by Ray Tassin
Brant nodded.
"Did any of these people around here serve in the Rebel army?"
"Nope." Brant shook his head. "The grangers all came from Minnesota back in '58 and the ranch folks mostly drifted in from Nebraska and Iowa the next year. Them that served was all Union men. A few families come in after the war, but as far as I know, all were Unionists."
"How long has Tuso been around?"
"Six or seven months. He—say—" Interest brought the old man forward in his chair. "Are you holding out on me, son? Do you know something I don't?"
Danner shrugged, then showed the pin-fire cartridge to Brant, explaining its significance. Brant's eyes danced with excitement.
"That's it, boy! There's your evidence, if you can find that gun! And you think Tuso has a pin-fire?"
"Maybe."
Then the excitement faded from the face of the old sheriff. "But if Tuso was the fourth man, the Dooleys would know about it, and would be gunning for him instead of teaming up with him under Browder."
"Not necessarily," Danner said. "They honestly think I killed their brothers. The fourth man, whoever he is, must have convinced them I got to their brothers before he did. That way, he avoided blame himself, and avoided splitting the proceeds from the robbery. I can't tie Sam and Ears in with the Spaulding job, but I've got them cold on the grand-theft charge. So even Browder won't be able to use them again. After sweating in jail for a few weeks, Ears might open up and name the fourth man in exchange for a lighter sentence."
"Huh," Brant snorted, dropping gloomily back into his chair. "Don't be too sure. Browder controls that courthouse crowd. Every public official except me was elected with his backing. The only reason he didn't bother to get rid of me was because I'm too old to be a bother. If he wants the Dooleys out of jail he'll manage it."
"Not legally, and I think he's too smart to try it any other way."
"What are we going to do about it?"
"Wait and see."
From the cell block the muffled voice of Ears Dooley demanded a fresh bucket of water. Brant sighed, hesitated, then moved slowly into the cell block. Danner paced to the front window and watched traffic flow along the main street. The cell block door opened, then closed, and the uncertain tread of Brant's boots moved to his desk.
"Jeff, you've let the people around here crucify you ever since that Spaulding robbery and it's going to get worse. Why don't you tell them about this shell case?"
"I'm not interested in what people think." Danner turned to face the old peace officer. "And I certainly don't want to show my hand until it will help catch that fourth man."
"Well, at least put a piece in the paper about having a lead—something—anything. Then some folks won't think—"
"Let them think what they want to."
"Dammit!" Brant exploded. "You've been like a son to me. I don't want folks to—"
"My friends know better, others don't matter."
"What friends outside of myself?" Brant snorted. "Billy McDaniel and Lona?"
"Few men can claim as many real friends."
With a shake of his head, Brant gave up. The ringing of a work train pulling into the yards reminded Danner of the passing time. He mustered up a half-smile for his old friend. "I've got to go see the new boss man."
Brant nodded to him and Danner left the courthouse. It was close to noon when he cut across to the north side of the street. A cluster of buggies and wagons nestled about a little grassy park near the depot. Farm families gathered here for lunch during Saturday trips to town.
Danner had walked almost beyond the park before he heard a feminine voice call to him. Turning, he searched an assortment of calico-clad women gathered under the shade of a tree. Then Lona Swensen moved toward him. Taller than most women, she walked proudly erect. Her corn yellow hair reached to her shoulders and it was gathered in the back by a metal clip. As Danner approached her, he detected a faint disapproval on her rather wide full lips. With a sinking sensation Danner wondered how he'd displeased her this time. He was tempted to take her into his arms, but she must have sensed his intentions because she shook her head faintly.
"People are watching," she said softly, her large eyes widening.
She's right, Danner thought. She's always right—and most always annoyed about something. He tried to smile at her, but she wasn't even looking at him now. Instead, she moved away. He followed her to a blanket spread out under one of the cottonwood trees. Lona sat nearby, staring at him closely now. She possessed the flawless features of her Swedish ancestors, complemented by huge eyes of a dark blue hue. Her normally full lips were drawn out in a thin line.
"Father was in town yesterday and heard you were back. I—I stayed up late last night waiting for you to come out for a little while."
"I was out on my feet when I hit town."
"I understand you spent more than an hour with that Richfield woman." Her voice held soft reproach, but she looked away now, nervously toying with a cameo brooch at her throat —his Christmas present to her last year.
The absurdity of her jealousy almost brought a smile to Danner's lips. He found himself comparing this tall and fair woman with the small and dark Melinda—two women so unalike physically and so much alike inside. Each was a paradox of warmth and coldness, each was strong-willed, but lately, neither was often pleased with anything he did. He observed her covertly now and could almost see her mind coldly calculating something. Her life was carefully planned and most of her displeasure with him resulted from some action of his that threatened those plans.
The noon train rumbled in from the west, deposited a single passenger—a drummer—and clanged on its way to Junction City.
"Would you like some lunch?" Lona interrupted his thoughts. No sign of her displeasure remained now. There was serene pleasantness about her. Danner nodded, feeling a return to the moments of contentment that he and Lona had once achieved together.
From her father's wagon she brought a basket lunch and spread it on the blanket. The food was good. Lona prattled on with small talk. Danner relaxed, willing to do most of the listening. At times like this his loneliness fell away and he felt like a young boy again—without care.
More wagons pulled into the park and the street became even more crowded. While repacking the basket with the empty dishes, Lona started to say something, hesitated, then went on quietly.
"The Jensen place is for sale."
Danner considered the statement. Another one of her calculations, he thought. Lona's shoulders tensed slightly, but her voice remained even and controlled.
"It has three hundred and twenty acres of good wheat land, already planted, and a house that could be fixed up into a nice home." She wasn't smiling now and she kept her gaze on her lap, once again fidgeting with the brooch.
She never gives up, Danner reflected, not without some regret.
"I'm no farmer, Lona, you know that." He fished his pipe from his pocket and began packing the bowl. Lona looked at him.
"It would be a nice place to live after we are married." She sat up straight. "I don't want to live in town, and if you didn't want to farm, you could hire most of the planting and harvesting done."
Danner couldn't argue with her logic—he never had been able to. He could see what she wanted—to get him on a farm, then, eventually, to get him to farming and away from the railroad. He felt his own stubbornness rise up. Again he shook his head and touched a match to the bowl of the pipe, puffing the tobacco alive before answering her.
"Maybe we can find a place just outside town, with only a few acres, that wouldn't require much attention."
A temporary surrender lay in the manner in which she turned away. But Danner knew the subject would crop up again. It always did. He knew her well, this sweet, desirable and always determined woman.
Danner put the basket back in the wagon and returned to the blanket, thinking of the first time he had met her—at a dance a year before. Their relationship had been casual at first; then
they had drifted into a betrothal without a formal proposal. One day they were only friends—the next thing he knew, they were planning what they would do after marriage. Now Danner wondered how it had all come about. Not that he regretted it. Every bachelor in the area envied him.
Across the two hundred yards separating the park from the railroad office Danner watched Wainright leave the depot and walk along the platform to his office. Danner remembered his summons then and eased up from the blanket reluctantly.
"The new boss wants to see me. I better move along before he sends out a search party."
Lona nodded, smiling as if the disagreement hadn't happened. "You haven't forgotten the dance tonight, have you?"
"I haven't forgotten. Where will I pick you up?"
"We're having supper with the Ralstons. Come by about eight. And Jeff," she cautioned him, "please don't be late this time."
Danner nodded, thinking of the last dance, which had been half over when he got there with Lona. Then he moved on toward the railroad office.
A work train whistled from the yards as Danner stepped up on the long platform. He entered the outer office and nodded to the clerks before knocking on Wainright's door. Leroy eyed him covertly from his high stool, but said nothing.
"Come in." Wainright's voice sounded through the heavy door.
As Danner moved inside Wainright glanced up, then resumed his signing of letters. He still wore a black suit, but it looked different from the other one.
Danner stood waiting at the corner of the desk, resting his weight on one leg, hiding his impatience as the seconds ticked away. Finally Wainright finished the pile of letters and jingled a little bell on the desk top. A clerk came in, followed Wainright's nod to the stack of correspondence, then picked up the letters and left. Wainright looked up at Danner.
"I sent for you yesterday, Mr. Danner. You are a little slow in getting here."
"I had just got in from a good many days on the trail," Danner said. "No sleep in seventy-two hours."
"Mr. Danner, I'm accustomed to having employees come when I send for them." Regarding Danner coldly, Wainright leaned back in his chair. "What if there had been trouble of some sort while you were sleeping?"
"Was there?" Danner countered, an edge to his voice.
"That's beside the point," Wainright shot back, jumping to his feet and smashing his fist to the desk. Even in anger he kept his empty left sleeve turned away from Danner. But he couldn't hide the bitterness in his narrowed eyes.
Danner stiffened as slow anger warmed him. The temptation to reach across the desk and grab Wainright was a living thing. No job was worth this abuse, he thought. And Wainright's sourness would get a lot worse before it got better—if it ever got better. Finally Danner managed to force his anger behind a mask of outward calmness, but many seconds dragged by before he trusted himself to speak.
"There's a limit to how long a man can go without sleep."
Wainright glared back, on the point of another sharp reply, but apparently he changed his mind. His mouth pursed with a hint of malice.
"We intend to respect Colonel Richfield's request that you be given a lifetime job with the lines, but you must remember that it's a job—not a pension."
Fury exploded in Danner, dimming his vision. He leaned forward, putting clenched fists on the desk top. Huskily and with great care he said,
"Any time you figure I'm not earning my pay, you can forget about the Colonel's will."
Wainright's eyes became shrewdly calculating as he considered the statement.
"Just so we understand each other, Mr. Danner. That'll be all for now."
This caught Danner by surprise. Wainright eased back into his chair and picked up a folder from the desk top. But a rashness was working on Danner and he decided not to leave the situation hanging.
"Just why did you send for me?"
Wainright shrugged. "Nothing special. I just wanted to get acquainted."
"You mean," Danner said, "that all of this was for nothing?"
"Well, now, Mr. Danner," Wainright purred, obviously pleased with himself, "I'd say that we've accomplished a great deal with this conversation. You've assured me you are willing to earn your pay and I've let you know who is boss. But since you are here, you might fill me in on any cases you might have pending at the moment."
Danner exhaled slowly, then flecked the tension from his muscles. A chair scraping the floor in the outer office sounded loud in the momentary stillness. Wainright shifted impatiently before Danner finally answered.
"There's a month-old express-car robbery, unsolved. And yesterday I brought in two suspects for grand-theft charges. You'll have my complete written report on both this afternoon, plus an explanation of my belief that the two cases are related."
"I'll look it over when you get it in." Wainright resumed scanning the file folder he was holding. Danner turned away. But before he reached the door, Wainright hurled a parting barb.
"Remember, Mr. Danner. The next time I send for you I'll expect you here immediately."
Danner nodded without looking around. He dared not trust his voice. He eased the door shut behind him.
CHAPTER THREE
Strains of the Virginia Reel reached Danner when he turned the rig into the lane leading to the sprawling schoolhouse. Lona sat quietly at his side, but he was very much aware of her presence. As the lanterns hanging along the porch across the front of the building grew brighter, Danner could distinguish the couples out for fresh air.
He reined the team to the right, stopping under a scrawny tree. Laughter drifted out from the porch as he helped Lona from the buggy. She rested her hand lightly on the loop of his arm and they moved toward the light.
The men along the porch cast admiring glances at Lona, but she climbed the steps, seemingly unaware of the attention shown her. Inside the schoolhouse, the set ended as they entered and dancers left the center of the large room. Danner shouldered a path through the crowd along the east side, Lona following. A refreshment table at the west side of the room drew many of the dancers now. Chairs normally filling the center of the room had been moved over near the walls to ring the dancing area. Danner searched for two empties. Spotting several near the raised platform, he led Lona in that direction without paying any attention to the people he passed.
But when they reached the two chairs he had selected, Danner hesitated. The band platform was the focal point of attention, and the seats were right next to it. He preferred a spot more in the background. Then he dismissed the idea and helped Lona remove her light wrap, placing it on the back of her chair.
The constant milling of the crowd brought many couples—old and young and in-between— by the bandstand. A few of the men nodded curtly to Danner. Most of the men and women smiled at Lona, but no one stopped to chat. Nearly all the couples were lifelong friends of Lona, yet she seemed not to care at their aloofness.
Grandpa Bevo began picking at his fiddle then. Soon, two other fiddlers, a guitar player and a pianist launched a session—this time beginning with a waltz. Danner led Lona onto the floor and they drifted with the music through several numbers. When the square dancing started they left the floor and returned again when the round dancing resumed. Lona was in one of her quiet moods, yet she seemed content enough.
Once Danner spotted Wainright dancing with Melinda, and he guided Lona in that direction. Melinda was all woman tonight, clad in a fluffy black dress that probably had come from some fancy store back East. When she laughed at something Wainright had said, the hardness about her face vanished. Danner hadn't seen her so much as smile since the Colonel's death.
By ten o'clock the air grew so warm Danner removed his black broadcloth coat. Most of the other men present were in their shirt sleeves by now.
Billy McDaniel claimed Lona for a dance and Danner drifted outside to smoke his pipe. Other smokers on the porch glanced at him but no one offered a greeting. The cool air refreshed him and he felt a reluctance to return to the stuffy room.
Regretfully, he tapped the dottle from his pipe and idled along the porch to the doorway, and stepped inside. Then he noticed the cloakroom to his left, a long and narrow room with wall pegs.
Gun belts hung from every peg. No one seemed to be looking in his direction, so he stepped into the hall-like room and worked his way from gun to gun, examining each. He found a variety of Colts, some Smith & Wessons, one Dance revolver and an old Merwin and Hulbert. Then he started back up the other side, examining a shiny new D. A. Navy; the model had come out only a few months back. Next to it, he found an old percussion pistol that had been converted to the use of cartridges; then some more Colts, old and new. But nowhere did he find any type of pin-fire weapon.
A waltz started as Danner worked his way around the edge of the dancing area. McDaniel whirled by with Lona, holding her as if she were a China doll in danger of slipping through his heavy fingers. His face caught Danner's attention, a heavy-featured face now wistfully slack. Even when they bumped into another couple, McDaniel didn't seem to be aware of it. Danner moved over to his chair and lost sight of them.
Wainright and Melinda danced past, and Danner's gaze followed them. Melinda moved with the grace of a ballet dancer he'd once seen in Kansas City. The music ended and Wainright led her to the far side of the room. Then Wainright excused himself with a slight bow and moved toward the refreshment table, leaving Melinda alone. Acting on an impulse, Danner moved quickly across the floor. She stood looking at the dancers when he stopped beside her.
"Will you dance with me?" he asked abruptly.
Surprise widened her eyes. She hesitated, appraising him uncertainly, and Danner silently cursed the impulse that had brought him across the floor. But Melinda nodded pleasantly enough, and he guided her into the moving couples.
Occasionally his chin brushed her hair and he caught the scent of an elusive fragrance. By the stiffness of her back under the palm of his hand, he knew her thoughts. A mixture of amusement and temper touched him briefly, drawing him out of his silence.