As the crowd dispersed, Willa turned to York and gestured to the distinguished figure at her side.
“Caleb York,” she said, “Raymond L. Parker.”
Thinking, I should have known, York held out a hand and received a firm, warm handshake in return. This was the third partner in the original Bar-O, the one who had sold out to make his fortune elsewhere some years ago.
And make it Parker had, with hotels and banking interests in both Denver and Kansas City.
“Mr. Parker,” York said, “despite the circumstances, it’s good to finally meet you.”
The white-mustached face gave the sheriff as wide a smile as the occasion dared.
Parker said, “George spoke most highly of you, son. And, of course, your storied reputation precedes you.”
“The former honors me,” York said, “but you’d be wise to ignore the latter.”
They began to walk for the waiting buggy, O’Malley taking Willa’s arm, while York and Parker followed, chatting.
York said, “I’m surprised you were able to get here so quickly, sir.”
“Train, stagecoach, and finally a Morgan horse I bought out at the Brentwood Junction crossroads. Cost a pretty penny. But I’d have made the journey on foot, if needs must.”
“Staying at the Bar-O?”
“Uh, no. In town. At the hotel.”
“That’s where I room. Perhaps we can dine in the restaurant there this evening.”
Something tightened around Parker’s eyes, which York couldn’t read. “I’d like that, son, but not this evening. Afraid I have business to attend to. Breakfast tomorrow, perhaps? The café?”
“Certainly.”
Business? What business?
Soon the buggy — O’Malley at the reins and Willa between him and Parker — swung out to the right, in the direction of the Bar-O, falling in with the other buggies, buckboards, and horseback riders on their way to the luncheon.
York was about to mount his black-maned, dappled gray gelding when he realized Rita was at his side.
She was in a black dress trimmed with white, what sometimes was called half mourning, referring to a stage of grief as shown by a widow. Like Willa, Rita had a parasol, though hers was white. Still, seeing the two women dressed so similarly gave York a sudden realization of how much alike they were physically, and how young they both were. The major difference, of course, was Willa’s Nordic coloring and Rita’s half-Latin heritage.
Parasol resting on her shoulder, she aimed her big brown eyes up at him and asked, “So was he here, do you think?”
“Who?”
“The one who killed him.”
York drew in a breath, let it out slow. “Probably.”
“A face in this crowd give anything away?”
Just you, he thought, when you saw me standing beside Willa.
“No,” he said. “Guilt is good at pretending to be sorrow.”
An eyebrow went up. “Someone wasn’t here this morning. Of course, he’s not a citizen.”
“The Preacherman, you mean? And his toadies?”
She nodded. “Have you really ruled him out?”
“Not entirely. There’s a reason why his usual method wouldn’t have worked in this case.”
“What’s that?”
“You can’t goad a blind man into pulling on you.”
She laughed a little. “I suppose you’re right. Old Man Cullen didn’t wear a gun on his hip, but he often had a rifle in hand. That might have been enough to give the Preacherman his out.”
York shook his head. “Not likely. Not with me as sheriff. I’d have gone after him and brought him back slung over a saddle.”
“You mean, you’d just kill him?”
He grinned at her. “I didn’t say that. Probably I’d just have... goaded him into going for it.”
She smiled back at him, something impish in it. “You’re very bad for a good man, Caleb York.”
“Or good for a bad man,” he said with a shrug. “You have to fight evil with evil’s means... Listen, I’m glad you stopped me. I wanted to talk to you. And I figure you won’t be at the luncheon.”
She paused, possibly trying to decide whether or not to take offense. Then the impish smile returned, but with something sad in it now.
“You’re right, Caleb,” she said. “My girls and I and Hub and the rest of the staff, we need to get back and open up the Victory. Otherwise, I’m sure we’d be welcome at the Bar-O.”
Her sarcasm chastised him.
He said, “I might’ve mispoken. Miss Cullen is a pretty open-minded gal.”
Rita’s smirk was almost a kiss. “Not where I’m concerned, I’m afraid. I think she sees me as the competition. Isn’t that silly? Isn’t that just utter foolishness?”
He didn’t know what to say to that, so he said, “Look, uh, about that poker tourney of yours tomorrow night.”
Her eyebrows went up. “What about it? You’re signed on. You have a seat at one of the tables.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. How many tables will there be?”
She frowned, wondering what this was about. “Just three.”
“Can you make sure I’m seated at the same table as Alver Hollis? And put his two cronies there, too.”
Half a smile joined her frown. “You want to share a table with the Preacherman? Why? Do you need to get some religion?”
“The words that real preacher spoke over George Cullen’s grave are all the religious teaching I need. I just want to make sure, when that tourney starts, that I’m sitting with Hollis and company. Can you handle that?”
She nodded, but her eyes were narrow. “You’re not going to spoil my big event, are you?”
“Not unless the Preacherman already has that in mind. He’s said specifically he’s in town for the big game and will leave shortly thereafter. And I’m convinced he’s in town to kill somebody.”
She was nodding. “So if he hasn’t earned his gunman’s pay by the time the game starts, then...”
“Someone in that game is set to die.”
All but a few of the mourners had made their exit, a handful taking the opportunity to have some time at this or that grave of a family member or friend. Undertaker Perkins and his Mexican boys were waiting impatiently beneath the mesquite for the cemetery to clear.
York was up on his gelding, but Rita was still alongside, a hand on the animal’s rump, her pretty, wide-eyed face tilted toward the sheriff.
“I can give you the list of players,” she said. “That might give you an idea of who the Preacherman intends to send to their reward.”
“I was hoping I might ask for that,” he said, damn near grinning. “That could be a big help.”
“I’ll make a copy.”
He reined up the animal. “I’ll send Tulley down to pick it up. Much obliged to you, ma’am.”
Her smile showed small, perfect teeth. “Call me ‘ma’am’ again and I’ll slap that horse on the rump and send you for a good damn ride.”
He chuckled and headed out, the gelding going nice and easy.
At the Bar-O, just inside and under the log arch bearing the ranch’s brand, a dozen picnic tables borrowed from the church had been set up in the front yard, the main ranch house looking on in the background.
Also looming was the cookhouse, with its hand pump and tin basin — lined bench under an awning-shaded porch; smoke twirled out of the cookhouse chimney like a lazy lariat.
But there was nothing lazy about what went on within the log building, where Harmon, the plump, white-bearded Bar-O cook — who’d been at it since sunup — and several helpers were turning out fried chicken, dumplings, potato salad, and apple pie. Coffee and milk were flowing, too. The seated guests were served by Bar-O cowhands still in their Sunday-style finery, and the air was filled with stories about George Cullen, some amusing, some hair raising, but clearly the residue of a life lived large.