by Jo Goodman
Raine felt herself begin to nod off. She would have a crick in her neck for days if she slept in the chair. That prompted her to leave its relative comfort for her bed. She didn’t disturb the coverlet but lay on top of it and plumped the pillows. When the coil at the back of her head pressed uncomfortably, she tore at the pins and unwound it. The combs followed.
There were so many things she still wanted to do before Nat Church arrived, and all of them would have to wait. She could have told Mrs. Sterling the truth: She didn’t deserve to sleep, and the shadows under her eyes were there because she knew it.
It was one of the consequences of hiring a killer.
• • •
Curiosity gave Kellen the only excuse he needed to decide against going to Salt Lake City and get off the train at Bitter Springs. At least he preferred to think it was curiosity. The alternative explanation was that he had been moved by impulse, and that would have been worrisome. It was his experience that giving in to impulse meant the odds were better than even that he would be face-to-face with trouble at the end of the day, maybe before supper.
He set his valise at his feet and unclenched his fingers while he waited for the porters to bring his trunks. The bag was heavier than he recalled, and it occurred to him that he should have stowed it in the baggage car or accepted Mr. Berg’s offer to carry it for him. It would have provided a moment’s welcome comedy to watch the diminutive conductor strain to lift the bag, let alone haul it off the train. Every mile traveled since Nat Church surrendered his last breath had been fraught with more tension than the mile before, and Mr. Berg’s desire to make sure no fault was attached to the railroad prompted him to take on the role of investigator, asking as many questions as came to him, and often asking them several different ways.
One thing Bitter Springs had to recommend it was that Mr. Berg wouldn’t be there.
The station platform was only as long as the building that housed the ticket office, baggage area, and restaurant. Kellen walked the length of it several times just to shake off the confinement of travel. Passengers who’d left the train with Kellen had either already gone with their waiting party or were being herded back to their coaches after a frenzied meal in the station eatery. The stop at Bitter Springs, like so many others along the route, was not made for the convenience of hungry travelers. They merely benefited every fifty miles or so because the massive iron engines had requirements of their own. Passengers had exactly as much time to eat as it took the railroad tenders to load the coal and fill the water tanks, which usually necessitated a stop just on either side of twenty minutes. Kellen had participated more than a few times in the ensuing rush to order, pay, and consume a meal in the allotted time. The station restaurants made certain their waitresses could take an order quickly and collect the money even faster than they took the order, but getting the meal to the table, if it made it at all, took upwards of twelve minutes, leaving precious little time for consumption. On those occasions that his food arrived promptly, albeit somewhat less than hot, Kellen suspected he profited from a passenger on an earlier train who’d ordered, paid, and then had to leave before his meal arrived. He was philosophical about it, figuring that when he went hungry because the biscuit shooter took her sweet time bringing his meal, someone else would have the good fortune to receive the plate he hadn’t.
Kellen’s trunks arrived at the same time the last stragglers were boarding the train. Once the porters stepped back on board, Kellen was alone on the sheltered platform. He stood there for several minutes after the engine’s sharp whistle signaled her intention to leave. Even as the great wheels began to slowly roll forward, he remained where he was, observing the passengers at the windows observing him. He recognized Dr. Hitchens, who acknowledged him with gravely set features and a nod, the travelers in his coach who all went to the platform side to get a last glimpse of him but would not meet his eyes, and finally, the woman who had emerged victorious in the bonnet war. She cast him a glance that seemed excessively triumphant given the fact that the hat she was wearing no longer sported the black-tipped ostrich feather.
Kellen touched the brim of his hat as she passed, his smile narrow and cool. It had the effect of turning her head, this time away from him and in a manner that was not complimentary.
It wasn’t until the last car cleared the station that Kellen finally turned to face the station. There were no late departures from the train. It was what he wanted to know.
Kellen ignored the entrance to the restaurant and chose the door for tickets, schedules, and posting mail. The station agent was sitting on a stool behind the counter while he sorted letters from a mailbag that had been left in his possession. He didn’t pause or look up from his work when Kellen walked into the office.
“Someone expecting you, son?” the agent asked. “Seemed like you were waiting for someone.”
“Not waiting,” said Kellen. “Saying good-bye.”
“That so? Looked like you were waiting for someone.”
Kellen looked over his shoulder to take in the same view the station agent had. The window afforded the agent an unrestricted view of the platform depending on how far he was willing to stray from his stool. Kellen had the impression the man strayed plenty. He wasn’t aware of a station agent from Chicago to Sacramento who didn’t divert himself by watching his passengers when they weren’t looking.
Kellen turned back in time to catch the agent’s eyes darting to the mail. Clearly the man was interested in him. “Is there something else you want to ask me . . .” He looked around, saw the nameplate affixed to the wall above the agent’s head, and added, “Mr. Collins?” Kellen saw that the direct question gave Mr. Jefferson Collins all of a moment’s hesitation, long enough for the agent’s considerably sized Adam’s apple to bob once in his throat.
“Wonderin’ if you was witness to the murder, that’s what I was fixin’ to ask. Probably would have gotten around to it by and by. Never seen much sense in rushin’ a conversation about dead folk.”
“What do you know about it?”
Mr. Collins gave up the pretense of sorting mail, pushed it aside, and folded his arms across his chest. He regarded Kellen frankly. “Only what came in over the wire. Precious little, but then the railroad plays its cards close. Probably same as you.”
“Me? What makes you think I play my cards close?”
“Nature of a gambler.”
One corner of Kellen’s mouth lifted slightly, the hallmark of a thin smile offered most grudgingly. “So it is.” He watched Mr. Collins nod once, faintly, and concluded the agent was satisfied with his answer. “I suppose they told you the man’s name.”
“Sure. There was a thought that maybe he lived in these parts, but there aren’t any Churches in town, nor any close outside of it. Strange that. Common enough name. You’d think we’d have one or two go by it. Got none.”
“That does seem odd.”
Mr. Collins nodded again. “Odd, too, that he’d be Nat Church. I guess just about everyone knows that name. Leastways I know it like it’s my own. Nat Church and the Best Gang. That’s a good one, maybe my favorite, though I sure did like Nat Church and the Shooting Contest. You read the novels?”
“I’m familiar.”
“He’s probably not the real Nat Church.”
“No,” Kellen said dryly. “Probably not.”
The station agent scratched the underside of his bearded chin thoughtfully. “Good thing. Hate to think of the real Nat Church comin’ to such an ignominious end. Doesn’t set right with me.”
“Ignominious?”
“Embarrassing. Means embarrassing.”
“I’ll be darned.”
Mr. Collins stopped scratching and placed his hand flat on the countertop. “What can I do for you?”
“Recommend clean, comfortable lodgings.”
“That’s easy enough. You’ll want to see the Widder Berry. She operates a fine hotel.”
“I was wondering about private lodgings. A room
ing house. I heard someone on the train mention Penny Royal. Does Mrs. Royal have rooms to let?”
Mr. Collins chuckled. “There’s no Mrs. Royal. No Miss Royal for that matter. You misunderstood what you heard . . . or overheard. It’s the Pennyroyal Saloon and Hotel. Widder Berry owns the place. You can’t do better.”
“I see. It’s a hotel and saloon?”
“It is.”
Kellen felt himself come under renewed scrutiny as the agent’s stare narrowed and several deep creases appeared between his eyebrows when he drew them together. “All right,” Kellen said. “That will be fine.”
“Didn’t think taking a room above a saloon would much trouble a gambling man.”
“Would you like to live where you work, Mr. Collins?”
The agent surveyed the small office, his attention lingering on those parts that adjoined the front of the restaurant. The clatter and chatter from next door were hardly muted by the wooden walls. “Point taken. You can try the Sedgwick place. George and Amelia take on boarders, but they’re partial to folks plannin’ on staying a while. You aimin’ to do that?”
Kellen ignored the question. “You said I couldn’t do better than the Pennyroyal. I’ll take you at your word. What about my trunks and bag?”
Mr. Collins used his index finger to motion Kellen aside, and then he leaned a little to the right to look past him. “That’s better. Could not recall if you had one bag or two.”
“One bag. Two trunks.”
“You must be travelin’ for a spell.”
“About my trunks,” said Kellen.
“Oh, my grandsons will help you with those.” Mr. Collins reached for a brass bell that had been pushed out of the way by the mailbag. He gave it a hearty shake, grinning widely enough to show a gold eyetooth when his visitor winced. “Once your ears stop ringing, you’ll realize it was all for the best.”
It took Kellen a moment to understand, but when he did, he had to agree with Mr. Collins. The bell’s harsh resonance had the effect of quieting the clamor in the restaurant. The silence did not last long, but neither did the noise return to the level of a cacophony.
“It’s worse when the passengers are in there. Next train’s not due . . .” He consulted his timepiece. “Not due for another three hours. Mostly freight and the immigrant cars.” He looked Kellen over again. “A man like you, well, you probably never rode with the immigrant cars.”
Kellen had. Not merely with them, but in them. He’d done it to satisfy his need to know firsthand. And once done, it was not something he would forget or, given a choice, repeat. “A man like me, Mr. Collins?”
“Two trunks and a bag. There are entire families in those cars that make do with less than you stowed under your seat. They wear most of what they own on their backs and smell like they never been properly introduced to lye soap.”
“Then you’re correct. I have better than a passing acquaintance with soap.” And one sharp memory of having his mouth washed out with it. Kellen let that memory slip away as his attention was drawn to the door by swift, multiple footsteps approaching. The door shuddered in response to the runners’ barreling into it. There was a brief scuffle, an angry exchange of words, and then the brass bell brought it all to a halt.
Kellen was still grimacing and tugging on his right earlobe when the door finally opened, and Mr. Collins’s errant grandsons simultaneously squeezed past the threshold. They all but spilled into the room and, far from making an apology for it, continued to jab each other with pointed elbows, each nudge a little harder than the last. The boys, both of them towheads with matching cowlicks, were far younger than Kellen had supposed them to be when the agent informed him they would be taking care of his baggage. The boys didn’t appear to be twins, but that was only because one of them was half a head taller than the other. Except for the disparity in their stature, there was little enough difference to distinguish them.
“These are my grandsons,” Collins said. It was almost a sigh. “Stand up straight, boys. Mind your manners. Stop jabbing.”
Kellen watched the boys come to attention as if they’d heard a whip crack, but Collins hadn’t raised his voice in the least. Kellen cast a glance back to see if the agent was threatening his grandsons with the brass bell, but no, he had already returned to the stool, his long expression more indicative of martyrdom than menace.
“Introduce yourselves, boys,” Collins told them.
The taller of the pair, and in Kellen’s estimation the elder by a year, maybe two, stepped forward first. “Cabot Theodore Collins. Folks call me Rabbit on account of me being fast as one.”
Before Kellen could respond to this overture, the boy who was not Rabbit inched forward until he was sharp elbow to sharp elbow with his brother. “I’m Carpenter Addison Collins, but everyone but my granny calls me Finn on account of I like it better than Carpenter.”
“Well, yes,” Kellen said carefully, and wondered why he hadn’t thought to choose a better name for himself when he was eight. “Finn. Of course.”
Finn said, “Carp-enter. Fish have fins. See?”
“Yes, I do. Clever.”
Jefferson Collins eyed his grandsons. “This gentleman wants to go to the Pennyroyal. You two think you can manage?”
The boys began to dance in place before Collins finished. “Is all that yours, mister?” Rabbit asked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the trunks.
“It is.”
Finn turned around to look where his brother was pointing. “Sure. We can put all that on the wagon. Won’t be a bit of bother.”
“Then get to it,” Collins said, and the boys were out the door with significantly less commotion than when they entered. “They’ll bring the buckboard around, back it up to the platform, and drag the trunks over to the bed. Won’t take them but a few minutes. And in case you’re wondering why they’re so eager, it’s because they like to visit with the widder.”
“Good to know. I thought they sized me up as someone who would give them money for their trouble.”
“Could be they did, but it won’t hurt them to learn different.” Collins picked up several envelopes and neatly squared them off, tapping one corner against the countertop. “You never did tell me your name,” he said casually.
“You never did ask.”
Collins chuckled. “You know what? I don’t think I will. Nothing wrong with speculating on it until the boys get back from the hotel.”
“You think they’ll wheedle it out of me?”
The station agent spoke quite sincerely. “Wheedle? You count yourself fortunate if they don’t set your hair on fire.”