“Yes, sir,” Hendel said. Hurrying over to the old man’s desk, Hendel rifled through it until he found three blank sheets of paper. He brought the papers and a fountain pen to Montgomery. Montgomery signed all three of them, then handed them to his daughter.
“Witness that you saw me sign these,” he said.
“What are they, Papa?”
“Do you trust Mr. Hendel?”
“Yes, implicitly,” Cynthia answered.
“Then sign them.” Montgomery lay back on his pillow, as if exhausted.
Cynthia signed all three blank sheets of paper, then returned the pages to Hendel.
“I signed them, Papa, though I don’t know what—Papa!” she screamed.
Montgomery was lying back on his pillow—his eyes open but already clouding over with the opaqueness of death.
“Papa!” she screamed again.
Hendel hurried over to the desk and picked up the telephone. “Number 271, please,” he said. He looked over at the bed and saw that Cynthia was bent over at her waist, with her head on her father’s chest. “Dr. Petrie,” Hendel said when the doctor answered his telephone. “You had better return to the Montgomery home. I believe he has died.”
Hanging up the phone, Hendel walked back into the parlor. Bixby was still there, but now he was reading the newspaper.
“Mrs. Bixby needs you, sir,” he said.
“What for?”
“I’m afraid Mr. Montgomery has just died.”
“So? What does she need me for? If the old man is dead, there is nothing I can do about it.”
Bixby went back to reading the newspaper. “Says here there is a beef shortage,” he said. “The price of cattle is going to go sky high.”
Joel Montgomery left instructions that he was to be buried at sea. He wanted his funeral to be conducted at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, a small neighborhood church that had come into existence primarily because of Montgomery’s generosity. He had paid for the building, and put enough money into the church coffers to hire a priest and organist. He had also been senior warden for the church, a position he held until the time of his death.
The church was filled to overflowing during the funeral, and it wasn’t until then that everyone realized just how generous a man Montgomery had been in his life. He had donated money, not only to the church, but to several orphanages and needy families around town, and though during his lifetime he had kept his charitable contributions secret, his benevolence was well known to Ken Hendel, who, as his business manager, had set up many of the altruistic endeavors.
“My God, would you look at all this?” Bixby said as he read the pew sheet that told about Montgomery’s beneficence. “With all the money he was giving away, it’s a wonder he had any left at all. Well, I can tell you right now, that’s all coming to an end. Hendel, the first thing I want you to do is contact all these people and tell them that the cow has dried up.”
After the service in the church, Montgomery’s body was taken by hearse down to the waterfront, where it was put on board the Prometheus, Montgomery’s personal yacht, for transport to a spot far enough offshore for his body to be committed to the deep. Only his family and his closest friends were invited for that part of the rite, so Hendel stood by as the body was taken on board.
“Please, Mr. Hendel,” Cynthia said. “You must come.”
“There isn’t room for me,” Hendel said.
“Take my place,” Bixby said.
“Oh, Mr. Bixby, I wouldn’t want to put you out.”
“You won’t be putting me out. I’m not going, whether you go or not. I don’t like boats.”
“Please do come, Mr. Hendel,” Cynthia pleaded.
“Very well, I would consider it an honor,” Hendel said.
Hendel found a place at the bow of the yacht so as to be out of the way of the family. Then, when they reached the place where Montgomery was to be committed, he stood reverently while the priest intoned the interment prayer. As the body slid off the plank and into the water, he saw Cynthia making a strong effort to control her grief.
He knew at that moment that he could not totally abandon her to Jay Peerless Bixby. He would take the job Bixby offered.
Besides, in this job, he would be better positioned to make certain that the papers he had filed, after Montgomery’s signature, were followed to the letter.
Chapter Five
Fort Collins, Colorado
The sound of flesh on flesh, followed by a woman’s cry of pain, brought to a halt all conversation in the Hungry Miner Saloon in Fort Collins, Colorado. When the other patrons of the saloon turned toward the sound, they saw an angry Pogue Willis glaring at Juanita Simpson, one of the bar girls.
“When you bring me a drink, don’t you be a-stickin’ your finger down into the whiskey,” Willis said angrily.
“Mr. Willis, I didn’t have my finger down in your whiskey,” Juanita said, her voice quivering in fright.
Willis slapped her again, harder this time than he did the first time, and her eye swelled shut almost instantly.
“Please, don’t hit me again,” she said.
“Then don’t be a-lyin’ to me,” Willis said.
“Mr. Willis, I don’t think you ought to be hittin’ a woman like that, even if she did stick her finger down into your drink,” one of the customers said. “It’s such a pretty little finger anyway. Why, more than likely, all she done was sweetin’ the drink a bit,” he added, smiling to lighten his comment.
There was a nervous twitter of laughter from some of the others in the room.
Willis turned away from Juanita and looked toward the other end of the bar where the man who had spoken to him was standing, nursing his own drink.
“What’s your name, mister?” Willis asked.
“It’s Marcus. Lee Marcus,” the man answered. “No need for you to introduce yourself, Mr. Willis. Why, I reckon ever’body in town knows you, if not ever’body in the whole state.”
Marcus wasn’t exaggerating. Pogue Willis had the reputation of being a gunman. It was a well-earned reputation, for Willis had put several men in their graves—at least fifteen and maybe as many as twenty-five, depending on who was doing the telling.
“What was it you was just sayin’ to me?” Willis asked.
“Oh, nothin’ much,” Marcus replied. “I was just commentin’ that there didn’t seem to me to be no need for you to be knockin’ around that young woman like you was doin’. Even if she did stick her finger down into your drink, you know it wasn’t somethin’ she done on purpose. And her bein’ a woman and all, why, there’s just no call for you to be beatin’ up on her like that. I mean, when you think about, it don’t seem all that gentlemanly a thing to do, does it?”
“I tell you what, Mr. Marcus. Maybe you’d like to take part in this fight,” Willis said. “Because if you want to, I’ll be more than willing to accommodate you.”
“What? Fight? No, what are you talkin’ about?” Marcus asked, wondering now if he had gone too far. “There ain’t no fight here for me to take a part in. I was just commentin’ as to how it don’t seem right to me for a man to be hittin’ a woman, that’s all. I sure wasn’t challengin’ you to a fight or nothin’ like that.”
“Well, friend Marcus, it’s too late,” Willis said. “You done took a part in this fight. So what are you goin’ to do next?”
“I ain’t doin’ nothin’ next,” Marcus said. “I aim to let this drop. Right here and right now.”
Willis shook his head. “Huh-uh,” he said. “It ain’t a-goin’ to drop. You started it, I am goin’ to finish it.”
“I didn’t start nothin’! You’re crazy, mister, and you’re lettin’ this thing get out of hand,” Marcus said, the tone of his voice rising in fear. “I done told you, there ain’t no fight goin’ on here between you and me.”