The rather stiffly posed photograph on top told him that his suspicions had been correct. There had been a link between the robbery of the woman’s house and the killer. He looked through a trove of illicit obsessions. More posed photographs, two locks of hair, a fine handkerchief, a delicate comb and three or four newspaper articles. But the letters were what held his interest. They were love letters that had never been sent. Their passion, their yearning, their blunt vulnerability—who would suspect any of this in the person O’Malley now knew to be the killer? He went through the unsent letters twice, practically memorizing one of them. He could imagine them on the front page of a newspaper. One per issue. He could imagine how they would be talked about.
How they would be mocked by some, secretly cherished by others. He could imagine the editors of powerful newspapers saying that they must get in touch with the man who wrote these stories. They must have him on staff. And they would agree to just about any salary he asked for. Yes, what a great element these letters would make when the killer had been unmasked and these letters were quoted in O’Malley’s stories about the strange and sad events in little Cawthorne, Colorado. This story had everything that readers wanted.
He sat back and lifted the flask to his mouth. As he was closing the box, he saw the edge of something he had somehow missed in the corner of a group of recipes and church bulletins he had not bothered to look through. There’d been enough of them that he hadn’t noticed it till now.
He lifted the papers and there it was. He stared at it as if he’d discovered one of those mythic treasures writers so loved to write about—pirates’ gold or a lost work of art. But in this case it was more valuable than either.
A posed photograph of Ned Lenihan with his face slashed several times.
He closed the box and left quickly, more excited than he’d been since his days in St. Lou.
At one o’clock in the afternoon the Gold Mine was only half full. Instead of the gamblers who collected here at night the card players were older men playing not poker but pinochle. There were sandwiches of beef and bread on the bar. The piano was quiet and there was no sign of girls. Fargo didn’t have trouble spotting Kenny Raines. He sat at a table with a glass of beer in front of him glaring at Fargo. His gun hand was bandaged. The younger man sitting next to him, with the same bulbous nose and freckled face, was obviously his younger brother. He glared too but he couldn’t summon the same intensity as his brother.
The day bartender, a beanpole of a man in a vivid yellow shirt and red arm garters, took it all in and reached beneath the bar. Fargo saw the move and said, “There won’t be any trouble.”
“The hell there won’t,” Kenny Raines shouted. He started to stand but his brother reached up and yanked him back down.
“You don’t have a gun hand, Kenny,” Sam said, reminding Kenny of the obvious. But it was clear to Fargo that Kenny had been doing a lot of drinking for this time of day.
The card players had stopped to watch. Not only were they interested in the possible gunplay—they wanted to scatter if they needed to. One curious thing about saloon shoot-outs was that the victims often had nothing to do with the fight itself. They just hadn’t been able to get out of the way fast enough.
Fargo walked over to the table where the brothers sat. He grabbed a chair and sat down.
“This hand’s gonna get healed, Fargo. And then I’m comin’ after you.”
Fargo looked at Sam. “Tell your brother by the time this hand heals I’ll be long gone. Also tell him that all I want to do is ask you a few questions. Both of you.”
“You shot his hand.”
“I shot his hand because he was drunk and started a fight with me.”
“Me and him and Clete were good friends.”
“Then I’m talking to the right people.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t talk to that son of a bitch, Sam,” Kenny said, waving his white-wrapped hand as if willing Fargo out of existence.
“It means two things. It means that because you knew in advance about that money shipment, you’re both suspects.”
“That’s a damned lie. We didn’t have nothing to do with it!” Now Fargo had riled Sam, too.
“And it also means that since you were such good friends with Clete, maybe you can tell me if he said anything to you after the robbery. And how he was acting. If he’d changed a lot all of a sudden.”
Sam looked at Kenny. “I guess it won’t hurt to talk, Kenny.” Then back to Fargo. “But we didn’t have nothing to do with it, like I said, so there’s no point in even askin’ about it.”
“You talk to the bastard. I sure as hell won’t.” Kenny was at the stage of drunkenness where he was capable only of slurring the same sentiments over and over again.
“When was the last time you saw Clete Byrnes, Sam?”
“Two days before he died.”
“Where?”
“He stopped by our little cabin in back of the stage line.”
“What did he talk about?”
“He said he was thinking of movin’ on. Real fast-like.”
“So he was nervous.”
“Real nervous.”
The sound of snoring cut through the conversation like a saw. Kenny’s head rested on his chest. He was fast asleep.
“You shouldn’t of shot his hand that way.”
“Well, he shouldn’t ought to have attacked me.”
Sam shrugged. “He was scared, real scared. Clete was, I mean. I would’ve been, too. Two of them were dead. He had to know he was next in line. He said he was going to hide out somewhere.”
“He give you any hint of where that was?”
“He didn’t say. Don’t blame him for that, either. You want to hide out, you don’t want anybody else to know where you are.”
“He mention who might be doing the killing?”
“No. And I asked him. I said that he must know something. But all he said was that I’d be surprised.”
“When Sheriff Cain talked to you, did you tell him what Clete said?”
Irritation in the voice and eyes. “I didn’t tell that sheriff jack shit. He’s always treated me and Kenny like we was scum. I wouldn’t help him if he was drowning.”
“You telling me everything you know?”
Sullen now. “Yeah. But I probably shouldn’t after what you done to Kenny’s hand.”
“Don’t you want to find who killed Clete?”
“Yeah, and that’s the only reason I’m talkin’ to you.”
“You have any opinion about who it was?”
“Hell, yes, I do. Ned Lenihan. And everybody knows it. He knew them three boys all their lives. They used to hang around the stage line all the time they were growin’ up. They worshipped him. They’d do whatever he asked them to. And that includes robbing a stage and splitting the money with him.”
“You have any proof of that?”
“Don’t need no more proof than the fact that he needs money bad for that farm of his. He don’t want to look bad for his lady. She’s another one I don’t like. Kenny asked her to dance one Saturday night and she claimed he held her too tight and took some liberties. Everybody takes some liberties when they dance. A little feel here and there. Who does she think she is anyway?”
Kenny’s snoring was louder now. Fargo decided he’d probably outstayed his welcome with the Raines boys. They weren’t exactly the kind of company he cared to keep.
“Maybe you better put his head down on the table before he falls out of the chair,” Fargo said as he stood up.
“Yeah,” Sam snarled, “and maybe you shouldn’t ought to have shot his gun hand.”
The troubled feeling was still with Amy Peters as she stood near the counter where Ned Lenihan was helping a customer finish wrapping up a small box. In addition to selling tickets, overseeing the welfare of coaches and horses and paying salaries, Ned was also responsible for all the shipping. Cawthorne was getting big enough that this represented a significant portion of the small company’s profits. Ned liked to joke that he had nightmares about never being able to speak any words but those of the cautions he gave people shipping things that might break. “You realize that the company can’t take responsibility.” He always said this in the self-mocking way that made her smile.
She hadn’t intended to stop by today. She needed to get home. There was cooking, washing, sewing to do. But after her encounter with Tom Cain she felt a need to see Ned. The past few times she’d seen Cain there’d been a certain edge in his voice, almost a threat. And today’s words—and maybe she was wrong, maybe she was hearing something that he really wasn’t saying—today’s words seemed to carry a warning of some kind.
“Your quilt’ll be fine, Mrs. Swanson,” Ned said to the older lady who had reached into the pocket of her long skirt to dig out her coins. “Now that we’ve got the string tightened up and everything.”
Her clawlike right hand showed why she hadn’t been able to wrap the package properly. Arthritis. The knuckles swollen, the fingers twisted. “You sure do take care of people nice, Ned. That’s why everybody likes you.”
“And here I thought they liked me because of my good looks.”
A sweet smile on Mrs. Swanson’s face. “And you make me laugh.”
When the transaction was done, the old lady, picking her way with her cane, looked up and saw Amy standing there. “I sure wouldn’t let him get away, Amy. He’s the best man in this whole town.”
“You don’t have to worry about that, Mrs. Swanson.”
She went on out, leaving them alone in the small office. Schedules and promotional material cluttered the walls in front of the counter. Behind were two desks and five filing cabinets. The back door led to the corral and barn where the vehicles were worked on.
“Well, you’re looking more beautiful than ever, Amy.”
“A touch of the blarney in all Irishmen, as my aunt Mae used to say.”
“Well, remembering her husband, she married a man with more than a touch of it.”
They often joked about Amy’s uncle Dick. He was a decent man but a poor one. This didn’t stop him from always giving other poor people advice on how they could become wealthy. People always told him that if his advice was good he should take it himself.
Then Ned said, “Something wrong, Amy?” Studying her face now.
She put her hand out and he took it. She knew she was making a fool of herself but she couldn’t help it. She needed to reassure herself that everything in her little world was all right, safe. That Ned and she would finally get married and live out their lives together.
“I just got sentimental I guess, is all.” What she wanted to tell him was how much she feared for him. The whispers she was hearing. Her continuing distrust of Tom Cain.
He leaned across the counter and she met him halfway. They kissed.
“Well, stop in any time you get sentimental, Mrs. Peters. I’ll be happy to oblige you.”
Door opened. Bell above it rang. She felt color in her cheeks. Had Mrs. Riley, a professional gossip, seen them kissing? Apparently not, because Mrs. Riley’s scowl wasn’t nearly as deep as usual.
“Hope you’re having a good day, Mrs. Riley,” Amy said.
“I’ve had better ones,” Mrs. Riley said.
She was always such good company, Amy thought. If you liked complainers.
Mrs. Riley was one of those tall women who got too close to you when you talked so that you had to look up to her. She also tended to shout rather than simply speak. Apparently she had only two dresses she was willing to wear in public. A dark blue one and a black one. Shoulders and cuffs were white lace and they were belted in the middle. Today she wore the black one.
She set a small, carefully wrapped package on the counter.
“Now, Ned, I’m not necessarily blaming you for this but the last time I gave you a package to send, the wrapping string came loose. I would prefer that not happen this time.”
Even from the opposite end of the counter Amy could see that the white string around the box was already loose.
“I’ll be sure to take care of that for you, Mrs. Riley.”
Mrs. Riley glanced at Amy. “I consider you a very lucky woman to be engaged to Ned here, Amy. And I defend him every chance I get. As far as I know he didn’t have anything to do with that robbery or these terrible killings.”
Amy felt her face burn. Anger and embarrassment. “Well, that’s very nice of you, Mrs. Riley.” Wanting to spare Ned any further talk of the matter.
But Mrs. Riley wasn’t finished. “I know you need money for that farm of yours you should’ve given up a long time ago. If you had, Ned, people wouldn’t be so suspicious of you. That’s one thing. And as for the killings—I always say that Ned is a sweet little man. Some of my friends always wondered why Amy here didn’t take up with Sheriff Cain. He’s so handsome and strong and—well, manly—but I always say that Ned is a comfort. And maybe that’s what Amy needs at this time in her life.”
“That’s so sweet of you, Mrs. Riley,” Amy said, now more amused than angry. “And when people speak up against you, I’m always the first to say that just because she gossips and tells lies doesn’t mean that deep down she isn’t a very pleasant woman.”
Now it was Mrs. Riley’s face that flushed red. The blue gaze scorched Amy’s face. “I see. A decent woman offers her support to a man the whole town thinks set up that robbery and killed those three poor boys and you think it’s all right to mock her? Are you going to let her insult me this way, Ned?”
“Well, if she hadn’t, Mrs. Riley, I would have.” Ned picked up her small box. “The string is already loose. Just as it was on the last box. But this time I’m going to do you the favor of retying it for you.”
She snatched the box from his hands. “I’ll mail it. Ralph at the post office would never let anybody mock me.”
Lenihan’s Irish eyes twinkled with malice. “Maybe you don’t know what he says about you after you’ve gone.”
She stormed to the door. “Now I know that what people say about you is true. And I hope they hang you.”