Prescott pushed away the half-eaten plate of salmon. “I took breakfast here at the hotel around eight. I’m sure you’d have no trouble finding witnesses. At nine I met with Trinidad’s new bank president, Harold Turner, to discuss the branchline and how it might benefit his business.”
Turner was new in town and had not yet been added to the Citizens Committee, although that seemed inevitable.
York asked, “Have you availed yourself of a horse while visiting our fair community? Bought or rented an animal, or perhaps rented a buggy or buckboard?”
The friendly manner was gone, a coldness taking its place. He knew he was being interrogated.
“Not as of yet,” Prescott said. “My business has been confined to town thus far. Eventually, I might be visiting the Bar-O and other, smaller spreads. I have a right of passage to arrange, as you’ll recall?”
The main courses arrived, the veal with asparagus, potatoes, and artichokes for Prescott, the rare steak and fried potatoes for York. They ate in silence. The steak was nice and bloody, just the way York liked it.
While he waited for dessert, Prescott said, “May I ask what your intentions are where Miss Cullen is concerned?” Then the railroad man realized his words sounded other than what he’d meant, and added, “Where the branchline is concerned.”
The waiter brought York his coffee.
“If you want Miss Cullen’s cooperation,” the sheriff said after a sip of the stuff, “this murder will have to be solved first. And I aim to do that.”
“What if... as you speculate... the motive has some fool killing Cullen to facilitate the Santa Fe spur?”
York shook his head. “I don’t believe the misguided actions of one individual would be enough to make Willa Cullen turn against what she sees as a positive thing for this community, and even her own business.”
“You sound sure of that.”
“I am. But until that individual is found, the entire Citizens Committee... and yourself... will seem tarred with the same brush.”
Prescott nodded. His coldness was gone, but so was the politician-like manner. “The Santa Fe Railroad would be most grateful to you, sir, should you find the one who did this.”
York’s eyes tensed. “I wouldn’t be looking for a reward.”
Rewards, like collecting taxes, were a part of a lawman’s due recompense. But this sounded a little too much like a bribe.
Prescott raised a placating palm. “Understood. But we would put our support behind you, Sheriff, and encourage the Citizens Committee to keep you on and make good their promises of better pay and superior housing.”
York smiled. “Why do I think there’s been some behind-the-scenes discussion among my employers to just put me out of the picture?”
The railroad man shifted in his chair. “Well, you did go around town this morning, questioning each of the town fathers in a murder investigation. Making them feel like... suspects.”
“That’s because they are suspects. So are you.”
Prescott only smiled at that. “Since I’m not guilty of anything more than attempted persuasion, that doesn’t trouble me, Sheriff. And should your inquiry be successful, I will be in a position to make other recommendations that would be of considerable benefit to you.”
“Such as?”
Prescott shrugged. “As Trinidad’s population grows, so will its law enforcement requirements. In addition to a county sheriff, there’ll be a need for a chief of police and the staff of officers that would go with it, expanding in relation to the population.”
“I already have a job.”
“Many communities give individuals like yourself multiple positions and multiple paychecks. With my connections, you might also find yourself with deputy U.S. marshal duties in the territory.”
York knew Prescott was right — his friends the Earps in Tombstone had held multiple positions in the manner the railroad man described. It had all worked out well till a certain October afternoon near the O.K. Corral.
The sheriff sat up. “As long as you don’t try to influence my investigation in any way, Mr. Prescott, I don’t see why we can’t be friendly in this.”
“Good. Good.” A smile became a frown. “One question, Sheriff. What do you know of this Burt O’Malley?”
York shrugged. “He was one of the three men who founded the Bar-O years ago... but he did time for a gunfight that went sour. He returned a few days ago, and he and George Cullen seemed to pick up where they’d left off.”
Prescott’s expression seemed wary. “And O’Malley agreed with Cullen about blocking the spur?”
“Apparently. But I wouldn’t put much stake in that.”
“Oh?”
York shook his head. “O’Malley wouldn’t likely cross Cullen on such a topic right after getting back in the man’s good graces. Why? What’s your concern?”
Prescott’s eyes were tight; his forehead was furrowed. “Just that he might represent Cullen’s obstinate point of view where the railroad’s concerned. Perhaps as sheriff, you could convince the man to leave. He’s a convicted murderer, after all.”
Again, York shook his head. “That I won’t do for you, Mr. Prescott, however friendly we might be. The man served his time, and, anyway, I don’t necessarily think he’ll echo Cullen’s anti-spur line. But if he does, that’s his right.”
The forehead smoothed, but the eyes remained tight. “But you will... work on Miss Cullen?”
“Don’t much like the way you put that.”
“Just... use your influence on her is all I mean to say.”
“Don’t much like that, either. Don’t go ruining our wonderful new friendship, Mr. Prescott.”
Another placating palm came up. “I meant no offense.”
York’s smile lacked humor. “Few who give it do. I will share my opinion, which is favorable to your position, with the young woman. But I won’t try to bring her around to my thinking save for some honest talk.”
Both palms came up now. “I can ask no more.”
York sipped the last of his coffee. “What I can do is find a murderer, and maybe that’ll put Willa Cullen in a place that’s friendly to you and your wishes.”
Prescott’s dessert arrived — blancmange, cream and sugar thickened with gelatin. “Won’t you join me, sir?”
“No thanks,” York said, standing. “I’ll leave you to it. I’m late for my evening rounds.”
And he left the railroad man there to enjoy one sickeningly sweet spoonful after another, with a smile that made York wonder who’d got the best of this meeting.
The evening rounds Caleb York had referred to were generally the duty of Deputy Tulley, whom the sheriff ran into on the boardwalk just down from the hotel. They paused in the shade of the overhang, the street nearby painted blue ivory by a full moon.
The bandy-legged deputy stood with his scattergun cradled in his arms. “Out for a stroll, Sheriff?”
York sighed, eyes traveling. “Just thought with a murderer on the loose, maybe you could stand another pair of eyes tonight.”
“Whoever done that deed,” Tulley said and spat some tobacco, “has surely crawled in his hidey-hole. He’s a sneaky sort, tryin’ to blame that killin’ on some poor horse that wouldn’t throw a man iffen you dug a spur in his flank.”
“Does look quiet.”
“Quiet as a damn dead dog.” Tulley’s eyes flicked down the street. “Fairly lively down at the Victory.”
“That’s where I was headed.”
“Need some backup, Sheriff?”
He settled a hand on Tulley’s shoulder. “No. You maintain your regular route. You’re right. This isn’t some mad killer. It’s a cold-blooded bastard who picked a blind man for his victim.”