The Fire of Greed (23 page)

Chapter 42

“IT'S GONE,” NICOLETTE DE LA GRAVIÈRE SAID GRIMLY.

“I would be surprised if it was
not
gone,” Amos Richardson said. “If there was a document that implicated
me
in grand theft and a succession of killings, I would not leave it lying around to be discovered
twice
.”

Amos Richardson had reached the offices of the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe to find Nicolette practically ripping apart the desk that once belonged to Ezra Waldron, as Bladen Cole and Joseph Ames looked on.

Most of the paperwork that had been there yesterday was gone, but she was thrashing the remnants. Then she pulled the contents from a bottom drawer and almost idly thumbed through the contents. It was mostly very routine looking paperwork. Angrily, she turned the stack upside down and began repeating the process.

“What's
this?
” she exclaimed.

“What
is
it?” Cole asked, maintaining his place, seated atop another desk.

“It's a statement from the same brokerage firm,” Nicolette said excitedly. “I recognize the letterhead.”

“What does it show?” Ames asked. “Let me see it.”

“It's from the same firm, Ripley, Storey & Bledsoe, dated from two months ago,” she said. “It looks like he missed it when he was cleaning his desk because it was upside down. It shows him buying the Denver & Rio Grande shares.”

“That's unmistakable,” Richardson said, looking over her shoulder.

“Indeed,” Ames said when he was handed the paper. His tone reflected a hint, almost, of sadness. “It does show that he owned their shares. Of course, we all know that their share price has risen to more that double that at which he purchased these shares. I know of Ripley, Storey & Bledsoe. They're one of the largest firms dealing in railroad shares.”

“Is this what you fellows call a ‘killing in the stock market'?” Cole asked ironically.

Richardson stifled a chuckle. Nicolette merely shook her head in disgust.

“To think that I was working just two desks away from the man,” Ames said, staring at Waldron's name on the statement.

“At least you don't have to live with the realization that you were holding his hand in a darkened theater,” Nicolette said, wiping her hand on her dress.

“Out, damned spot,” Cole said with a wry expression on his face.

Nicolette responded only with a sputter of disgust.

“About the killings of the bandits,” Ames said, addressing his remarks to the coroner, “Mr. Cole tells me that you found some evidence . . .”

“Only that one of the men was unarmed when he was killed at point-blank range,” Richardson said. “Given the nature and occupation of the victim, it's not the kind of thing that would get a man on trial for murder, but it
does
show that Muriday made a deliberate decision to kill him rather than bring him in alive.”

“What is it that I'm supposed to hear, Doctor?”

Everyone now turned to see Sheriff Reuben Sandoval come through the door with Richardson's assistant.

“I took the liberty of sending Domingo to fetch the sheriff,” the coroner explained. “I think we should start at the beginning . . . with what Mademoiselle de la Gravière told me yesterday.”

Nicolette repeated the story of her discovery once again, for the benefit of the sheriff and the coroner, and Cole added the story of the attempt that had been made on Nicolette's life.

“Where is Waldron now?” Sandoval asked.

“He's been summoned to the home office,” Ames explained. “Called to explain himself, and almost certainly be fired.”

“That's not much of a penalty for a man who has done what he's done,” Richardson said. “Of course they don't know the half of what he has done.”

“It's not much of a penalty for a man who has made himself rich through his double-crossing ways,” Nicolette added.

“They'll know,” Ames interjected. “They will know before he arrives, because they'll be receiving a telegram
from me
.”

“There's the matter of an attempted murder,” Cole interjected.

“With no witnesses,
that's
a hard one to prove,” Sandoval cautioned.

“Can't you bring him in and
make
him confess?” Nicolette asked.

“Where is he?” Sandoval asked. “You said that he's been called back East?”

“The morning train,” Ames said. “There's an eastbound train from Lamy that's leaving . . . just about now. He's probably on it.”

“Can't you telegraph them and ask them to hold the train?” Cole asked.

“It's too late,” Ames said, looking distressed that he had not thought of this sooner. “However, I
can
telegraph Cibola Station and tell
them
to hold the train.”

“I'll go get him,” Cole said, getting to his feet. “If I ride hard, I can be out there in probably three hours.”

“Good,” Ames said. “That's around the time that the afternoon train from Lamy will pass through Cibola. I'd hate to have
two
trains delayed.”

“Of course,” Cole said cynically.

* * *

AS HIS NAME WAS BEING TAKEN IN VAIN IN THE OFFICES OF
the railroad in Santa Fe, Ezra Waldron was climbing aboard the morning train, bound for points east, accompanied by the loyal Nathaniel Siward. Waldron knew that he could not leave behind the man who had ordered Ben Muriday to murder Nicolette de la Gravière on his behalf.

All night long, as he hurriedly cleaned out his desk and packed his bags, Waldron had thought about that terrible moment when Muriday had stepped out of the shadows.

“While night's black agents to their preys do rouse,” Macbeth had said. “Thou marvell'st at my words: but hold thee still; things bad begun make strong themselves by ill.”

Every time Waldron closed his eyes, he saw that terrible face and recalled the thoughts that had gone through his mind at that moment. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw the beautiful woman with lips the color of chilies lying dead in a pool of blood.

He knew that he had been falling in love with Nicolette de la Gravière, and he knew that he would be haunted for the rest of his life by the image of her smile and nagged by the question of “what if.”

“Avaunt! and quit my sight!” Macbeth told the ghost of Banquo. “Let the earth hide thee! Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold; thou hast no speculation in those eyes which thou dost glare with!”

“Avaunt . . . quit my sight,” Ezra Waldron murmured as the train rumbled, about to begin its journey.

“
What?
” Siward asked.

“Oh,” Waldron said, opening his eyes. “I was just thinking about the theater production that I saw last night.”

Through that entire production, Waldron had glanced from time to time at Nicolette and been puzzled by her relaxed smile. She had certainly seen the letter, but he gradually became convinced that she did not know what it all meant.

She was bright and intuitive, but was he reading too much into this? Was he a fool for thinking that a
woman
could understand the nuances of share prices?

At one point during Act IV, as he looked over at her beautiful face and her soft features, pleasantly smiling at the production, he had considered standing up and rushing out to call off the assassination.

He had not, of course, done that.

He decided that with a plan in motion, nothing should be done to jeopardize its momentum, or its outcome, or the money that was accumulating in his accounts.

Nicolette de la Gravière would have to die—beautiful, young Nicolette de la Gravière would have to die—in the service of sheltering Ezra Waldron's accounts.

It made him sad that this was the way things had to be, but it
was
the way things had to be.

“We're moving,” Siward observed.

Waldron opened his eyes. He had dozed off, which was no wonder, given that he had not slept at all the night before.

His nightmares faded in the light of the day. Night's black agents retreated to their caves deep in his subconscious.

“I'm glad to be done with Santa Fe,” Siward said. “Guess we're getting out in the nick of time.”

“Don't worry,” Waldron assured him. “With Muriday dead, there's nothing to connect us . . .
either
of us . . . to the shooting last night.”

“She's going to be telling everything she knows,” Siward reminded him.

“Let her,” he said, subconsciously patting the jacket pocket that contained the letter. He could have burned it, but he would need it when he walked into a certain office in Denver.

“She has not a single shred of evidence, nor is there anyone who can corroborate anything that she might have seen,” he continued. “I doubt very much that she understood half of what she saw.”

“Then why did you want her . . . ?” Siward started to ask.

“Just to make sure . . . to tie up all the loose ends.”

“Doesn't it matter that this is a loose end that didn't get tied off?”

“By sundown, we'll be nearing Raton, and then we'll be across the Colorado line, and rid of New Mexico for good,” Waldron assured him. “Nobody is going to bring anyone back across state lines on the flimsy word of a girl . . . are they?”

“I guess not,” Siward said, relaxing.

“That is if they can find us.” Waldron smiled as he closed his eyes. There would be an assumption that they were traveling all the way to the end of the line to answer Waldron's summons to the home office, but they were traveling on passes, so there were no tickets confirming this.

Waldron knew that he would step off the train in La Junta. Working through the mail, he had purchased a horse that would be stabled there. From there, he would ride this horse to Denver, where his accounts resided.

He supposed that Nathaniel Siward would probably also detrain in La Junta. Assuming that Siward was asleep as the train reached that station, Waldron entertained thoughts of just leaving him on the train, but he would not do that.

Siward did not realize that he too was a loose end, but he was. Last night, Waldron had failed to take care of a loose end—partly, at least, because he hadn't taken care of it personally. At La Junta, he would not fail.

Despite assurances to the contrary, Nathaniel Siward would not share in the harvest that Waldron planned to reap. Waldron wanted it
all
.

Chapter 43

“I'M SORRY TO BE DOING THIS TO YOU,” COLE SAID. “IT'S
just gotta be done.”

The roan just whinnied disgustedly and shook his neck. Cole had been riding him hard, with five minutes of galloping alternating with ten minutes at a walk. The heat of the day was upon them, and the roan was quite fed up with this urgent routine.

“It won't be long now,” Cole assured him, not knowing himself how soon Cibola would come into their view.

Bladen Cole had ridden out of Santa Fe three hours before, armed with a written authorization on Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe letterhead to remove Ezra Waldron from the train, signed by Joseph Ames. If there should be any doubt, he also carried a note signed by Sheriff Reuben Sandoval, which deputized him to bring the fugitive finance man back to Santa Fe.

“How much do you want as a fee?”

When Ames had opened negotiations for this bounty hunt, several figures had entered Cole's mind, but in light of the circumstances, he said that it was on the house.

Rarely had the bounty hunter engaged in a manhunt that was as time-critical as this one. He was anxious to reach Cibola as soon as possible, not because of Joseph Ames's concern about the railroad's schedule, but out of knowing that Waldron would grow suspicious if the train was stopped for no apparent reason. Cole didn't imagine there was much that Waldron could do out here in the middle of nowhere, but he did not want to take any chances.

Reluctantly, he kicked the roan into a gallop once again, and with even greater reluctance, the loyal horse began to run.

Coming over a low rise, Cole looked out into the distance and saw a small cluster of clapboard buildings. Because they had all been constructed of wood, rather than adobe, Cole knew immediately that they were railroad company buildings. This was confirmed by the line of telegraph poles stretching into infinity in ether direction from the buildings. As he came closer, he could see the rails, paralleling the telegraph poles into those two infinities.

What Cole did
not
see was the morning train—nor indeed a train of any kind. Nor could he hear the chugging or whistling of a train in the distance.

Having decided that he must have made a wrong turn, he hoped that there would be someone at the buildings who could point out the direction to Cibola.

It was not until he read that place name on a sign at the end of one of the buildings that Cole knew that this
was
the place where the train was supposed to have been stopped.

“Howdy,” he shouted to a man who emerged from the building to watch his approach.

The man waved back, acknowledging his arrival.

“Reckon this must be the Cibola Station,” Cole said as he dismounted.

He was thankful for a hitchrail with a watering trough that was positioned in the shade.

The roan was ecstatic.

“Yep,” the man confirmed. “If you was to be a-lookin' for Cibola, then I'd be telling you that you had found us.”

“I was wondering about the train,” Cole said.

“Then you'd be about twenty minutes early,” the man said. “But I hate to tell you that you'd be about twenty minutes out of luck.”

“How does that work?”

“On the morning train, we'd be a flag stop,” he explained. “We put up a flag and she'll stop for ya. Afternoon train's a through train. Don't stop for hell nor high water . . . not that there's ever gonna be much in the way of high water in these parts.”

“I take it that the morning train's already passed through?” Cole asked, fearing the inevitable.

“You missed that one by near three hours,” the man said. “But you don't have to worry none.”

“Why's that?”

“Because there's another one coming through tomorrow,” the man said with a broad smile. “You're welcome to camp overnight right here.”

“I had been told that the office in Santa Fe was going to telegraph you to stop the morning train here in Cibola,” Cole said, finally getting around to finding out what had happened with Joseph Ames's promise of holding up the train.

“How come?”

“Some big problem.”

“Didn't get no such telegram,” the man said. “There's no telegrams today.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, you know that storm that came through last night?”

“Yeah.”

“We lost the lines sometime in that. The country's so flat in places that the lightning likes to jump onto the telegraph wires. The lightning burns 'em clean though. I've seen it happen. There'd be a big
pop
and a lot of sparks.”

“How long does it take to fix?”

“Depends. It depends on where it happened and how long it takes to find. Also depends on whether it got broke in more than one place. There's two hundred miles of telegraph along this railroad in New Mexico Territory . . . and the break
might've
happened up in Colorado.”

“I understand,” Cole said with a nod.

“You're welcome to go ahead and wait for the train tomorrow,” the man said, ending the conversation to go back inside the station.

“Much obliged,” Cole said, studying the timetable as he followed the man inside. “Looks here like these two trains get into La Junta, Colorado, at the same time. Is that right?”

“Five minutes apart,” the man nodded. “Like I said, the afternoon train out of Lamy is a through train. They both have scheduled stops in Las Vegas and up at Raton, but the morning train makes more flag stops and whistle-stops so it takes longer. The afternoon train has pretty well caught up with the morning trail by La Junta. It's at La Junta that they become the same train. Both sets of cars are pulled by the same motive power across the rest of Colorado and Kansas because there's no more mountains. It's as flat as the palm of your hand all the way to Kansas City.”

“I see,” Cole said thoughtfully.

Cole walked around to the other side of the station, where there was a short platform and a small bench for waiting passengers.

He stepped to the track and looked in both directions as the parallel steel rails converged far in both distances.

He pondered.

He thought.

He decided that he had come too far to turn back.

Returning to his horse, he removed the saddle and carried it into the station.

“I was wondering if I might stash my saddle in your baggage room for a couple of days?” Cole asked the station attendant, dropping several coins on the counter of the ticket booth.

“Sure,” the man said. “You're welcome to board your horse out it the corral yonder too.”

“Much obliged,” Cole said sincerely, placing a gold eagle on the counter. “I'll pay in advance.”

“You reckon to be back in two days?”

“Round about,” Cole said. “No more than four, I reckon.”

“Okeydokey,” the man said, reaching into a drawer. “Lemme get you set up with a ticket on tomorrow morning's train.”

“Actually, I'm planning on bein' on
today's
train,” Cole said.

“Like I was saying before,” the man explained, saying the words slowly, as though he were talking to someone who forgot things as soon as they were told. “The train's already been through here three hours back.”

“I'm not talkin' abound
that
train,” Cole replied. “I'm talkin' about the one comin' in round about ten minutes.”

“But, mister, I done 'splained that the afternoon train don't
stop
in Cibola. Can't flag it down.”

“I'm betting another eagle that you can make it
slow
down, though,” Cole said, rolling another gold coin around between his fingers.

* * *

COLE CROUCHED NEAR AN ESPECIALLY LARGE BUSH OF MESQUITE, WHICH SCREENED HIM FROM THE VIEW OF ANY
train approaching from the west. Some distance away, the station man was reluctantly burning brush, and glancing at him periodically.

The air was still, and the smoke rose mainly straight up, but from time to time, a little whiff of wind, a harbinger of the unsettled air that moved in with the afternoon cumulus clouds, would stir the black column and a bit of it drifted briefly over the tracks.

The bounty hunter shifted his eyes to the western distance.

The sound began as a barely perceptible hum in the steel rail ten feet from his right ear.

Next, there was a smudge of smoky grayness in the western distance, perched above the vanishing point of the converging rails like a dot on a letter “i.”

He heard the distant clatter of pistons and push rods grow steadily louder as the smoke from the locomotive's firebox grew more prominent.

The shriek of the locomotive's whistle spoke of an engineer who had seen another source of wood smoke. The rapid chugging became slower. There was the hiss of air brakes and the squeal of metal on metal as the locomotive slowed.

A wave from the station man was answered by toots from the whistle.

The rumble of the train grew to thunder as the locomotive closed in.

Suddenly, it was right there.

It moved much more slowly than it had been traveling, but its speed was still considerable when judged by a man crouching still.

Cole watched a passenger car slip by, and then another.

Realizing that he was out of his mind, he rose and began to run as fast as he could along the gravel ballast next to the track.

He cursed at having weighted himself down with his rifle scabbard strapped across his back.

A baggage car, really just a glorified boxcar, came next.

It seemed studded with handles, but Cole's attempts to grab one failed.

He ran closer, so close that he could smell the grease and grit on the second baggage car.

He reached out, grabbed, and caught the metal in his hands.

The speed of the car, slightly greater than that of a man on a dead run, jerked suddenly. He felt as though his arm had been pulled out of its socket, but it had not.

Cole lunged upward, grabbing the next higher handle.

He felt his boots bounce on the gravel, then lift into open air.

Kicking and scrambling, he found a lower rung with his feet and hung on for dear life.

Now firmly attached, he finally exhaled and took a deep breath. Despite the smoke, this sigh of relief felt exhilarating. It also felt good to know that he had survived, and the nightmare scenario of being sucked beneath the car and sliced in half by the wheels had not transpired.

He could now take stock of his situation.

He was aboard and whole. Had he not tethered his hat with a chin strap, it would have been gone. He had not dropped the rifle scabbard strapped over his shoulder and was now glad to have it.

Meanwhile, the train was picking up speed again.

He looked down at the ground rushing past at a mile a minute. He had never experienced anything quite like this. Looking at the ground started to make him sick, so he turned, looked up, and began to ascend toward the roof.

This climb, while being buffeted by the continuous blast of air, seemed to take forever, but at last he was on top of the car. From here, he was able to climb back down between the cars, where he was out of the wind and could sit down and rest.

Ezra Waldron had not been stopped at Cibola, and he was better than three hours ahead, but at least the bounty hunter now knew that he was following him in a vehicle that was traveling at the same rate of speed, and slowly gaining on him as his conveyance stopped more often. Tomorrow in La Junta, Cole would be only five minutes behind Waldron.