Best of all, because he would appear to be one of the victims, too, he would be in the clear, free to continue the work of buying out and taking over not only the businesses here in town but also the mining operations in the mountains. The idea of using the riches he was going to steal from those mines to turn around and buy them was particularly satisfying.
By the time he was finished, everything that turned a profit in this corner of the territory was going to belong to him.
With that pleasant prospect filling his thoughts, he never noticed Kenton O’Keefe until he was unlocking the door of his office on the second floor and the gambler hailed him from the top of the stairs.
“Can I talk to you for a minute, Dyson?”
With a grimace of annoyance, which he quickly concealed, Dyson asked, “What do you want, O’Keefe?”
“Just a few words. It won’t take long.”
Dyson didn’t have anything he had to be doing right now. The town was waiting for the poker tournament to be over and the boxing matches to begin. So he shrugged, opened the door, and said, “Come on in.”
O’Keefe followed him into the office. Dyson thought about offering him a drink, then decided not to. He had no desire to cultivate a friendship with a tinhorn gambler.
“What can I do for you?” he asked once the door was closed.
“You can let me in on what you and Jack Bouma and Jaime Mendoza are planning,” O’Keefe said bluntly.
For a second, Forbes Dyson felt like he’d been punched in the gut. He recovered quickly, though, and put a frown on his face as he said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do,” O’Keefe said with an easy, confident smile. “I heard you and Bouma talking about it the other day, and then I saw you meeting with Mendoza last night to discuss his part in the plan.”
Dyson stiffened, and O’Keefe must have seen the reaction, because he held up a hand, palm out.
“No need to get upset,” he said. “I think it’s a very smart move on your part, and it’s going to be quite lucrative. I’d be a fool to try to ruin that for you . . . especially since you’re going to cut me in on it.”
“Is that what you think?”
“You’re a smart man, Forbes,” O’Keefe said, the familiarity annoying Dyson just that much more. “You know it’s going to be well worth it to pay me, say, five thousand dollars to keep my mouth shut about the whole thing.”
“Five thousand dollars,” Dyson repeated slowly. “How do I know you won’t ask for more later on?”
“Why, I’m a man of my word.” O’Keefe tried to sound offended, Dyson thought, but with the self-satisfied smirk on his face, he couldn’t quite pull it off. “I plan to just take my share of the money and move on.”
“Your share . . . You haven’t done a damned thing to earn a share.”
O’Keefe’s expression hardened. He hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets and went on, “Let’s not argue, Forbes. You’re a practical man. You know it wouldn’t look good if people found out you’ve been having middle-of-the-night meetings with a notorious Mexican bandit.”
The way O’Keefe returned to that detail but didn’t provide any others struck Dyson as odd, and suddenly he realized the gambler was running a bluff. O’Keefe had seen him down at the smokehouse, talking to Mendoza, but other than that, he didn’t know a blasted thing.
Still, O’Keefe had a point. The little bit he did know could still prove damaging to Dyson’s plans.
Dyson wasn’t going to allow that.
“Five thousand dollars, you said.” He went behind the desk and opened the middle drawer.
“That’s right.” Greed made O’Keefe’s eyes widen. His tongue came out and licked his lips in anticipation, like that of a hungry man sitting down to a feast.
Dyson reached into the drawer and took out a stack of greenbacks with a string tied around it. The bills didn’t add up to five thousand; a thousand was more like it. But O’Keefe couldn’t tell that without counting them.
Dyson dropped the money at the front edge of the desk and said, “There you go.”
The sight of the greenbacks made O’Keefe less cautious than he normally would have been. He stepped forward and leaned over the desk slightly as he reached down to pick up the bills.
Dyson leaned forward, too. His left hand shot out and grabbed O’Keefe’s shirt. He yanked the gambler toward him.
At the same time, Dyson’s right hand plucked a loaded derringer out of the desk drawer. It was a .41-caliber single-shot weapon, but that lone bullet was enough as Dyson rammed the barrel against O’Keefe’s chest and fired it into the gambler’s heart.
O’Keefe’s body muffled the shot, so it wasn’t any louder than a handclap. He lurched and gasped. He had gotten the money in his hand, but the little bundle slipped out of his fingers and fell back to the desk. As he stared in shock at Dyson, he tried to fumble something out from under his coat. A pistol of his own, more than likely, Dyson knew. He drew back his hand and slammed the derringer against O’Keefe’s left temple. O’Keefe gasped again as his knees buckled. Dyson let him fold up on the floor in front of the desk.
Dyson went quickly around the desk and saw to his satisfaction that O’Keefe had fallen on his back. That meant the blood welling from the hole in the gambler’s chest wasn’t going to get on the rug.
“You cheap tinhorn chiseler,” Dyson said, getting the insult in before the life faded completely from O’Keefe’s eyes. “I’m going to own an empire down here. Did you really think I’d let a worm like you stand in the way of that?”
Dyson didn’t expect an answer, and he wasn’t going to get one. O’Keefe stared sightlessly at the ceiling now.
Dyson put the money back in the drawer, then reloaded the derringer and replaced it, as well. Bouma would be somewhere close by, he thought. He’d get the gunman to clean up this mess.
And when that was done, he would join the ladies for supper. The last supper before all his plans came to fruition . . .
CHAPTER 36
Sam Calloway, who owned a successful hardware store in Silverhill, emerged victorious in the poker tournament late that afternoon. He was a soft-spoken man with thinning brown hair and a mustache. He was rather tongue-tied when Forbes Dyson introduced him to the ladies, but after he had left the hotel, Jean commented, “He seems nice. A very stable gentleman.”
“Stable?” Rose scoffed. “Try boring.”
Jean sniffed and said, “Not every woman wants some wild, reckless cowboy who’s liable to get killed in a gunfight or fall off his horse and break his neck.”
“That’s right,” Beth said, but her sly smile belied her words. “There’s something to be said for dying in bed of old age.”
“You and Rose go ahead and run after young hellions,” Jean told her.
Off to one side of the hotel lobby, Scratch nudged Bo with an elbow and said quietly, “You and me are old hellions, I reckon.”
“Yeah, I figured that out a long time ago,” Bo said.
Hugh Craddock came into the hotel. Bo was a little surprised he hadn’t seen Craddock all day. He’d expected the rancher to enter either the shooting contest or the horse race.
Craddock had stated that he didn’t believe he should have to compete to win Cecilia’s affections, though, and evidently, he had stuck to that.
Craddock had traded his trail clothes for a suit, a clean white shirt, and a string tie. He looked freshly barbered and shaved, and he smelled a little of bay rum as he approached Cecilia with hat in hand.
“Miss Spaulding,” he said, “I’ve come to beg your pardon.”
“I’m sure there is an abundance of reasons for you to do such a thing,” she told him coolly, “but what in particular are you begging my pardon for, Mr. Craddock?”
“Acting like a jackass,” he said.
“Again, you’re going to have to be more specific.”
Anger flared in Craddock’s eyes for a second, but he remained calm as he said, “I
had no right to just bull my way in, declare that I was going to marry you, and expect you to go along with it.”
Cecilia nodded and said, “I’m glad you understand that.”
“But you have to understand this,” he went on. “That’s the way I’ve been used to dealing with problems for most of my life. When you’re trying to carve a ranch out of a wild stretch of Texas, you’ve got to go at it hard and fast, without ever taking no for an answer. I want you to know, though, that I never meant any offense to you or any of these other ladies. I just, uh, let my mouth get ahead of my brain.”
For a moment, Cecilia regarded him intently; then she nodded again. “I appreciate your apology, Mr. Craddock, and I appreciate your honesty, as well, even though you express it in a rather blunt fashion.”
“I always found it saved time to be plainspoken.”
“In that case . . . what do you want?”
Craddock turned the hat in his hands and said, “Have dinner with me. I’m told that restaurant, Harbinson’s, is a nice place.”
“Wait just a minute,” Forbes Dyson said. “The ladies’ company is spoken for.”
“Not yet,” Cecilia said. “We promised to sit down with the men who won those competitions, but that’s not until tomorrow.”
Craddock said, “Then you will have dinner with me?”
“I didn’t say that.” Cecilia glanced at Bo and Scratch. “What do you gentlemen think?”
“We ain’t your uncles,” Scratch said. “It’s up to you what you do, Miss Cecilia.”
“Scratch is right,” Bo added. “You’ll have to make up your own mind how much you want to have to do with Craddock here . . . as long as he’s planning to keep you safe.”
“Nothing will hurt a hair on this lady’s head,” Craddock declared emphatically. “Not while I’m around.”
Bo shrugged and said, “I believe him.”
“So do I,” Cecilia said. “Very well, Mr. Craddock. I’ll have dinner with you.”
A grin spread across the rancher’s face. “Right now?” he asked.
“Why not? It’s late enough.”
As if something had just occurred to him, Craddock turned quickly toward Rose, Beth, Luella, and Jean.
“You ladies are welcome to join us, of course—”
“No, thanks,” Rose said. “This is Cecilia’s engagement, not ours.”
Cecilia began, “I wouldn’t call it an—”
“A dinner engagement,” Rose went on.
“Well . . . all right.” Cecilia offered her arm to Craddock. “Shall we go?”
Still grinning, he linked his arm with hers and led her out of the hotel.
“She forgave him mighty quick,” Scratch commented. “Quicker’n I expected her to.”
“Cecilia has a stern nature,” Jean said, “but she’s also compassionate. Most people just don’t ever see that side of her.”
“And she hasn’t necessarily forgiven him,” Luella pointed out. “She’s just giving him a chance.”
Forbes Dyson said, “Why don’t we all go on in the dining room, ladies? We’ll meet Miss Spaulding later at the boxing ring.”
“Do we really have to watch that?” Jean asked. “Sweaty men, stripped to the waist indecently, beating on each other . . . It sounds terrible.”
“Speak for yourself,” Rose said.
* * *
Philip Armbruster wore his Mexican peasant’s garb again so he could blend in with the crowd. He was getting used to not wearing his pince-nez. Maybe his eyes were actually improving in this climate, far away from the irritating smoke and stench of New York City.
Guadalupe Sanchez and the remaining handful of bandits were scattered through the crowd, ready to follow the plan Armbruster had laid out. They believed they were supposed to kidnap Luella Tolman and rendezvous with Jaime Mendoza outside of Silverhill, well south of the settlement.
Mendoza knew nothing about that, so no matter what happened to him once he “escaped” from captivity in the smokehouse, he wouldn’t show up at the meeting place. Sanchez and the others would believe Mendoza had been killed or recaptured in the fracas, and at Armbruster’s subtle urging, they would withdraw below the border, taking Luella with them.
After that, it would be up to Armbruster to find a way to get her away from the bandits. She would be so grateful to him that she would fall in love with him. He was sure of it.
The boxing ring, a raised square platform covered with canvas, had been built in an open area at the far end of town from the freight office where the silver shipment was cached in the safe. A dozen blazing torches on posts surrounded it. Most of the population of Silverhill, permanent and temporary alike, was gathered around the ring, watching as two of the boxers pummeled each other.
This was the second semifinal. One of the contestants for the final battle had already been determined and would face whoever won this match. So there was still a little time to wait, Armbruster knew. Dyson’s men wouldn’t strike until the final bout was going on.
That couldn’t happen soon enough to please Armbruster. His nerves were drawn painfully tight. He wasn’t cut out for a life of crime.
But he was learning.
* * *
After supper in the hotel dining room, Bo, Scratch, and Rance Plummer escorted Rose, Beth, Luella, and Jean down the street to the area where the boxing matches were being held. Scratch linked arms with Rose and Beth and clearly enjoyed being flanked by the two beauties. Bo took Luella’s arm, while Plummer walked with Jean. No one bothered them, but the ladies garnered cheers and applause from the crowd when they walked up.
Cecilia and Hugh Craddock were already on hand. While there was no air of intimacy between the two of them, they weren’t glaring at each other, either, and they stood fairly close together, so Bo figured the meal at Harbinson’s must have gone all right.
The thudding of fists against flesh and bone, as well as shouts of encouragement from the crowd, filled the air as the spectators watched the two men battle in the ring. Blood was always spilled in a bare-knuckles fight, and that was the case here, as crimson spurted from cuts and spattered the members of the crowd in the front rows. That just increased their frenzy.
“Like I said, barbaric.” Jean raised her voice to be heard over the tumult.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the round. As the fighters went to their corners, the noise level subsided a little, so Bo had no trouble hearing the female voice that said from behind them, “So there you are, Mr. Craddock!”
Hugh Craddock turned, his eyes widening in surprise. Seeing that reaction made Bo glance over his own shoulder, and when he did, he saw that a woman had emerged from the crowd to stand there glaring at the rancher.
The sight of her was a shock to Bo, too.
The last time he had seen her was on the platform of a railroad car, as they shared a few minutes of pleasant conversation on the way to El Paso.
“Miss Hampshire!” Craddock exclaimed.
Bo’s thoughts raced back to his previous meeting with the woman and then on to Fort Worth and things that had been said there. She had told him her name was Susan but hadn’t mentioned a last name. However, Bo recalled that the woman who had traveled west to marry Craddock, only to be rejected by him, was named Hampshire. Could they be one and the same?
Craddock had called his prospective bride “old” and had acted like she was some sort of crone. This woman who confronted him now was not exactly young, but she was still in the prime of life and every bit as attractive as Bo remembered her from their brief encounter.
Given all that evidence, Bo could reach only one conclusion.
Hugh Craddock was a damned fool.
Susan Hampshire said, “It’s nice to know that you remember my name, at least.”
“Mr. Craddock, who is this woman?” Cecilia asked.
Susan didn’t give Craddock time to answer the question. She said, “I’m the lady to whom he proposed marriage and then backed out like a scoundrel.”
Cecilia turned her head and gave Craddock a look that would have wilted flowers like a blue norther blowing through.
“Now, wait just a minute,” Craddock said, looking more nervous and less sure of himself than Bo had ever seen him. “That’s not the whole story. You lied to me, Miss Hampshire.”
“I did no such thing!” she objected.
“You sent a photograph taken years ago and claimed that’s what you looked like.”
“I told you that was not a recent picture.”
“Yeah, but you said you hadn’t changed much.”
“That’s a matter of perspective, I think,” she said.
Bo had seen that photograph, and while it was true that Susan Hampshire had changed some since it was taken, the resemblance was still strong enough that he thought he should have recognized her when he met her on the train. He hadn’t been expecting to ever meet the woman, though, and his brain just hadn’t put it all together.
Despite all that, Craddock’s objection about her being too old for him was ridiculous. The two of them were about the same age. They would have been a good match, Bo thought—if Craddock hadn’t been such a jackass.
Cecilia said, “Mr. Craddock, if you need to speak with this woman—”
“I don’t,” he interrupted. “We don’t have anything to talk about.”
“But if you promised to marry her—”
“A man’s got a right to change his mind!” Craddock took off his hat and scrubbed a hand over his face in frustration. “Doesn’t he? Hell, any fella can get cold feet!”
In a chilly tone, Cecilia said, “That doesn’t exactly make you appeal to me as marriage material.”
Susan laughed and said, “Now he’s after you, dear? Be careful. He’s not a man of his word.”
“Damn it, I am, too!” Craddock jammed his hat back on his head. “Look, Miss Hampshire, I apologize for the way things worked out. I reckon you have to see, though, that it was better to break things off between us before we got married, instead of waiting until it was too late. We wouldn’t have been happy together.”
“You never gave us a chance to find out, did you?” Susan said. Her eyes still glittered with anger, but Bo saw a little tremble in her bottom lip, too. Maybe some tears were mixed with that anger in her eyes. Craddock’s rejection of her had to have hurt.
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