скачать книгу бесплатно
Deuce jangled the lead rope. “Helping at the livery.
Luther squinted, then pointed and snapped his fingers. “Where’d you get that horse, boy?”
“I’m taking it back to Miss Kelsey at the hotel.”
His eyes widened. “Kelsey? That Rodgers girl at the hotel? Is it hers?”
“I guess.”
“Don’t you know where that there horse come from, boy? It’s the one that went down with them dang-fool Schoolyard Boys. Don’t you recognize it?”
Deuce looked at the mare, then at Luther. “No. I guess with all the commotion, I didn’t pay much attention.”
“That’s ‘cause you were puking your guts out while I was getting shot up,” Luther barked. He stroked his chin. “Now why would a nice little lady like that Rodgers gal have a horse that was used by a bunch of outlaws?”
“I don’t know.”
Luther’s brows drew together. “I’ll have to study on that a spell.”
“Look, Luther, I’ve got to go. If my pa finds out—”
“I’m stuck in this hole until the circuit judge gets around again, and all you’re worried about is your pa.” Luther waved him closer. “Get over here, boy.”
He glanced up and down the alley again, then ventured closer to the window. “What?”
“I’m getting powerful thirsty in this here cell,” Luther whispered. “How ‘bout you bring me a bottle?”
“No. I can’t do that.” Deuce backed up a step.
“You owe me, boy.” Luther pointed an accusing finger at him. “On account of you, I got shot, arrested and thrown in this here jail. I coulda got you in with the biggest gang in the state. Scully would have taught you everything he knowed about outlawing. You’d have been somebody, boy. And look at you now, shoveling up after horses in your pa’s livery. What kind of life is that?”
Deuce shifted from one foot to the other. “I don’t know, Luther.”
“Come back here after dark and bring me a bottle.”
“I’ve got to go.” Deuce pulled the mare down the alley.
“You better be back here! You owe me!”
He didn’t answer, didn’t even look back, just hurried through the alley and over to the Eldon Hotel. Deuce put the mare in the small paddock, then stuck his head inside the open kitchen door. It smelled of freshly baked bread.
Etta Mae turned from the stove, dripping water. “Hmm? Yes? What is it, dear?”
Aware now of how long he’d been away from the livery, Deuce bounced anxiously on his toes. “Is Miss Kelsey here?”
“Oh, no, dear.” Etta Mae turned back to the stove. “She went out to visit her pa this afternoon. Seems he’s not feeling well. And she was just out there yesterday, too.”
“When will she be back?”
“Hmm? Oh, I don’t expect her back. She took her carpetbag with her. Left some time ago.”
“Just tell her the mare is in the paddock.”
Deuce went down the alley, but in the opposite direction, away from the jail. He ran all the way back to the livery.
Clay ducked into the express office and walked up to the counter. The sheriff had told him—three times—when the stage would be through Eldon, but he wanted to check the schedule himself, as well as some other facts.
Otis Bean, the senior agent, looked up from his neatly arranged desk. A green visor crowned his bald head, and black armbands fit loosely around his crisp white shirtsleeves. In the corner, at a much smaller desk, sat a young man, his dark head bend forward, diligently shuffling through several stacks of papers; junior agents worked hard on their way up.
Otis Bean peered over the top of his spectacles. “Yes?”
Clay braced his hands against the counter. “I’m Marshal Chandler. I need to talk to you about the stage robberies.”
Otis looked Clay up and down, and his expression soured. “Well, you can be sure it had nothing to do with my stagecoaches—I don’t care what Jack Morgan says. He might own everything in this town, but he doesn’t own this office.”
“Seems a mite peculiar, don’t you think?” Clay hung his thumbs in his gun belt. “The only time the stage is robbed, Jack Morgan’s payroll is on it.”
“Hoodlums.” Otis tossed his head. “Don’t blame me if you law people can’t keep the stage lines safe for decent folk to travel.”
Clay inclined his head. “Makes me wonder who else knew the payroll would be on the stage. Morgan says he never sends it out on a regular schedule, just to keep anybody from learning the routine.”
Otis’s body went rigid. “Now you listen here, Marshal, I’m senior agent of this office, and I know my job. And so does Ernie.” He jerked his thumb toward the young man seated in the corner. “If somebody is shooting their mouth off about Jack Morgan’s payroll going out, it’s not coming from this office.”
The man had worked himself into such a snit, Clay felt inclined to believe him. “I’d like to see the journals for the days the Morgan payroll was stolen.”
Otis’s spine stiffened. “That is private information meant only for the stage lines.”
Clay straightened and squared his shoulders. He tapped the badge on his chest. “Not anymore.”
His eyes narrowed, and then he slapped his palms against the desktop and rose. “Ernie!”
The young man jumped from his chair. “Yes, Mr. Bean?”
“Get the records for the days of the last four stage robberies. Give the marshal whatever he wants.” Otis turned and glared at Clay. “And I should hope this will actually result in an arrest”
Ernie gathered the ledgers and brought them to the counter for Clay, then hurried back to his desk. Otis stood watching Clay as he leafed through the pages showing the routes, schedules, passenger rosters, and cargo manifests.
The bell jangled and the door opened. Clay glanced up to see a tall young woman in pale blue step inside. Her brown hair was carefully coiffed, and she looked like an easterner. Her eyes flashed as her gaze swept the three men.
“Well, good morning, gentlemen.”
She purred the words, like a cunning cat on the prowl, and sauntered over to Clay. She tapped the badge on his chest with her fan and smiled lazily up at him. “I do believe you must be that marshal I’ve heard so much about.” She tossed an impatient glance at Otis Bean. “Introduce us.”
Otis’s lips curled downward. “I’d like to present Mallory Morgan. This is Marshall Chandler. Mallory is Jack Morgan’s daughter.”
He touched the brim of his hat politely. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Mallory uttered a deep, throaty laugh and eased closer, holding her gaze steady on Clay’s. “Yes, Marshal, quite a pleasure.”
The young woman exuded a sensuality that perme. ated everything around her. All done up as she was, in that proper dress with the tight fitted bodice and the bustle that swayed provocatively, he sensed a recklessness about her, the kind that in his younger days he would have sniffed after like a dog on point; the kind he now knew could cause a man a world of trouble. Especially when packaged as the daughter of the town’s richest man. Clay eased back a step.
Mallory smiled sweetly and touched Clay’s chest with her fan again. “Well, I don’t want to keep you men from your work. I’ll just have a word with Ernie.”
Her gaze turned to Otis, and her brows arched, as if she were daring him to object He didn’t, and she giggled softly and wound her way back to Ernie’s desk, her bustle swaying.
Clay turned back to the ledgers, talking quietly with Otis. After a moment, he glanced up. Ernie, flushed and breathless, was on his feet. Mallory stood inches away, purring softly to him. She gestured with her fan and smiled seductively. He nodded and grinned like a babbling idiot, totally captivated by the spell she cast.
Clay turned back to the ledgers. He knew he’d worn the same dumb look as Ernie many times himself. What man hadn’t?
Mallory stayed only a moment longer, then leisurely left the express office, offering a goodbye from behind her fan. Ernie sank down in his chair, heaved a heavy sigh and wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve.
Another hour passed, while Clay examined the stage records, before Jack Morgan and Sheriff Bottom arrived.
“Do you always put the payroll on the stage?” Clay asked.
“No reason not to,” Morgan told him. “I’ve sent it that way for years, with never a problem. Why should I go to the expense of paying my own guards, when the stage line will do it for the freight cost? I’m not throwing money around like that.”
Otis Bean lifted a pocket watch from its pedestal on his desk. “Stage is due to arrive in six minutes.”
Clay led the way onto the boardwalk. One passenger, a man in a yellow plaid vest, waited outside.
Otis paced the boardwalk, studying his pocket watch. “Five minutes! Stage in five minutes!”
“Anybody else taking the stage today?” Clay asked.
Otis consulted his schedule, clutched in his. other hand. “No. Only whoever boarded in Whittakers Ferry.”
Clay gazed down the street. “Where’s that?”
“Ten or so miles east of here. Four minutes!”
“And the next stop is Harmonville?”
“That’s right.” Otis consulted his schedule once more. “After leaving here, the stage stops at the swing station for fresh horses—that’s where. the mine foreman picks up the payroll—then goes straight through.”
Thundering hooves pounding the soft dirt street preceded the stage.
“Stage arriving!” Otis clutched his pocket watch.
The driver atop the big coach braced his feet and pulled back on the reins, stopping the team in front of the express office. The horses pawed the ground and tossed their heads. Leather creaked and the stage groaned, settling in a cloud of brown dust. The shotgun rider stood and stretched.
Clay’s gaze swept the stage with a critical eye, the men up top, the baggage tied on, the sturdy horses out front. He stepped off the boardwalk and opened the coach door. Inside sat an elderly man with a white beard, dressed in a bright green suit—the perfect complement to the next passenger boarding. Neither man would be a help in a shoot-out, but neither would try to be a hero and get someone else shot
Clay gave only a cursory glance to the widow seated in the far corner. No one liked to look at a widow. A bonnet and a thick black veil shielded her face. Black gloves covered her hands and the heavy gown draped the rest of her. In her lap she clutched her reticule and a small Bible.
A heaviness rose in Clay’s chest. Rebecca…
Determinedly he pushed the thought from his mind and replaced it with preparation for the task at hand.
Otis consulted his pocket watch. “Three minutest Stage leaving in three minutest!”
Clay watched as the strongbox was hoisted up top, then took the rifle Sheriff Bottom had brought for him and climbed up beside the driver. He paid no attention to the anxious look on Jack Morgan’s face or the sher- iff’s attempt at advice.
Nor did he give any thought to the little widow in the coach beneath him. For all the memories the sight of her widow’s weeds caused, she meant nothing to him. Just a passenger on the stage. Nobody important
He was sure of it.
Chapter Five (#ulink_5b17b133-ef73-583b-8fa3-73b89ed17a16)
“Name’s Buck, Marshal. Better grab hold of something.”
The driver shouted to the team, and the stagecoach lurched forward. Clay closed one hand over the edge of the seat and kept the other on the Winchester resting on his lap.
“That back there is Mick.” Buck nodded toward the shotgun rider seated behind them with the baggage.
Clay turned and nodded, and Mick did the same. The man looked to be near thirty, Clay judged; he handled the rifle in his hand as if he knew what to do with it, and Clay was glad for that.
“Keep a sharp eye out behind for us,” Clay called. Mick nodded and turned to face the rear.
“Expecting trouble today?” Buck shouted above the noise of the horses’ hooves, the straining of the coach and the rushing wind.
“Always expecting it” Clay glanced at Buck seated to his right. He held the reins in powerful, callused hands, telegraphing his instructions to the team with expert care. A battered hat rode low on his forehead, and a gray-and-white beard covered his face.
“Morgan’s Crying it again? Just got robbed yesterday.”
Clay looked back at the strongbox. “He’s determined to send it out again today.”
“That’s Morgan.” Buck shook his head. “Gets what he wants.”
“Comes with having money,” Clay commented.
“Maybe so. But you don’t have to lie and cheat and walk over everybody in your path to get where you want to be.”
Clay hadn’t heard anyone speak out against the man before. “I take it you don’t think much of Jack Mor-gan.
“Nobody does,” Buck grumbled. “But nobody can afford to say it out loud.”
The man who owned most of the town carried a lot of weight, and after what he’d seen of Jack Morgan, nothing Buck said surprised him.
“Course after every one of them robberies, Morgan has to shut down the mine for a day while all his men come to town and get their pay in person. Morgan don’t like that” Buck grunted, “Serves him right, if you ask me.
The stagecoach pressed farther away from town, bobbing and swaying with the dirt road cut through the hills. Dense trees lined both sides of the route, then gave way to meadows, an occasional farmhouse, hills and valleys. The afternoon sun had reached its peak and was dipping toward the horizon. Clay kept a keen eye on the road, assessing likely spots for an ambush.
“Coming up on a bad spot.” Buck nodded ahead. “Benette’s Bottom. We got hit there a couple of weeks back.”
“By the Schoolyard Boys?”
“Yeah, that’s what people call them, I reckon.”
