The Fire of Greed, page 23
K’pow!
The bullet caught the rat-faced man in the right shoulder, effectively rendering his gun arm useless. The orders issued by Muriday’s conscious brain demanded that a finger squeeze a trigger, but the message could not get through.
The weight of 250 grains of lead knocked Muriday off balance, and he toppled to the ground.
“This,” Cole told him, as he aimed his own Colt at the man, “is for William Cole, gunned down by you in Silver City ten years back.”
Muriday looked up pitifully through the excruciating pain.
Cole hoped that Muriday remembered that night down in Silver City. He could not know that the memory of that gunfight was among Muriday’s last thoughts, but he could read in the rat-faced man’s narrow-spaced eyes, that he did realize tonight’s gunfight had been his last.
Cole saw the rapidly growing pool of darkness beneath Muriday’s shoulder and knew that an artery had been nicked and the man did not have long to live. Cole lowered his gun and was in the midst of holstering it when he felt himself slammed by a force that nearly knocked him off balance.
In an instant, Cole realized that he was enveloped in the embrace of Nicolette de la Gravière.
He looked down into the tears flowing from those beautiful dark eyes, and heard the lips the color of chilies tell him:
“You saved my life!”
Her arms clung to him with an urgent, almost desperate, strength. He felt that he had no choice but to wrap his own arms around her.
She closed her eyes and placed a warm, moist kiss on his cheek.
Her eyes flickered open, then quickly closed.
The lips the color of chilies met his own, and time stopped.
Chapter 40
“WHY?” NICOLETTE DE LA GRAVIÈRE DEMANDED FURIOUSLY OF THE HELPLESS MAN ON THE GROUND, TEARS streaming down her cheeks.
“The girl,” he gasped. “Gotta kill the girl.”
“Why?” Nicolette repeated as she clung tightly to Bladen Cole.
“Gotta kill the girl . . .”
“Why?” Cole demanded. “Why kill the girl?”
“Kill the girl . . . three hundred bucks . . kill the girl.”
“Who?” Nicolette shrieked, the whites of her teary eyes now the color of chilies. “Who paid you to kill me?”
“Ssssuuuu . . .”
“What?” Cole demanded.
The narrow eyes of the rat-faced man looked up into the eyes of the younger brother of William Cole.
It was the last sight they would ever behold.
Nicolette pressed her face into Cole’s shoulder and moaned with deep hiccupping sobs. He held her tight, running his hands over the satin fabric that cloaked her shoulder.
His eyes looked up for the first time since he had holstered his Colt. Several dozen people, most of them theatergoers, had gathered around to observe the spectacle.
When Cole’s gaze met that of one of the women in the crowd, she spontaneously began to clap her hands. Another joined her, and then another, and soon Bladen Cole was receiving a standing ovation.
“What’s going on here?”
Everyone looked around to see Sheriff Reuben Sandoval pushing his way through the throng.
“That man saved her life,” one of the women shouted, pointing at Cole.
From outside the small crowd, there came a voice declaring, “An attempt was made on my life!”
Everyone turned to look at Ezra Waldron.
“That man tried to kill me,” Waldron said, arriving breathlessly.
“No, he didn’t,” a man shouted angrily. “He was pointing his gun at the girl.”
“That’s right,” another man told the sheriff.
“You ran away as soon as he came out with his gun,” a woman scolded Waldron. “He was pointing his gun at her.”
“That’s the way I saw it,” said someone else from the opposite side of the crowd.
“He even said that he was gunning for the girl,” another man said.
“I heard it too,” a woman confirmed. “This man saved her life!”
“I reckon you’re mistaken, sir,” the sheriff told Waldron.
“But . . . but . . .” the railroad man sputtered.
“Is that the way you saw it?” Sandoval asked Cole.
“It’s the way I saw it.” Nicolette interrupted, still clinging to Cole with trembling arms. “That man was pointing a gun at my face.”
“The dead man shot first,” someone added.
“Okay,” Sandoval said with finality. “I guess I got the picture. Would somebody mind going to get a tarp so we can get this out of here?”
Turning to Cole, he added: “I reckon this lady is lucky you were around tonight.”
“Cole . . . Bladen Cole,” Waldron said, recognizing him for the first time. “That’s you. I want to thank you greatly for saving my life . . . and the life of Miss de la Gravière. You are a true hero, sir.”
“What does that make you, Ezra?” Nicolette asked.
“What?” Waldron asked.
“Where were you? You ran away and left me. If Mr. Cole had not been there, it would be me lying in that dirt.”
“I feared that his bullet was meant for me,” Waldron insisted. “Because of my position with the railroad, I have enemies, especially among the shareholders.”
“Muriday doesn’t look to be a typical shareholder,” Cole observed as someone arrived with a scrap of canvas to wrap the body for removal.
“How do you know him?” Nicolette asked Cole.
“He killed my brother.”
“Oh no . . . When?”
“A long time ago,” Cole admitted. “More recently he’s been an employee of Mr. Waldron here.”
“He works for you?” Nicolette asked angrily.
“He’s not actually an employee, he’s a railroad contractor . . .” Waldron stammered.
“He’s the man who brought back the dead train bandits,” Cole explained.
“It was him?” Nicolette asked. “He . . . killed the bandits?”
“He shot them in self-defense,” Waldron explained.
Cole bit his tongue, deciding that now was not the time to reveal what he had learned from the coroner about Stanton having been unarmed when he was killed.
They all stood without speaking, having said everything that could be said.
The crowd had largely dissipated, and the sheriff was supervising the loading of the mortal remains of the rat-faced man onto a cart.
“I must once again thank you profusely for saving Miss de la Gravière and myself this evening,” Waldron said to Cole. “But if you’ll excuse me, I believe that it is time that I must escort her to her home.”
“I’m sorry, Ezra,” Nicolette said with regained composure. “I believe that I will ask Mr. Cole to escort me home, thank you.”
“Um . . . er . . .” Waldron sputtered.
“Thank you for escorting me to the theater, Ezra,” she added, smiling weakly with her lips, but not with her eyes.
When they had passed out of view of the theater, it was Cole’s turn for a thank-you, delivered intimately and passionately, straight to his lips.
* * *
“MON CHÈRE FILLE!” THERESE DE LA GRAVIÈRE EXCLAIMED as her daughter came though the front door of the Refugio del Viajero. “They wouldn’t let me come!”
“When we learned that you were safe after the shooting, we insisted that Therese wait here and remain safe herself,” Amos Richardson said, placing his hands on Therese’s shoulders as she embraced her child.
“We have learned that I have you to thank for saving my daughter’s life,” Therese said to the man she once dismissed as a drifting cowboy.
“Yes, ma’am.” Cole nodded, as Therese embraced him. She had tears in her eyes, and so too did Nicolette.
Several other people, most of them regular patrons, clustered around Therese, offering moral support by their presence. Nicolette noticed that her mother squeezed one of Richardson’s hands and did not let go.
“You’ve got a new patient headed your way,” Cole told Richardson.
“Domingo is there,” the coroner replied. “He’ll know what to do. I can linger here long enough to buy you a brandy.”
“Much obliged,” Cole said.
“Dolores!” Therese shouted across the room. “Bring this gentleman a plate of carne asada.”
“Mr. Cole, please join me at my table,” Richardson said, following his invitation with a gesture inviting Nicolette and her mother to do so also. Dolores promptly dropped a bottle of brandy and four glasses on the table.
She winked at Nicolette, who had her arm entwined with Cole’s. Nicolette blushed and smiled as she averted her eyes from Dolores’s. The other patrons edged back to their tables, but one man patted Cole on the shoulder and insisted on shaking his hand.
Therese closed her eyes and sighed deeply as Richardson filled her glass first.
“To Mr. Cole,” the doctor said, raising his glass.
“To Mr. Cole,” Nicolette seconded quickly.
“Thank you for . . . for my daughter,” Therese said, starting to cry again.
* * *
“I TAKE IT THAT YOU FINALLY CAUGHT UP TO THE MAN YOU were seeking,” Richardson said as he and Cole passed the Plaza on their way to the coroner’s office from the Refugio del Viajero.
“I did,” Cole said, feeling strangely empty after having had the weight of ten years lifted from his shoulders.
“I also could not help but notice that Mademoiselle de la Gravière finally caught up to the man that she was seeking,” Richardson said with a chuckle.
“We didn’t have an opportunity to discuss the business arrangement that she mentioned to you.”
“I did notice by the smeared lipstick that she was more preoccupied with other arrangements,” Richardson said with a smile.
“Waldron said that he thought he was the intended victim,” Cole said, changing the subject and self-consciously wiping his face on his sleeve.
“Can that be true?”
“He ran off like a scared rat,” Cole said with a disgusted shake of his head. “If Muriday would have been gunning for him, though, he would have chased him, or at least shot after him, but he kept his .45 aimed straight at Miss de la Gravière’s . . . Nicolette’s . . . head. His dying words were that he was paid three hundred bucks to ‘kill the girl.’ It was her that he was there to kill.”
“Who would have paid him to kill her?”
“I have an idea,” Cole said. “At daybreak, I aim to make it my purpose to find out for sure.”
Chapter 41
THE FIRST RAYS OF A NEW DAY’S SUN COLORED THE ADOBE buildings of the territorial capital with the deep orange tint of fire as Joseph Ames lumbered from his home to the nearby offices of the railroad. It was the only exercise that he got, but even though it winded him, he decided that it was something he must do. He cursed his unmanageable bulk, and wished that he weighed less, and tired less, but this was a curse he had carried, with great difficulty, for most of his life.
As was the case with his erstwhile colleague, Ezra Waldron, Ames was an Easterner who had come west to guide the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe toward the goal of making it one of the greatest railroads in the West. Together, he and Waldron had weathered storms from the Panic of 1873 to the war with the Denver & Rio Grande Western in the canyons of Colorado. Ames had come to admire Waldron’s insight and his business acumen. Waldron was a man who had always seemed instinctively to know the right thing to do, and the best means of getting it done.
Then came that day when Ames picked up the Santa Fe New Mexican and discovered that Waldron had trumpeted to the world that the railroad—their railroad—had been laid as vulnerable as a newborn babe to a robbery of staggering scale.
What the hell were you thinking, Ezra? Ames had thought as he threw up his fleshy arms in exasperation.
This was no small misjudgment, it was a serious miscalculation which jeopardized the road in the near term, and might cost it its very existence in the long term.
Why had he done it?
Nothing he had said seemed to Ames to provide a valid answer.
Ames heaved a great sigh of relief as he reached the offices and fumbled in his pocket for his key. He had always taken pride in being the first one to work. He believed that it set an example.
“Good morning, Mr. Ames.”
He looked up to see a man approaching him from across the street.
“Mr. Cole,” Ames said as he turned the lock. “You’re up at the crack of dawn.”
“I’m here to have a word with your friend, Ezra Waldron,” Cole explained.
“You’ll not find him here, I’m afraid,” Ames said as he opened the door and nodded for the bounty hunter to come into the offices. He was exhausted and did not want to enter into a conversation about Waldron while still on his feet.
“He’s not here,” Ames repeated as he lowered himself into his substantial desk chair and began dabbing the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. “And he will not be coming back.”
“What?” Cole asked incredulously. “I just saw him last night. Where did he go?”
“I received a telegram yesterday from the offices of Mr. Thomas Nickerson, president of the railway,” Ames began, making sure that Cole understood that Ames was sufficiently important to be in direct communication with the president. “His instructions were that Mr. Waldron was to be relieved of his duties here in Santa Fe and that he was to report to the home office.”
“Why?” Cole asked.
“For a thorough dressing down on account of his imprudent and reckless revelations to the press about the robbery. This cost the road significantly in the confidence of our investors . . . not to mention stock value. Mr. Waldron, of all people, should have known better.”
“Makes sense that your bosses would want to call him in,” Cole said. “Why do you reckon he did it?”
“Took leave of his senses?” Ames speculated.
“You reckon he might have been doing it to help the competition?”
“To help the Denver & Rio Grande?” Ames said with surprise. “I cannot image why.”
“What if he was getting paid by them?”
“Ezra . . . paid by the Denver & Rio Grande? He was imprudent . . . but he’s no Judas. That’s a preposterous theory.”
“It’s not a theory,” Cole said.
“What do you mean?”
“Miss de la Gravière was here yesterday,” Cole began.
“Oh, the girl from the Mexican cafe?” Ames said dismissively. “She has been coming around a great deal of late. I believe that Ezra was trying to court her.”
“Yesterday, she was here when Waldron was not,” Cole explained.
“That was probably when he was at the Plaza thanking that man for killing the robbers.”
“In any event, she was here and found a letter from the Denver & Rio Grande on Waldron’s desk.”
“What sort of letter?” Ames asked, showing a level of interest he had not previously exhibited.
“A letter confirming a payment of five grand for doing that which you’re writing off merely as ‘imprudent.’”
“Are you saying that he was paid to reveal the robbery?”
“That’s what it said in the letter which Miss de la Gravière saw,” Cole explained. “There was also a broker’s statement pinned to the letter that showed your friend Ezra was making a lot of money from investing in Denver & Rio Grande stock.”
“This is beyond belief,” Ames gasped. “You say that the girl saw this letter? Are you sure?”
“I suspect that her seeing it damned near got her killed last night,” Cole said.
“What?”
“That man Muriday, the one who you railroad men hired to help bring in the robbers, pointed his .45 at her head on the street last night.”
“What? What happened?”
“He’s now a patient over at Doc Richardson’s. Before he gave up the ghost, he said somebody paid him three hundred bucks to ‘kill the girl.’”
“Who?”
“Didn’t say. His talkin’ time ran out.”
“You cannot think it was Ezra!”
“I do,” Cole said. “I reckon that he found his papers had been gone through and that she had been here. I reckon that he promised Muriday three hundred bucks.”
“The girl from the Refugio del Viajero was here,” said the clerk who had just arrived at work in the middle of the conversation. “Mr. Waldron was shouting about somebody going through things on his desk. I took the account ledger but nothing else. She was at his desk. Was something taken? I see that he cleaned out his desk last night.”
“I came here today willing to accept Ezra’s being guilty of stupidity,” Ames said sadly. “Even if I were to accept Ezra’s guilt for theft and fraud, I cannot imagine him guilty of murder . . . or of hiring anyone to commit murder.”
“Then you had better let me enlighten you.”
The three men turned their heads at the sound of a determined, female voice.
“Miss de la Gravière,” Ames said in surprised greeting, as Nicolette entered the front door. “What are you . . . ?”
“I’m here to have a word with Mr. Waldron,” she said sternly. “Where is he?”
“He’s gone,” Cole explained, getting to his feet. “I came here with the same idea, but our friend Waldron has got himself ‘relieved,’ and he’s long gone. I was just filling Mr. Ames in on his getting paid off by the rival road . . .”
“And the investments in that rival road?” Nicolette said angrily.
“Mr. Cole was explaining . . .” Ames said.
“Did you have any idea?” Nicolette asked Ames pointedly. Where once she had been intimidated by this man, her fury had now relieved her of this dread.
The bullet caught the rat-faced man in the right shoulder, effectively rendering his gun arm useless. The orders issued by Muriday’s conscious brain demanded that a finger squeeze a trigger, but the message could not get through.
The weight of 250 grains of lead knocked Muriday off balance, and he toppled to the ground.
“This,” Cole told him, as he aimed his own Colt at the man, “is for William Cole, gunned down by you in Silver City ten years back.”
Muriday looked up pitifully through the excruciating pain.
Cole hoped that Muriday remembered that night down in Silver City. He could not know that the memory of that gunfight was among Muriday’s last thoughts, but he could read in the rat-faced man’s narrow-spaced eyes, that he did realize tonight’s gunfight had been his last.
Cole saw the rapidly growing pool of darkness beneath Muriday’s shoulder and knew that an artery had been nicked and the man did not have long to live. Cole lowered his gun and was in the midst of holstering it when he felt himself slammed by a force that nearly knocked him off balance.
In an instant, Cole realized that he was enveloped in the embrace of Nicolette de la Gravière.
He looked down into the tears flowing from those beautiful dark eyes, and heard the lips the color of chilies tell him:
“You saved my life!”
Her arms clung to him with an urgent, almost desperate, strength. He felt that he had no choice but to wrap his own arms around her.
She closed her eyes and placed a warm, moist kiss on his cheek.
Her eyes flickered open, then quickly closed.
The lips the color of chilies met his own, and time stopped.
Chapter 40
“WHY?” NICOLETTE DE LA GRAVIÈRE DEMANDED FURIOUSLY OF THE HELPLESS MAN ON THE GROUND, TEARS streaming down her cheeks.
“The girl,” he gasped. “Gotta kill the girl.”
“Why?” Nicolette repeated as she clung tightly to Bladen Cole.
“Gotta kill the girl . . .”
“Why?” Cole demanded. “Why kill the girl?”
“Kill the girl . . . three hundred bucks . . kill the girl.”
“Who?” Nicolette shrieked, the whites of her teary eyes now the color of chilies. “Who paid you to kill me?”
“Ssssuuuu . . .”
“What?” Cole demanded.
The narrow eyes of the rat-faced man looked up into the eyes of the younger brother of William Cole.
It was the last sight they would ever behold.
Nicolette pressed her face into Cole’s shoulder and moaned with deep hiccupping sobs. He held her tight, running his hands over the satin fabric that cloaked her shoulder.
His eyes looked up for the first time since he had holstered his Colt. Several dozen people, most of them theatergoers, had gathered around to observe the spectacle.
When Cole’s gaze met that of one of the women in the crowd, she spontaneously began to clap her hands. Another joined her, and then another, and soon Bladen Cole was receiving a standing ovation.
“What’s going on here?”
Everyone looked around to see Sheriff Reuben Sandoval pushing his way through the throng.
“That man saved her life,” one of the women shouted, pointing at Cole.
From outside the small crowd, there came a voice declaring, “An attempt was made on my life!”
Everyone turned to look at Ezra Waldron.
“That man tried to kill me,” Waldron said, arriving breathlessly.
“No, he didn’t,” a man shouted angrily. “He was pointing his gun at the girl.”
“That’s right,” another man told the sheriff.
“You ran away as soon as he came out with his gun,” a woman scolded Waldron. “He was pointing his gun at her.”
“That’s the way I saw it,” said someone else from the opposite side of the crowd.
“He even said that he was gunning for the girl,” another man said.
“I heard it too,” a woman confirmed. “This man saved her life!”
“I reckon you’re mistaken, sir,” the sheriff told Waldron.
“But . . . but . . .” the railroad man sputtered.
“Is that the way you saw it?” Sandoval asked Cole.
“It’s the way I saw it.” Nicolette interrupted, still clinging to Cole with trembling arms. “That man was pointing a gun at my face.”
“The dead man shot first,” someone added.
“Okay,” Sandoval said with finality. “I guess I got the picture. Would somebody mind going to get a tarp so we can get this out of here?”
Turning to Cole, he added: “I reckon this lady is lucky you were around tonight.”
“Cole . . . Bladen Cole,” Waldron said, recognizing him for the first time. “That’s you. I want to thank you greatly for saving my life . . . and the life of Miss de la Gravière. You are a true hero, sir.”
“What does that make you, Ezra?” Nicolette asked.
“What?” Waldron asked.
“Where were you? You ran away and left me. If Mr. Cole had not been there, it would be me lying in that dirt.”
“I feared that his bullet was meant for me,” Waldron insisted. “Because of my position with the railroad, I have enemies, especially among the shareholders.”
“Muriday doesn’t look to be a typical shareholder,” Cole observed as someone arrived with a scrap of canvas to wrap the body for removal.
“How do you know him?” Nicolette asked Cole.
“He killed my brother.”
“Oh no . . . When?”
“A long time ago,” Cole admitted. “More recently he’s been an employee of Mr. Waldron here.”
“He works for you?” Nicolette asked angrily.
“He’s not actually an employee, he’s a railroad contractor . . .” Waldron stammered.
“He’s the man who brought back the dead train bandits,” Cole explained.
“It was him?” Nicolette asked. “He . . . killed the bandits?”
“He shot them in self-defense,” Waldron explained.
Cole bit his tongue, deciding that now was not the time to reveal what he had learned from the coroner about Stanton having been unarmed when he was killed.
They all stood without speaking, having said everything that could be said.
The crowd had largely dissipated, and the sheriff was supervising the loading of the mortal remains of the rat-faced man onto a cart.
“I must once again thank you profusely for saving Miss de la Gravière and myself this evening,” Waldron said to Cole. “But if you’ll excuse me, I believe that it is time that I must escort her to her home.”
“I’m sorry, Ezra,” Nicolette said with regained composure. “I believe that I will ask Mr. Cole to escort me home, thank you.”
“Um . . . er . . .” Waldron sputtered.
“Thank you for escorting me to the theater, Ezra,” she added, smiling weakly with her lips, but not with her eyes.
When they had passed out of view of the theater, it was Cole’s turn for a thank-you, delivered intimately and passionately, straight to his lips.
* * *
“MON CHÈRE FILLE!” THERESE DE LA GRAVIÈRE EXCLAIMED as her daughter came though the front door of the Refugio del Viajero. “They wouldn’t let me come!”
“When we learned that you were safe after the shooting, we insisted that Therese wait here and remain safe herself,” Amos Richardson said, placing his hands on Therese’s shoulders as she embraced her child.
“We have learned that I have you to thank for saving my daughter’s life,” Therese said to the man she once dismissed as a drifting cowboy.
“Yes, ma’am.” Cole nodded, as Therese embraced him. She had tears in her eyes, and so too did Nicolette.
Several other people, most of them regular patrons, clustered around Therese, offering moral support by their presence. Nicolette noticed that her mother squeezed one of Richardson’s hands and did not let go.
“You’ve got a new patient headed your way,” Cole told Richardson.
“Domingo is there,” the coroner replied. “He’ll know what to do. I can linger here long enough to buy you a brandy.”
“Much obliged,” Cole said.
“Dolores!” Therese shouted across the room. “Bring this gentleman a plate of carne asada.”
“Mr. Cole, please join me at my table,” Richardson said, following his invitation with a gesture inviting Nicolette and her mother to do so also. Dolores promptly dropped a bottle of brandy and four glasses on the table.
She winked at Nicolette, who had her arm entwined with Cole’s. Nicolette blushed and smiled as she averted her eyes from Dolores’s. The other patrons edged back to their tables, but one man patted Cole on the shoulder and insisted on shaking his hand.
Therese closed her eyes and sighed deeply as Richardson filled her glass first.
“To Mr. Cole,” the doctor said, raising his glass.
“To Mr. Cole,” Nicolette seconded quickly.
“Thank you for . . . for my daughter,” Therese said, starting to cry again.
* * *
“I TAKE IT THAT YOU FINALLY CAUGHT UP TO THE MAN YOU were seeking,” Richardson said as he and Cole passed the Plaza on their way to the coroner’s office from the Refugio del Viajero.
“I did,” Cole said, feeling strangely empty after having had the weight of ten years lifted from his shoulders.
“I also could not help but notice that Mademoiselle de la Gravière finally caught up to the man that she was seeking,” Richardson said with a chuckle.
“We didn’t have an opportunity to discuss the business arrangement that she mentioned to you.”
“I did notice by the smeared lipstick that she was more preoccupied with other arrangements,” Richardson said with a smile.
“Waldron said that he thought he was the intended victim,” Cole said, changing the subject and self-consciously wiping his face on his sleeve.
“Can that be true?”
“He ran off like a scared rat,” Cole said with a disgusted shake of his head. “If Muriday would have been gunning for him, though, he would have chased him, or at least shot after him, but he kept his .45 aimed straight at Miss de la Gravière’s . . . Nicolette’s . . . head. His dying words were that he was paid three hundred bucks to ‘kill the girl.’ It was her that he was there to kill.”
“Who would have paid him to kill her?”
“I have an idea,” Cole said. “At daybreak, I aim to make it my purpose to find out for sure.”
Chapter 41
THE FIRST RAYS OF A NEW DAY’S SUN COLORED THE ADOBE buildings of the territorial capital with the deep orange tint of fire as Joseph Ames lumbered from his home to the nearby offices of the railroad. It was the only exercise that he got, but even though it winded him, he decided that it was something he must do. He cursed his unmanageable bulk, and wished that he weighed less, and tired less, but this was a curse he had carried, with great difficulty, for most of his life.
As was the case with his erstwhile colleague, Ezra Waldron, Ames was an Easterner who had come west to guide the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe toward the goal of making it one of the greatest railroads in the West. Together, he and Waldron had weathered storms from the Panic of 1873 to the war with the Denver & Rio Grande Western in the canyons of Colorado. Ames had come to admire Waldron’s insight and his business acumen. Waldron was a man who had always seemed instinctively to know the right thing to do, and the best means of getting it done.
Then came that day when Ames picked up the Santa Fe New Mexican and discovered that Waldron had trumpeted to the world that the railroad—their railroad—had been laid as vulnerable as a newborn babe to a robbery of staggering scale.
What the hell were you thinking, Ezra? Ames had thought as he threw up his fleshy arms in exasperation.
This was no small misjudgment, it was a serious miscalculation which jeopardized the road in the near term, and might cost it its very existence in the long term.
Why had he done it?
Nothing he had said seemed to Ames to provide a valid answer.
Ames heaved a great sigh of relief as he reached the offices and fumbled in his pocket for his key. He had always taken pride in being the first one to work. He believed that it set an example.
“Good morning, Mr. Ames.”
He looked up to see a man approaching him from across the street.
“Mr. Cole,” Ames said as he turned the lock. “You’re up at the crack of dawn.”
“I’m here to have a word with your friend, Ezra Waldron,” Cole explained.
“You’ll not find him here, I’m afraid,” Ames said as he opened the door and nodded for the bounty hunter to come into the offices. He was exhausted and did not want to enter into a conversation about Waldron while still on his feet.
“He’s not here,” Ames repeated as he lowered himself into his substantial desk chair and began dabbing the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. “And he will not be coming back.”
“What?” Cole asked incredulously. “I just saw him last night. Where did he go?”
“I received a telegram yesterday from the offices of Mr. Thomas Nickerson, president of the railway,” Ames began, making sure that Cole understood that Ames was sufficiently important to be in direct communication with the president. “His instructions were that Mr. Waldron was to be relieved of his duties here in Santa Fe and that he was to report to the home office.”
“Why?” Cole asked.
“For a thorough dressing down on account of his imprudent and reckless revelations to the press about the robbery. This cost the road significantly in the confidence of our investors . . . not to mention stock value. Mr. Waldron, of all people, should have known better.”
“Makes sense that your bosses would want to call him in,” Cole said. “Why do you reckon he did it?”
“Took leave of his senses?” Ames speculated.
“You reckon he might have been doing it to help the competition?”
“To help the Denver & Rio Grande?” Ames said with surprise. “I cannot image why.”
“What if he was getting paid by them?”
“Ezra . . . paid by the Denver & Rio Grande? He was imprudent . . . but he’s no Judas. That’s a preposterous theory.”
“It’s not a theory,” Cole said.
“What do you mean?”
“Miss de la Gravière was here yesterday,” Cole began.
“Oh, the girl from the Mexican cafe?” Ames said dismissively. “She has been coming around a great deal of late. I believe that Ezra was trying to court her.”
“Yesterday, she was here when Waldron was not,” Cole explained.
“That was probably when he was at the Plaza thanking that man for killing the robbers.”
“In any event, she was here and found a letter from the Denver & Rio Grande on Waldron’s desk.”
“What sort of letter?” Ames asked, showing a level of interest he had not previously exhibited.
“A letter confirming a payment of five grand for doing that which you’re writing off merely as ‘imprudent.’”
“Are you saying that he was paid to reveal the robbery?”
“That’s what it said in the letter which Miss de la Gravière saw,” Cole explained. “There was also a broker’s statement pinned to the letter that showed your friend Ezra was making a lot of money from investing in Denver & Rio Grande stock.”
“This is beyond belief,” Ames gasped. “You say that the girl saw this letter? Are you sure?”
“I suspect that her seeing it damned near got her killed last night,” Cole said.
“What?”
“That man Muriday, the one who you railroad men hired to help bring in the robbers, pointed his .45 at her head on the street last night.”
“What? What happened?”
“He’s now a patient over at Doc Richardson’s. Before he gave up the ghost, he said somebody paid him three hundred bucks to ‘kill the girl.’”
“Who?”
“Didn’t say. His talkin’ time ran out.”
“You cannot think it was Ezra!”
“I do,” Cole said. “I reckon that he found his papers had been gone through and that she had been here. I reckon that he promised Muriday three hundred bucks.”
“The girl from the Refugio del Viajero was here,” said the clerk who had just arrived at work in the middle of the conversation. “Mr. Waldron was shouting about somebody going through things on his desk. I took the account ledger but nothing else. She was at his desk. Was something taken? I see that he cleaned out his desk last night.”
“I came here today willing to accept Ezra’s being guilty of stupidity,” Ames said sadly. “Even if I were to accept Ezra’s guilt for theft and fraud, I cannot imagine him guilty of murder . . . or of hiring anyone to commit murder.”
“Then you had better let me enlighten you.”
The three men turned their heads at the sound of a determined, female voice.
“Miss de la Gravière,” Ames said in surprised greeting, as Nicolette entered the front door. “What are you . . . ?”
“I’m here to have a word with Mr. Waldron,” she said sternly. “Where is he?”
“He’s gone,” Cole explained, getting to his feet. “I came here with the same idea, but our friend Waldron has got himself ‘relieved,’ and he’s long gone. I was just filling Mr. Ames in on his getting paid off by the rival road . . .”
“And the investments in that rival road?” Nicolette said angrily.
“Mr. Cole was explaining . . .” Ames said.
“Did you have any idea?” Nicolette asked Ames pointedly. Where once she had been intimidated by this man, her fury had now relieved her of this dread.
