush at his office, possibly taking over one of the adobe homes in the barrio across the way.
They would certainly not go up to the Victory, where Rita would recognize them. And little else in town was open for business. Seemed unlikely they’d try to take down a second bank in two days; the establishment was among those closed, and York didn’t figure any of the Burnham gang knew how to crack or blow a safe. The wanted circular made no mention of such rarefied skills.
Damn!
What were they up to?
* * *
Peter Godfrey was a man of modest size but considerable dignity.
At thirty-seven he was already properly white haired including his eyebrows and his well-trimmed mustache, full of face, and with a slight potbelly to indicate he could afford to eat well, and with a voice deeper and richer than one might expect from someone who stood five foot five inches.
His wardrobe was deep and rich, too, from silk to tweed, and filled a closet in the apartment that took up the third floor of the bank building. His sartorial selections ran to frock coats in black, gray, and other dark colors; brocade and embroidered waistcoats; half a dozen sets of collars and cuffs; trousers, predominantly black but with a few light color and patterned variations mixed in; a variety of ties, bow, four-in-hand, and English square; and several jaunty Homburg hats.
Godfrey, a shopkeeper’s son, was quite aware that an appearance of personal prosperity carried as much weight in banking as a reputation for reliability and having a good head for business. His quietly friendly, restrained manner had served him well as a teller at the Provincial Bank of Santa Fe, and led to his eventual appointment as vice president in charge of loans.
Raymond L. Parker of Denver, one of the owners of the Santa Fe bank, had selected Godfrey much as a stage director might cast a play, to take over the leading role at the First Bank of Trinidad—a small operation now, but one that would grow. A spur was coming in that would make a railhead out of a little town already surrounded by rich cattle land.
As for Parker, he’d once been a partner in the Cullen ranch, the Bar-O, and continued to have business interests in the little community. On offering the top position to Godfrey, Parker had explained that this great opportunity had its risks—First Bank had suffered setbacks, including a robbery last year that had involved the previous president . . . who in fact had lived in these very quarters above the bank (with Dr. Miller on the floor between).
And those living quarters had their own troubled history.
Not that there was anything to complain about where the accommodations were concerned. The living room boasted Victorian-style furnishings that had no doubt cost a pretty penny, including button-back sofa, wingback chairs, marble-top tables, and Oriental carpet. The bedroom was similarly well furnished, the heavy dark wood against gold-and-brown striped wallpaper. A guest room and study filled out the posh surroundings.
In that study, at a rolltop desk, the previous bank president had either committed suicide or been murdered, depending on which scuttlebutt you believed.
Godfrey found little reason to go into the room.
Not that he was squeamish or believed in ghosts or any such nonsense. Nor did he think it likely that he would ever encounter violence in his respectable line of work. Bank robberies were rare as hen’s teeth. And hen’s teeth were rare . . . weren’t they?
Right now he was in the kitchen. He was fully dressed, in frock coat, waistcoat,
and trousers, even his well-polished black Oxfords, as if he were prepared for a normal workday or perhaps ready to go to church on a Sunday. Of course this was not Sunday, nor was it a normal workday—but the clothing was warm, and the cold that gripped little Trinidad, which shivered under a white blanket not at all warming, was like nothing Peter Godfrey—who’d grown up in the Southwest—had ever experienced.
Also, the cooking stove in the kitchen was a wonderful source of warmth. He normally dined at the hotel restaurant, and knew little of cooking—he was a married man and his wife Faith was wonderful in the kitchen. But he did know how to make a decent pot of coffee, and had a cup before him now. Faith would be proud.
The wind sang discordantly and occasionally howled, as if objecting to its own inability to maintain pitch. Godfrey couldn’t sing any better than this Norther, despite his sonorous speaking voice. He’d just mouth the words of hymns in church.
Faith had a wonderful voice, as pretty as her sweet face. So did his little girl, Grace, ten. His boy, Andrew, eight, had unfortunately inherited his father’s lack of talent in that area.
How he missed them.
In the fall, with any luck, they would be here with him in Trinidad in the house that Parker was having built for him, as a perquisite of the bank president position. For now, however, Faith and the children remained in Santa Fe. She was firm about letting Andrew and Grace, who liked their teachers and their friends, finish out the school year. And the timing would be propitious for the new house.
Faith pledged to visit in the summer.
So for now it was a lonely life, a bachelor’s life, but without the comfort of female company. He was a faithful husband, not tempted by the saloon girls, some of whom were quite fetching, and willing to rent their charms. Well, perhaps he was tempted—but not likely to give in. His position in the community, the reputation he was still building here, would not allow that.
But he missed them so, his little family.
He would have been ashamed if anyone had seen him, a well-dressed man sitting there in the kitchen, quietly crying into a handkerchief over the absence of the family he so dearly missed. He would have felt a fool, and might have been viewed as such by many.
Some, though, might have been wise enough to see that this was a good man, whose qualities went well beyond tailored apparel.
Someone knocked on the door.
* * *
On the exterior stairway alongside the bank building, four men in dusters were staggered up the top three steps and the landing.
Luke Burnham knew damn well that milky eye of his took some folks aback. So he’d positioned Jake Warlow outside the bank president’s apartment—after all, the handsome bastard had charm and the gift of gab. Meanwhile Burnham took the top step, Fender the next down, and Sivley the last—you never knew when that lunger might start coughing.
Warlow’s knock was answered and the door opened, more than a crack, less than all the way—enough that Burnham, tucked against the brick wall, could see a reflection of the man within on the door glass.
“Yes?” said the distinguished-looking, white-haired gent—a little feller with a potbelly, dressed up to beat the band. What for?
“Mr. Godfrey?”
“Yes?”
“Name’s Jacob Jones.” Warlow pointed vaguely toward the street. “I work for Miss Filley at the Victory. Maybe you seen me there—behind the bar?”
“No, I, uh . . . I’ve been there occasionally, but I don’t recall seeing you, sir.”
Warlow grinned. “Well, I woulda been wearin’ a shirt and tie and apron with my hair slicked back. Might look a mite different, off-duty. Anyhow, somebody ran in and told Miss Filley there’s a disturbance over here at your bank. She asked that we come inform you of such.”
The banker’s alarm was almost comical. “A disturbance? What sort of disturbance? Did you see anything going on down there?”
Warlow hugged himself and shivered. “Might I step inside, Mr. Godfrey? Seems we’re both gettin’ colder than need be. You’d think this snow would wear itself out, wouldn’t you?”
The door opened and Godfrey gestured for Warlow to enter, which he did. Burnham, Fender, and Sivley followed quick, surprising their host, who hadn’t seen the trio on the steps below the landing. The door slammed shut behind them.
“Who are these people?” the banker asked Warlow, mildly indignant, then looking from face to face. “What’s the meaning of this?”
Warlow smiled, closing the door on the cold. “Miss Filley thought you might need some help, Mr. Godfrey. What with that disturbance at your bank?”
The banker nodded at the men, smiling uncertainly. “Well, I appreciate that. What exactly sort of disturbance is it? Did you notice something going on in there, before you came up? Have you sought out the sheriff?”
Warlow said, “He doesn’t seem to be around. And it does seem quiet down there now.”
“What sort of disturbance in the bank are we talking about? Be clear, man!”
Burnham stepped up and withdrew his hand from a slit in the duster—a hand gripping the Colt Lightning revolver—and tweaked the tip of the banker’s nose with the nose of the gun.
“Someone’s about to rob it,” he said.
* * *
Caleb York needed to make sure the noise he’d made bursting into Bliss Maxwell’s apartment hadn’t alerted the Burnham gang and sent them scurrying into hiding, right there on the premises, somewhere. He slung the saddlebag of loot over his shoulder—it was awkward but he wanted to keep his hands on it—and looked into the matter.
A door off the hallway, just before you got to the indoor privy, opened onto a stairwell down to the saddle shop. As York descended slowly, the familiar musky oiled leather odor rose from a shop that lay in darkness, its window given scant light by a day blotted out by white. He had a little box of safety matches in his coat pocket, and with his .44 in his right hand, York held the wooden match in his left and his thumbnail flicked it to light. The sudden flare of it illuminated a room empty of anything but the saddle shop’s wares, then the match settled itself into a smaller guiding light.
But he carefully prowled the shop, making sure no one knelt behind a display case or in back of a saddle on its wooden stand. When he was convinced he was alone in this outer area, he went back behind the main display case, into a back room with more saddles on stands, and a cubbyhole at right—its door open—with a small bed and a dresser and mirror. Some Catholic images were on the wall.
These were clearly the Mexican saddle maker’s sleeping quarters, with hardly enough room to accommodate its occupant, let alone provide a hiding place for any of the Burnham gang. And Maxwell’s man Juan was not in sight.
Not in a pile of snow with his throat cut, too, York hoped.
Beyond was the workshop in the barnlike structure attached to the rear of the building. Again York thumbed a match and brandished the .44. Two horses were in the stalls, stirring at his presence, and the work area appeared to have been cleared, for what reason York didn’t know.
Then it occurred to him that the dead horses he’d seen on the road might have belonged to the Burnham gang, and these two animals might have been stolen from the Jameson Ranch buckboard. Would be a good bet, he feared, that the original riders on the wagon were murder victims who would turn up when the snow melted. And this cleared area might have been meant to accommodate two horses that never arrived.
Satisfied that the saddle shop building was empty of outlaws, York returned to the shop itself, pulled over a saddle on its stand by the window and climbed on, as if he were about to ride somewhere.
But all he wanted was a good view on Main, or as good a one as the still falling snow allowed. It was mid-morning, but you’d never know it. He was angled right, to get a look down the street, where both the bank and the Victory were in view. The bank was dark, but lamps in upstairs windows over businesses burned yellow, and the Victory windows burned, as well, campfires in a cold wilderness
.
Caleb York—on his stationary saddle, his .44 in hand, his black frock coat blending him with the darkened shop, saddlebag of recovered bank booty on the rear of the stand—waited and watched.
CHAPTER NINE
Peter Godfrey faced the menacing men in his kitchen, their dusters dripping melting snow on his floor. All four towered over him, their leader training a gun on Godfrey, who wondered if he would ever see his wife and children again. The banker wished he could excuse himself for just a moment, before this confrontation continued, to go to the bedroom where the framed photograph on his night table might allow him a few moments with Faith, Grace, and Andrew.
But such an interruption was an impossibility, of course, and as he looked at these men—their leader a fearsome creature with a milky eye and a face devoid of compassion, the one who’d knocked at his door a handsome fellow but on closer look a rough sort despite his smiling ways, another who seemed to sneer at the world, and a skinny one who periodically coughed into a bloody handkerchief. That last one was already on the road to death, but as things stood, would be still alive when Godfrey was gone.
He must handle these men. He handled depositors and customers seeking loans with friendly firmness; he would hide his fear and address them as fellow human beings, though he suspected they had lived lives that made them something less than that.
The leader was saying, “Is there a back way into that bank?”
“There is,” Godfrey said. He found a small smile and gestured to the kitchen table. “Gentlemen, would you sit so that we might discuss this? I have coffee on the stove and you’ve been out in the cold. I assure you we can deal with this situation in a civilized manner.”
The hideous-eyed one said, in a voice vaguely touched with the South, “There’ll be no sittin’, and no discussion. You will do as we say or pay the highest price.”
Godfrey raised a hand in a gentle gesture. “I will do as you say, sir. I will follow your directions, gentlemen. I have no desire to place Mammon before my very life. But I have a proposition. Could you spare a few moments, before we head downstairs?”
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