“Before cleaning up the town?”
“I do have more to do on that score,” York admitted.
The doctor said he’d take charge of the various deceased, and the sheriff called his deputy over to have him give Miller and Perkins a tour of the carnage.
York was on his way to the hotel, where he could get a bath — the place had plumbing from its well, though it would cost fifty cents to get the tub of water heated up by firewood — when the telegraph operator came rushing up to him, already heated up. The scrawny, bespectacled Parsons — like the rest of the citizens of Trinidad — was dry and clean. But he was also excited.
The little man handed York a wire, saying, “This just came in for you, Sheriff. All the way from New York City.”
“Thanks, Ralph.” He dug a dime out of his soggy pocket and tossed the slippery coin to the operator.
A clearly troubled Parsons lingered, however, saying, “That’s dynamite, Sheriff.”
York was reading it. “I agree, Ralph. But can I count on you to keep it to yourself this time? My dime cover that?”
The operator flushed, nodded, and scurried off.
Right outside the hotel, York paused when a voice called out to him, “Sheriff!”
He turned and a smiling Zachary Gauge was approaching quickly, again in his frock coat, waistcoat, and silk tie, looking like a parson with a wealthy flock.
York smiled slightly as he accepted and shook the offered hand. “What brings you to town, Zachary? Did you want a ringside seat on the festivities?”
“I stayed the night here at the hotel,” he said, with a nod toward the place. “But it had nothing to do with those outlaws coming to town — I have a business meeting with our town shopkeepers. On my way now.”
“Over at the mercantile?”
“That’s right. I just wanted to tell you how pleased I am that things worked out the way they did. You’re a real force of nature, Sheriff.”
“That storm wasn’t my work.”
Half a grin blossomed. “But I have a feeling you made it work for you. One man against five. Amazing.”
“There were two of us. Deputy Tulley pitched in.”
“I haven’t heard the details. Just that you prevailed, handily. At any rate, I must be off.”
York gestured to his mud-spattered self. “I’m going in and get a mite more presentable. Would you stop over at the sheriff’s office, after your meeting? In a hour and a half, say?”
Zachary’s eyebrows rose. “Certainly. Anything special you wish to discuss?”
“A couple things I’d like to go over.”
And went down. “Certainly. An hour and a half should be fine.”
Zachary tipped his black flat-brimmed Stetson and made briskly for Harris Mercantile.
York went into the hotel lobby and over to the check-in desk to arrange for his hot bath.
In clean clothes, shaved, and fully washed — though he’d had a bath just three days before — York felt almost human again. As he got dressed in his hotel room, he realized he was getting into the dudish apparel — his usual black, but with gray trim on cuffs and pearl buttons down the front — that had caused some to underestimate him when he first rode into town, a stranger.
He cleaned off his curl-brimmed hat as best he could, though it might be time for a new one, and cleaned the mud from his hand-tooled boots, the only pair he owned. The .44 would need cleaning and oiling, but for now he just wiped it off with the towel with which he’d dried himself, and used a slightly damp cloth to clean the mud from his gun belt, knowing it deserved (and would receive) better.
By the time he was heading up the boardwalk to the jailhouse, trading nods and smiles with townsfolk (ladies giggling, men tipping hats), York found Main Street looking close to dry and wholly absent of dead Rhomers or parts thereof. The doctor and undertaker, and for that matter his deputy, had done their part.
Zachary Gauge wouldn’t likely show up for another fifteen minutes yet, which was fine because York had a few things he wanted to do first. He tossed the telegram, facedown, on his desk, grabbed the big key ring off the wall, and strolled through the doorless doorway into the cell block.
In the first cell, Tulley was sleeping again, on his back on the cot, for once not snoring. Momentarily, York suspected his deputy had celebrated with a bottle, but it appeared the man was just plumb exhausted. The old boy had had a busy morning, at that.
York found Rita pacing in her oversized cell. Earlier, she’d been barefoot, but now she was in her own hand-tooled boots, her dark hair down and brushing her shoulders. Without the face paint, she looked young. She also looked impatient.
“Congratulations on not being dead,” she said, pausing in her pacing, not looking happy about it at all. “Killed five more men, did you? How many is that?”
“Haven’t done the ciphering yet. I’ll get back to you.”
“Very funny. How about letting me out now?”
“Actually, I am letting you out.”
“About time!”
“And moving you down to a different cell.”
“What?”
“I want you closer to the office, but not in that first cell, where you can be seen from out there.”
She was frowning at him. “Are you serious, Sheriff?”
“Dead serious about keeping you alive.”
He unlocked the cell.
“Bring your bag,” he said.
She huffed an exasperated sigh, but complied. When he’d locked her into cell number two, she asked, “What is this about?”
“There’s a conversation I want you to hear. You just keep mum, all right? I’ll bring you into it if I feel it’s necessary.”
She was frowning again. “Conversation with whom?”
He grinned at her. “That would ruin it.”
Then he went into cell number one and kicked Tulley’s cot, hard. The former desert rat reacted as if woken by an earthquake.
“Up and at ’em, boy,” York said.
Tulley blinked his eyes into focus. “What’s left to do today?”
“I have a guest coming. I want you on the porch with that loaded scattergun handy.”
“In case your guest gets inhospitable?”
“No, in case you spot a rabbit or a squirrel.”
The deputy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re joshin’, right? That’s you bein’ dry, ain’t it, Sheriff?”
“After that storm, it’s nice bein’ dry, don’t you think?” He pointed in the direction of the porch. “Just sit out there and don’t let anybody or anything interrupt me. If you hear something happen in the office—”
“Like what?”
“You’ll know. It’s guard duty, Tulley. Beats night patrol, don’t you think?”
“Shore does.”
So Tulley got positioned on the porch with the scattergun across his lap, and York stood out there with him, looking at sunshine improving the day, hands on hips, waiting for his guest.
Five minutes or so later, Zachary stepped up onto the porch and gave Tulley a nod and York a smile and a nod. “Apologies if I’m late.”
York waved it off. “I don’t have a timepiece, anyway. Tell me you’re early and I’ll believe you.”
The two men went into the office, the sheriff closing the door.
York got behind his desk and sat in his chair, getting comfortable, leaning back, his right ankle resting on his knee, his hands folded on his flat belly, his hat back on his head. Zachary, his frock coat unbuttoned, took off his Stetson and rested it on the edge of the desk, to his right. Nothing was on the scarred wooden surface between them but the facedown wire.
York said, “I hope your business meeting went well.”
Zachary’s smile under the thin mustache was equally thin, but wide. “It did indeed. You may be aware that my late cousin pulled a fast one on these shopkeepers, investing in their establishments and then demanding repayment for that investment while holding on to a fifty percent interest. Such a shameless exercise in human greed.”