“That could explain it. I can’t think for another reason why they’d take it on themselves to try and burn down the place,” said Peter.
“Anything else said, before I got here, that might support that notion?” asked Bob.
Vern shook his head. “Not really. Not a whole lot of talking got done. Except—like Murphy put it—with lead. I agree that them getting hired for the job makes sense, though. They got the look of a couple lowlifes who’d do about any kind of dirty work for money.”
“Either of you seen them around before?” Bob asked.
“Not that I can say for sure,” said Peter.
“Same here,” Vern agreed.
Bob was in the same fix. Due to the gold strike, McQueen and Murphy were the kind of hard-luck nondescripts who came and went in a steady flow all up and down Gold Avenue. In any of New Town’s smoky, crowded tent businesses on just about any night of the week, they would have blended invisibly in among others of their same ilk.
The marshal turned to the pack of gawkers who’d spilled out of some of those very same businesses and now were gathered close to catch a piece of out-of-the-ordinary excitement. “How about it, any of you?” he asked in a loud voice, his eyes scanning the anxious, hard-featured faces. “Anybody know either of these two men? Their names were Murphy and McQueen.”
There was some general murmuring and grumbling. Then somebody called out, “Which one was which?”
“What the hell difference does it make?” responded Bob irritably. “I’m not looking for a verification of their names. I want to know how long they’ve been in town, where they’ve been staying, or who they’ve been hanging around with . . . Anybody?”
More murmuring, but nobody came forward with the kind of information Bob was looking for.
“Either they genuinely don’t know, or they’re afraid to admit any association with the skunks,” said Peter.
Bob addressed the crowd again. “If I find out later on that somebody does know something but is holding out, it’ll go hard on that person. But if you come forward in the next day or so—to me, or any of my deputies—what you have to say will be kept in confidence and there won’t be any trouble. Spread the word on that.”
Turning away from the Gold Avenue bunch, Bob saw a cluster of folks approaching from the direction of Front Street and Old Town. In the lead was Mike Bullock. Not far behind him came August Gafford and a short ways farther back was Fred Ordway, Bob’s chief deputy. In between, Bob also spotted Titus O’Malley, the town undertaker.
“Jesus,” Bob muttered, not quite under his breath. “We’re gonna have half the state of Wyoming here before this is done.”
Bullock marched up, puffing some from his hurried walk. “What in blazes is going on, Marshal?”
Bob’s mouth spread in a sardonic smile. “Thankfully, blazes are exactly what’s not going on, Mike.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Bob jerked a chin toward McQueen and Murphy. “It means that if those two firebugs had gotten their way, this building we’re all standing in front of would be one big bonfire right about now.”
Gafford walked up just in time to hear the last part. “What! What are you saying—my building was going to be set on fire?”
“That’s the way it was headed,” Bob confirmed. “Lucky thing my deputies here were passing by on patrol and smelled the coal oil that had been poured all over inside to make sure there’d be no stopping it once it was touched off.”
Gafford’s eyes bugged. “Good God! I can’t tell you how thankful—wait a minute. What about Hyser, my guard?”
“He’s over there, being tended to by the doc. He caught a couple bullets but he’s gonna be all right. He was headed on a lot worse course before that. They jumped him and hog-tied him, then forced their way in. They dragged Hyser inside, too, to get him out of sight. Way it looked, they were fixing to leave him there and let him burn alive as part of their dirty work.”
“Good God!” Gafford exclaimed again.
“Who are—or were, I guess I should say—those two cold-blooded devils?” Bullock wanted to know.
“That’s what we’ve been trying to find out,” Bob said. “All we got so far is that their names were Murphy and McQueen. You recognize ’em, by any chance?”
“Never saw ’em before in my life . . . or theirs,” Bullock answered.
“They’re unknown to me as well,” said Gafford. “So what did they have against me, then? Why would a couple of obvious bottom-scrapers be out to ruin me and my beautiful Crystal Diamond?”
Before responding, Bob glanced over to Fred, who was kneeling next to the dead men and giving them a good looking over. Fred had as sharp a memory for faces as anybody Bob had ever known and regularly put that knack to good use by spending time in Gold Avenue dives on the lookout for known troublemakers.
But on this occasion he had nothing to offer. Looking up to meet Bob’s gaze, he could only shake his head. “Can’t recall ever seing ’em around before, boss. Their names don’t ring no bells, either.”
“I repeat my question,” Gafford said impatiently. “What could these two complete strangers have against me that would make them attempt something so appalling?”
“My guess—and making a guess is the best I can do right now—is that somebody hired ’em to do it,” said Bob.
“But that still comes back to who—who wants to ruin me badly enough to hire a couple of arsonists?”
Bob cocked an eyebrow. “How about you take a stab at answering that? Who do you have in the way of enemies who might go that far to do you harm? You’re a wealthy, successful man, the kind who cuts a pretty wide swath wherever he goes. In other words, you’re the kind of fella who, generally speaking, has likely left a few ruffled feathers in his wake. Is that an inaccurate statement?”
“No, I suppose it’s not,” Gafford admitted grudgingly. “The resentment and jealousies of others commonly haunt a successful man. But to this level? I’ve never encountered anything to such a degree and can’t think of anyone from my past who harbors that kind of rancor toward me.”
“Maybe it’s not all that far in your past,” spoke up Bullock.
Both Bob and Gafford pinned him with looks that said they were waiting for him to elaborate further.
“We were talking about it in my place only this afternoon,” Bullock reminded the marshal. “When I was fretting and moaning about competition from the Crystal Diamond, you were the one who pointed out that those a lot more threatened by Gafford’s fancy new joint would be the other saloons and gambling dens right here on Gold Avenue.” He made a sweep of his arm, indicating the tent businesses and shanties strung out to the north, just past the milling crowd on that side. “No offense to the hardworking, honest miners and other folks who trade there, too, but everybody knows that in among them are also scavengers and lowlifes who would do just about anything for a quick payoff.”
“That’s certainly an unsettling thought,” Gafford said, scowling.
“I don’t like it, either, but there it is,” said Bullock. “By saying it, I’m admitting my own ill wishes and hard feelings at the same time. But while I dislike your showboating ways and may have expressed a desire more than once to belt you smack in the mouth, Gafford, I don’t go in for this kind of dirty business. Not only that, I’ll back you against anybody who does.”
Gafford regarded him, his scowl gradually easing. “I believe you, Bullock. I’m well aware that we don’t see eye to eye on most things, but I long ago took the measure of you as a man of his word and someone who would never stoop to something like this as a means of retaliation.”
“That’s good to hear, from both of you,” Bob said. “And I tend to agree with Mike that most likely whoever did the hiring for this attempt to burn down the Crystal Diamond came out of New Town. But any retaliation for it, I expect to be left in the hands of me and my deputies. We’ll continue to dig and ask around, try to get to the bottom.
“In the
meantime, Gafford, you now have some added work to do to finish getting your place ready for the big opening. I’ll have my men stand watch over it for the rest of the night. In the morning, you’d better hire yourself some more guards to replace Elmer and then a crew to scrub down all the coal oil that’s been splashed to hell and gone. See me, if you want, for the names of some good, reliable men who’ll give you an honest day’s work.”
Gafford nodded. “I’ll do that, Marshal. Thanks for the offer.”
Turning to his deputies, Bob said, “Okay, break ’em up. Clear everybody out, send ’em back where they belong. Let the doc and the undertaker finish their work. Shoo off the rest.”
It didn’t take long for his orders to be carried out.
Once they had the street mostly to themselves, Bob gathered his deputies in close. “You all heard what I told Gafford and Mike Bullock, right?” he said. “It’s gonna be up to us to get to the bottom of this. I meant it when I said that I believe the culprit who hired McQueen and Murphy came out of one of the competing saloons along this strip. We’re gonna have to keep pouring on the questions and maybe do a little leaning on certain individuals. Those two didn’t just materialize out of thin air. Somebody had to have seen ’em before tonight, must have noticed ’em hanging around, talking to somebody . . . That’s what we need to get to.”
All three of the eager faces he was addressing nodded their understanding and agreement. “Okay. Peter and Vern, I want to commend you again on the good job you did here tonight spotting those two and stopping them before they got any further with their plans,” Bob said. Before continuing, his mouth fell into a crooked grin. “As a reward for your good work, I’m gonna let you take the watch over this place for the rest of the night. Sorry about the sleep you’ll miss, but you can divide it up in shifts however you want. Just make sure one of you is on the job and awake until morning.”
“We’ll work it out, Marshal,” Peter assured him.
“I can spell them for part of the time, too, if you want,” offered Fred.
“No, you take over bright and early in the morning,” Bob said. “Stick with it until Gafford shows up with his cleanup crew. Then it’s in his hands. For tonight, even though I realize you went off duty a while back, I do have some work for you before you go back on your own time.
“I want you to come with me and we’ll make a pass through these Gold Avenue saloon tents and some of the gambling joints. Maybe we’ll be lucky and catch somebody who’s a little nervous and more apt to have a slip of the tongue while the pressure and excitement of what almost happened is still fresh in their minds. Be harder tomorrow after whoever was in on it has had a better chance to get their story straight and cover their behind. But that don’t mean we’ll let up—sooner or later somebody will crack.”
“Sounds good, Marshal. I even have a couple most likely places in mind,” said Fred.
Bob nodded. “I do, too. But we’ve got to be careful not to go in with our minds already made up, not until we shake something loose.”
As Bob and Fred got ready to head up the street, Vern edged forward with an uncertain smile on his lips and said, “Speaking of a body not having his mind made up about something, can I ask you a question, Marshal?”
“Well, sure, Vern. What is it?”
“Back there a little while ago, when you asked me if I had a match and then called out for me to strike one on those two varmints up in the balcony . . . You did remember that I don’t smoke or have any call to actually carry matches. Didn’t you?”
Bob grinned. “What do you think, Vern?”
The young deputy’s brow furrowed. “I guess I think, like I did then, that you were bluffing. That’s why I went along with it and said I had one. But if I truly did, you wouldn’t have really wanted me to light one of those torches. Right?”
Still grinning, Bob reached out and clapped a hand on Vern’s shoulder. “Probably not. But, then again, my memory about another fella’s habits and so on ain’t necessarily as sharp as it used to be . . .”
CHAPTER 8
Their prowl through the Gold Avenue tent dives that same night had garnered Bob and Fred disappointing results. They got a number of furtive glances and a few nervous stammers, but not much more. Nothing they could act on.
In the morning, Bob rose with the sun, as was his habit. He ate his usual breakfast of boiled eggs and coffee, prepared by Consuela. The faint tension between them from last evening was nowhere in evidence. Bob was relieved at that, having plenty else on his mind to start the new day. Yet, at the same time, he knew the matter wasn’t resolved.
Normally on school mornings, he waited before leaving the house in order to have a few words with Bucky once the boy had been rousted to get ready for classes. On this occasion, however, he waived that routine and asked Consuela to explain. He knew his son would be bubbling with more questions about the shoot-out at the Crystal Diamond, even though Bob had already covered the basics with him and Consuela upon returning home last night, and he simply didn’t have time to get caught up in that again.
At the bottom of the slope below his house, Bob took a turn up Gold Avenue before going to his office down near the end of Front Street. He found Fred Ordway already on the job out front of the Crystal Diamond, having relieved the Macy brothers so they could go home and catch a few hours’ sleep.
Fred, with his slightly stooped shoulders and well-padded stomach, could at times appear slow and shuffling, perhaps not overly bright. As more than a few hardcases had found out since he’d pinned on a badge under the mentorship of Bob, however, it could be a serious mistake to write him off so lightly. Fred and his plodding, methodical ways could be hound dog tenacious and bulldog tough.
Bob saw that kind of intensity and focus in his chief deputy’s eyes this morning. Nobody had been more frustrated than Fred at last night’s failure to turn up some kind of link to the two would-be arsonists, and Bob could tell he was chomping at the bit to get back to doing some more digging and questioning as soon as possible today.
“You must have landed on your mattress barely long enough to put a dent in it,” Bob said, greeting him.
“You said to be here bright and early, boss, so that’s what I am.”
“You even take time for breakfast?” No matter what else, Fred seldom missed finding time to eat.
“As soon as Mr. Gafford shows up here,” Fred explained, “I planned on making a stop at the Bluebird Café on my way down to the office.”
“You be sure and do that.” Bob rolled some kinks out of his shoulders and swept his gaze up the sprawl of Gold Avenue. This early in the morning there was scarcely a sign of activity. “I take it everything’s been quiet here since last night?”
“Nothing but. I saw a few hungover miners heading out from the whore cribs farther down the line, but that’s about it. Otherwise, you know that most people and businesses in New Town don’t start stirring until closer to noon.”
Bob grunted. “Too bad they try to make up for it by howling late into the night.”
“I did have one visitor this morning, though.” Fred stepped over to the front steps of the Crystal Diamond and picked up a burlap sack that he carried back and held out to the marshal. “Titus O’Malley stopped by a little bit ago and left this for you.”
Bob took the sack, which had some heft to it and a faint jingling sound from within its bulky contents. “What is it?” he asked, unable to think what the town undertaker might be presenting him with.
“It’s the personal belongings of those two varmints from last night, Murphy and McQueen. Mainly their guns and gun belts. But there’s also a little something extra.” Fred paused, waiting for Bob to pin him with a questioning look before continuing. “Titus said you needn’t worry about him billing the town for the burial of those two. He said he already took his fee from the money they had in their pockets—close to fifty dollars each. His receipt for what he took and the balance of the money is in the bag there with the rest.”
<
br /> “Fifty dollars each,” Bob echoed thoughtfully. “That’s a pretty healthy sum for a couple of hardscrabblers like those two appeared to be.”
“Uh-huh. That’s what I was thinking.”
“Wouldn’t be hard to conclude it amounts to evidence of sorts to back up our notion about them being hired for the arson job.”
“Yeah. I was thinking that, too.”
* * *
When Bob arrived at the log building near the end of Front Street that housed his office and the jail, he immediately poked up a fire in the top of the ancient stove and set a pot of coffee to brewing. The much-maligned stove gave off too much heat in the summer and not enough in the winter and was responsible for cooking the worst coffee in town—at least that’s what Bob and his deputies laid the blame on for the vile mud that came out of most every pot they prepared. Bob didn’t even bother hoping that the one this morning stood a chance of turning out any better.
While the coffee was coming to a bubble, Bob sat down at his desk and pulled from a drawer the accumulation of wanted posters and fugitive notices he had stored there. He was pretty sure there was nothing among them that tied to McQueen or Murphy. He had a good memory for names and neither of those tugged at his recollection. Neither did their faces, at least not in the conditions he’d studied after last night’s encounter. But washed and shaven, their greasy hair cropped, and with a different name attached . . . it was a long shot, but just maybe he’d run across a match.
Bob was nearly finished going through the stack without any success when the door opened and August Gafford came in. He was once again dressed nattily in a three-piece suit complete with cravat, making quite a contrast to the harried way he’d looked when Bob had seen him last, while he was still trying to come to grips with what had nearly been done to his new business.
“Good morning,” he said in a booming voice. “And I mean that in a most sincere way, not the standard casual manner in which folks tend to use the term. When I think of the circumstances I could have woken to this morning, if not for you and your deputies, it is a very good morning indeed!”
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