The Killing Season (31 page)

Nathan reached Pueblo early Saturday afternoon. Adjoining the railroad terminal was a bunkhouse for railroad men who had to lay over, and Nathan was assigned a bunk for the two nights he would be in Pueblo. The silver shipment was already there, he learned. There was a vault in the dispatcher's office, and besides the dispatcher, two armed guards were on duty around the clock. Having eaten breakfast before daylight, Nathan was hungry, and he didn't have to go far. There was a little cafe—The Starlight—near the terminal, and it seemed a gathering place for railroad men. Somebody called Nathan's name and he spotted the grinning crew of old three thirty-eight. There was Dub Collins, the engineer, Amos Handy, the fireman, Enos Pilpaw, the brakeman, and Art Raines from the express car.

“Drag up a chair,” said Collins. “We ain't got a thing to do until Monday mornin' but eat and talk.”

“I reckon you gents are taking three thirty-eight back to Kansas City, then,” Nathan said. “I'll be leaving at six o'clock Monday morning, myself.”

“Then you'll be ridin' with us,” Enos Pilpaw said. “That makes me feel a sight better.”

“Me, too,” said Art Raines. “We been told not to talk about that run, but I reckon you know all about it.”

“I know,” Nathan said, “and I'm glad you gents will be in charge of the train.”

A waitress behind the counter had her back to Nathan, and he caught his breath, for her build and the flowing, curly black hair reminded him of Molly Tremayne. He kept his eyes on her until she turned around, and she had Molly's dark eyes and sensuous lips. His heart skipped a beat, and the look on his face must have given him away, because his four companions laughed.

“That's Melanie Gavin,” Enos said. “She and her Ma, Elsa, own this place. Mike Gavin was killed in a railroad accident, and Elsa used the money from the railroad to open a cafe. All the railroad men eat here, and the place never closes.”

“She's a beautiful woman,” said Nathan, “and she reminds me of someone I used to know in Saint Louis,”

“You should of lured her into double harness,” Art said. “I just wish Melanie had took to a railroad man, instead of the snake-eyed varmint that's sparkin' her.”

“And who would that be?” Nathan asked.

“Clell Shanklin,” said Art. “He owns Shanklin Freight Lines, hauling from here to Denver and from Denver back. His wagons brought in this shipment from the mines that's down at the dispatcher's office now.”

“So he knows about these shipments before they leave Pueblo,” Nathan said.

“He'd have to,” said Amos Handy. “What are you thinking?”

“I'm wondering just how trustworthy Shanklin is,” Nathan said.

“We can't answer that,” said Dub Collins. “All we know is that none of us like him.”

“Damn,” Amos said. “Speak of the devil.”

The man who entered the cafe looked like anything but a teamster. His black boots were polished to a shine, accenting his black trousers and black frock coat. His fancy white shirt had lace at the cuffs, his broad, black string tie was long and flowing, and topping it all was a pearl gray Stetson. The left armpit of the coat bulged just enough to suggest a shoulder holster. He looked as phony as a pair of loaded dice, and Nathan immediately decided he didn't like Clell Shanklin, either. Shanklin quickly gave them reason a-plenty for their dislike. Although the cafe was almost full, Shanklin seized Melanie, bent the girl over backward, and showered her with kisses. She broke loose, her face flaming, and obviously had to restrain herself. Nathan was wishing mightily that she had floored the insensitive Shanklin, but she didn't, and Shanklin laughed.

“God,” said Enos, “I wish her ma would set her straight, and send that greasy coyote back to the wagon yard.”

“Aw, hell,” Art said, “she's a grown woman, likely twenty-five years old. Some gals never rise above greasy coyotes. Run one off, and she'll snag the next one.”

Nathan left the cafe with his four companions, separating when the railroad men decided to visit some saloons. Nathan returned to the railroad bunkhouse, and despite the noise, managed to sleep. When he awoke, it was late, and some of the other bunks already had snoring occupants. As quietly as he could, he tugged on his boots, donned his hat, and buckled on his gun belt. Recalling that the Starlight Cafe never closed, he went there for supper. Except for a burly male cook and Melanie Gavin, the place was deserted. Nathan took a stool at the counter, and Melanie came to take his order.

“Cook me a steak all the way through,” Nathan said, “with onions and potatoes on the side, and plenty of coffee.”

“Gotcha,” said the cook.

“I haven't seen you in here before,” Melanie said.

“I was here for dinner,” said Nathan, “but you were busy.”

She stood there, her face scarlet, her eyes not meeting his. Nathan took pity on her and changed the subject.

“I'm Nathan Stone, and I'm with the railroad. I'd never been in here until today.”

“You look more like a cowboy than a railroad man,” she said. “You must be one of the guards for that silver ...”

Her voice trailed off as she realized what she was saying. Abruptly she turned away, filled a cup, and brought Nathan his coffee.

“Yes,” Nathan said, “I'm with railroad security. I was of a mind to have some words with Clell Shanklin. I'm told he spends a lot of time here.”

“That's none of your business,” she said shortly. “He has an office here in town.”

“I don't reckon I need to talk to him now,” said Nathan. “I've learned what I needed to know.”

Nathan said no more. When his meal was ready, he ate, paid his bill, and left. He then crossed the street as though returning to the railroad bunkhouse, but took refuge in the shadow of some boxcars on a railroad siding. Not more than a few minutes after he had left the cafe, Melanie slipped out the door. She stood there awhile, as though undecided, and then set off up the street toward the lights of town. Keeping to the shadows, Nathan followed. When she reached the wagon yard, he waited until she had climbed the steps and crossed the dock. Nathan reached the door in time to hear Shanklin's response to whatever the girl had told him.

“Damn you,” Shanklin shouted, “what did you tell that railroad detective?”

“Nothing,” Melanie cried. “He asked about you, and I ...”

There was the sound of a blow, a cry of pain, and the thump of a body hitting the floor. Nathan had heard enough. He stepped through the door and found Melanie on her knees, blood trickling from the corners of her mouth. Shanklin stood over her, his lean face a mask of fury.

“Get up and get out of here,” Nathan told the girl.

Shanklin turned on Nathan, his hand darting beneath his coat, but it wasn't nearly as quick as Nathan's fist. It caught Shanklin on the point of his chin, snapped his head back, and lifted his feet off the floor. He slammed into a wall, bringing down a mess of harness and gear that had been hanging on pegs. He groaned once and lay still. Nathan turned to find Melanie standing there, wide-eyed and trembling.

“Damn it,” said Nathan, “I told you to get out of here. Come on.”

He took her arm and she didn't resist. He said nothing more until they were on the street, making their way toward the cafe, two blocks away.

“Do you want to return to the cafe, or do you want to go home?”

“To the cafe,” she said. “I don't want Ma ....”

“You don't want her to know he hit you,” Nathan finished.

“Through the back door,” she said, when they were almost to the cafe.

He led her there, and from somewhere she produced a key, unlocking the door.

“Now get inside,” said Nathan, “and stay away from that freight office.”

“Come in,” she said. “Please. I want to talk to you.”

Not knowing what he might be in for, Nathan stepped inside and she locked the door.

Nathan sat on a stool while Melanie bathed her face in cold water. Up front, in the cafe, there were voices and a rattle of dishes. Finally, the girl turned to Nathan and spoke.

“There's a bench by the door, where we can't be seen or heard from the front.”

“Now,” said Nathan, when they were seated, “what do you want to talk about?”

“Why are you after Clell?” she asked.

“I'm not after him,” said Nathan. “Yet. He's told you things he should have kept in confidence, and I'm wondering who else he's told.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know damn well what I mean. Why do you think raw silver is being freighted all the way from Denver to be shipped to Kansas City? One word to a band of thieves and all this security would be for nothing.”

“And you're thinking Clell Shanklin might sell that information.”

“I'm thinking that he could, and you're not all that sure that he won't, so you went to warn him, didn't you?”

“No!”

“Then why did you go?” Nathan demanded.

“I ... that's ... that's none of your business.”

“I think it is my business,” said Nathan. “Obviously, he thought you must have told me something. Or does he just slap you around to amuse himself?”

“Just go,” she said tearfully. “Please go.”

Nathan got up and turned the knob of the door, releasing the latch. Before leaving, he spoke quietly.

“You wanted to talk, and I think you need to talk. You can reach me by telegram at the AT and SF terminal, in Dodge City, Kansas.”

She said nothing, and he stepped out, closing the door behind him. He looked around before making his way to the street. It was late, and seeing nobody, he crossed the street to the dispatcher's office. There was no light and the door was locked. He knocked once, drawing an immediate response.

“Who are you and what do you want?”

“Nathan Stone, security with the AT and SF. Just wanted to be sure there's nothing out of kilter.”

“We appreciate your concern,” said the guard, “but we have everything in order.”

Nathan went on to the bunkhouse, vaguely uneasy. Melanie Gavin knew more than she was telling. Otherwise, why would Shanklin have reacted so violently when he learned Nathan had been questioning the girl? Nathan believed Clell Shanklin was already involved or about to become involved in some scheme that would jeopardize the silver shipment, but he had only his suspicions. To Nathan's surprise, late as it was, the railroad bunkhouse was virtually empty. Three thirty-eight's crew was there, however, and they were awake.

“Man, you should have been with us,” Enos said. “Clell Shanklin come in the saloon with a bruise on his chin that was a real beaut. He was as riled as a stomped-on rattler.”

“Damn,” said Nathan, “I always miss out on the good stuff. Speaking of Shanklin, how long has he been hauling shipments from the mines to Pueblo?”

“We don't always make this run,” Dub Collins said, “but far as we know, this could be Shanklin's first run. Last time we took a mine shipment to Kansas City, Shanklin wasn't doin' the hauling. He took the contract away from somebody else on a low bid, I hear.”

“He's got a freight office here,” said Enos, “so he's been around a while. The coyote's been sparkin' Miss Melanie for as long as I can remember.”

“There ain't much hope for the rest of us,” Art said, “when a slippery varmint like Shanklin can trap a pretty one like Melanie and keep her on his string. How in tarnation does he do that?”

Nathan found himself wondering the same thing, wondering if Melanie Gavin clung to Clell Shanklin to conceal a past she dared not have revealed. Clearly she feared the man, and had barely tolerated his embarrassing show of affection in the Starlight Cafe. Convinced there was nothing he could do to counter Shanklin's possible sellout to outlaws, Nathan reached a decision.

“Dub,” Nathan said, “tomorrow and tomorrow night, how many westbounds will there be, coming from Kansas City?”

“Unless there's been changes,” said Collins, “two. One pulls out of Kansas City at six in the morning, and the other at two o'clock tomorrow afternoon.”

“Is there a schedule for these mine shipments? Do they always go out on Monday?”

“They have so far,” Collins said. “They arrive on Saturday and are loaded on the first train out, on Monday. Why?”

“Because we're going to change that schedule, this time,” said Nathan. “I'm going to telegraph Foster Hagerman in Dodge, and we're rolling out of here at six o'clock in the morning.”

“Hell,” Amos Handy said, “it's near midnight. The dispatcher's office is locked up tight, and them guards has got orders. That door stays locked until seven o'clock in the morning, and then nobody goes in but the dispatcher. You can't send a telegram, and even if you could, tomorrow bein' Sunday, Hagerman likely won't be in the office.”

“Art,” said Nathan, “the last time I rode with you gents, there was a telegraph sending instrument in the express car. Is it still there?”

“Yes,” Raines said, “and the lineman's spurs, too.”

“I'll be needing them,” Nathan said. “Dub, do you have any idea who would be Foster Hagerman's boss?”

“Hell, I dunno,” Collins said, “unless it's Pierce Malone, president of the railroad.”

“He'll do,” said Nathan. “I want those two westbounds sidetracked tomorrow. The six o‘clock departure at Dodge and the two o'clock departure at Wichita.”