The hall was still ringing with discontent when the doors were flung open, as if by a gust of wind, and Willa (and everybody else) looked back amazed as a figure strode in, heading down that center aisle with purpose. He was tall, perhaps even taller than Caleb, in a black frock coat with waistcoat and black silk four-in-hand tie.
He’d been moving so quickly that Willa didn’t get a really good look at this new arrival until he’d swept up to, and onto, the stage. The city fathers were frowning more in confusion than irritation at this boldness, although the bank president looked quite taken aback.
This late, dramatic arrival had a city look about him that was more than just a complexion little touched by sun; he had an air of sophistication that reminded Willa of actors she’d seen performing on stage on her visits to Denver.
The narrow oval of his face was marked by high cheekbones, his nose sharp but well-formed, his eyes wide-set under bold slashes of black brow, almond-shaped eyes so dark brown they seemed as black as his widow’s-peaked, slicked-back hair. His mustache had been trimmed to a mere dark line above his expressive mouth.
Up on the stage, the late arrival was speaking in low tones, half-bowing to the Citizens Committee in apparent supplication. He had their rapt attention and any irritation was fading from their faces and a few smiles were blossoming. As he explained himself, they were nodding and gesturing toward the podium.
The bank president even put a hand on the arrival’s shoulder and smiled and offered a hand to shake, which the new man did. The two stood facing each other, talking, for what seemed an eternity to all those present, but was perhaps thirty seconds, while a pin-drop silence took the hall. Finally the two men grinned at each other and shook hands again, as if both were pumping water at a well.
With considerable energy, the man in the silk tie took the podium, gripping it like a revival preacher. In a strong, clear voice, he said, “My apologies to you good people. I realize I’ve interrupted an important meeting, but when I learned what you’ve been put through, and what you’re going through, well... I thought you might like to hear a few encouraging words...”
He flashed a winning smile.
“...to invoke a familiar song that’s no doubt been sung in this very building any number of times.”
That same rabble-rousing rancher in back, unimpressed, called, “Just who are you, mister?”
“My name is Gauge,” he said. “But I hope you won’t hold that against me.”
Another wave of murmuring rolled through the room.
“I only met my late and apparently very unlamented cousin a few times,” he said. “When we were both young and innocent... though I seem to recall him setting a cat’s tail on fire, so perhaps he never was.”
This got some smiles and a few chuckles.
“I am Zachary Garland Gauge, and I rode here on horseback today from Las Vegas, where I arrived by train. Though I’m from the East, I do have some equestrian training...” Seeing some confused faces, he rephrased it. “I’ve done my share of horseback riding, although I think today I earned myself a few blisters in brand-new places.”
More chuckles, but many wary expressions.
His smile exuded confidence. “I hope we’ll be friends soon. We’re already neighbors, as I’ve moved in, out at the Circle G, or am in the process thereof. Several townspeople were good enough to be waiting for me when I arrived, and they let me know in no uncertain terms about the nasty blow your community’s been dealt. I’m here to put your minds at ease. Before I came West, to take over my cousin’s ranch, and to build a new life for myself, I liquidated all of my holdings.”
Murmuring rose to a rumbling, as if an earthquake were coming.
Zachary Gauge’s strong voice rose over the rumbling and quelled it: “Please! Gentle people. I have only had a few moments to discuss this with Mr. Carter. Just now. Obviously we will need to spend time in discussion and negotiation, at far more length... but your bank president assures me that the amount of money I will be depositing with him in the coming few days exceeds the losses of the recent robbery by a good distance.”
A stunned silence held for several seconds; then someone started to clap and it built into applause that rang off the tin ceiling, with some whoops and hollering mixed in.
“I hope to get to know all of you better,” Zachary said, and he turned to the city fathers and went down the row of them — they were on their feet now — shaking hands. Then he faced the crowd and summoned a shy smile and waved a little, as he stepped off the stage and went down the aisle, as smiling faces turned his way, words of welcome flung toward him, hands extended for quick shakes, the applause continuing. Finally the unexpected town savior took a place along the wall in back, since no chairs were left.
The committee members on stage were all seated again, save for the mayor, who again stepped to the podium. The applause finally died down and the little barber spoke.
“We are all as grateful as we are surprised,” Mayor Hardy said, “to enjoy this last-second rescue, right out of a dime novel.”
That got some laughter, perhaps more than it deserved, thanks to the suddenly elevated mood.
“Speaking of dime novels,” Hardy said, his own mood brightened considerably, “our own Sheriff York, the subject of such writing himself, has requested a few words with you. Afterward, we ask you to move your chairs to the sides of the hall, as the ladies of the Grange are going to serve some refreshments... Sheriff York?”
Caleb rose from his chair and stepped up onto the shallow stage. He did not take the podium but rather stood near the edge of the platform and spoke words that somehow seemed quiet, though his voice was as loud as any that had spoken this evening.
“I bid welcome to Mr. Gauge,” Caleb said, “and commend his investment in our community.”
Willa felt a wave of warmth at Caleb referring to Trinidad in such a manner. A man staying only temporarily might not refer to the town in that way.
“But it remains my aim,” he said, “to recover the stolen money and bring Ben Wade’s killer to justice.”
A man in back called, “Fill him with lead first, Caleb!”
That old-fashioned lingo got some laughs and scattered applause, but York, stony-faced, only raised a hand, as if being sworn in to testify.
“I hope to bring him in breathing,” their sheriff said. “But if a jury so rules, I will gladly walk him to the gallows.”
Almost everyone in the room applauded that.
That same grouchy rancher in back called out, “Sheriff! Why didn’t you raise a posse? Why aren’t you out lookin’ for this mudsill!”
No one seconded that, but everyone looked Caleb’s way just the same.
“That’s Barney Wright, isn’t it? Barney, your name may be Wright, but you have a wrong way of looking at things.”
Some chuckles.
“Or at least an old-fashioned one,” Caleb said. “I rode out yesterday to Brentwood Junction. Our wanted man stole a fresh horse there, and what direction he rode off in, I couldn’t venture a guess. I did get a description of him...”
Caleb shared that with the hall.
“I also got a name,” he said. “Bill Johnson. Darn common and a likely alias. He was a crony of Mr. Gauge here’s late cousin, but he didn’t work on any of the Gauge spreads. Just a hired gun brought in to intimidate when needed. If any of you know of a Bill Johnson, see me after.”
He explained to the crowd that he had spent yesterday afternoon sending telegrams to lawmen all over the territory and a few beyond, with the description of this Johnson, and that he’d wired the Santa Fe Railroad with the same information, so their “train dicks” would be on the alert.