The Fire of Greed (15 page)

Chapter 26

IN A PERFECT WORLD, A CHAPTER IN THE LIFE OF BLADEN
Cole should have closed then, and a fresh one begun with the newly risen sun now streaming through his hotel room window. A soak in a bathtub and a night on a mattress, between real sheets, should have been the relaxing turn that set his mind at ease, and his body free to get on the trail north to Durango, Colorado.

In a perfect world, there would not have been the nightmares, refreshed by the image of the rat-faced man, seen so abruptly, and so grotesquely, in the moonlight.

A cup of coffee—hot coffee made in a proper pot and not boiled over a campfire or drunk cold to avoid the smoke of a fire—should have set the tone for a fine day the promise of which would have been serenaded by the call of meadowlarks. But for Cole, the nightmares did not end when his eyes were opened and a razor was drawn across a cheek.

He grabbed a newspaper, abandoned by its owner as he departed from an adjacent table in the hotel dining room. The headline on the front page of the
Santa Fe New Mexican
read
ROBBERY ON THE AT & SF
R'ROAD: THIEVES CAUGHT
. The byline was that of Tobias Gough. Bladen Cole was quoted. So too was Ezra Waldron.

Mr. Bladen Cole, who ran the perpetrators to ground and returned them to face justice, had pursued them to the Mogollons, where he surmises they had intended to hide themselves. Most of the loot, originally totaling $9,094.80, according to railroad sources, was returned. Mr. Cole explained that the bandits had spent part of their ill-gotten booty on drink and supplies.

Mr. Ezra Waldron, an executive of the road, told this reporter that this theft illustrates the difficulty of doing business in what he calls the lawless West.

Cole put the paper down and stared thoughtfully, recalling the words that Waldron and his colleague, Joseph Ames, had used when they made the decision to utilize the services of a bounty hunter rather than a sheriff's posse to hunt the bandits. One of the words that still resonated was “discretion.”

Waldron had gone to great lengths to explain that if the capital markets were to get wind of a robbery of this size occurring within twenty miles of Lamy, potential investors would close their wallets to providing the cash that was the “lifeblood” of the railroading business.

If that was true, and it seemed reasonable to Cole that it
was
, then why did Waldron
invite
a newspaperman to publicize the robbery? This anomaly made no sense, but he shrugged it off as being Waldron's business and none of his own. Cole had other things on his mind that were of much greater importance.

He had to
find
the rat-faced man.

Were it not for the renewed and persistent nightmares of the man, Cole would have been checking his roan out of the livery stable and riding out of town, but the nature of that nightmare had changed the course of his life, just as the original glimpse of the rat-faced man a decade back had changed its course. As much as he had been haunted all those years by the image of that ugly face, the thing that haunted him even more was that he had never been able to
find
the man. Now he was able to imagine himself on a trail not cold by years, but as fresh as a day and a half.

Relishing the feel of the new shirt purchased the day before at the dry goods store, Cole entertained the thought of abandoning the two dusty, sweat-stained ones that he had dropped at the Chinese laundry, but his thrifty streak intervened.

“One dollar,” the man said. “Very dirty shirts.”

“One dollar.” Cole smiled, placing a coin on the counter and taking the paper-wrapped parcel.

“Found this in pocket,” the laundryman said, handing Cole a small folded piece of paper.

“What?”

Inside the folded the paper, he saw the two Denver & Rio Grande passes that he had found on the two dead men on the first day of his pursuit.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “I forgot about these. Thanks much.”

Cole had already opened the door when he had a thought. He turned back and asked the man whether he had seen a chinless man with close-spaced eyes and a long nose.

“No,” the man said thoughtfully. “Would recognize a man like that. So ugly.”

“Thanks,” Cole said, placing two more coins on the counter. I'd be much obliged if you kept an ear and an eye out for him. I'll check back with you in a day or two.”

The man smiled for the first time, nodded once, and scooped up the coins.

Making his way up the street, Cole glimpsed the Refugio del Viajero, where he had somewhat enjoyed his supper the night before. The
carne asada
treated his taste buds with perfection, but he would have enjoyed his dining experience much more had he chanced to lay his eyes on a certain young woman with lips the deep crimson of the chilies. The other girl waiting tables had said that it was Nicolette de la Gravière's day off.

Cole thought of the man who had recommended the restaurant to him in the first place, and decided to pay a call on his fellow Virginian, Dr. Amos Richardson.

* * *

“SEÑOR DOCTOR,” DOMINGO ANNOUNCED AS COLE STEPPED
through the door. “Señor Cole is here.”

In the other room, he could see that the coroner was with a “patient,” but one who would not object if the doctor interrupted his exam.

“Good to see you, Mr. Cole,” Richardson said, extending his freshly washed hand. “I was reading of your adventures in the paper this morning.”

“Yeah, it's a little awkward for me talkin' to those fellows. Never know what they're gonna write. I just kept it short and to the point. Bringin' back the money and the robbers sort of speaks for itself.”

“That it does, sir.” Richardson smiled. “Care for a cup of coffee?”

“Thank you,” Cole said and nodded.

“It seemed that Mr. Waldron was happy to have his money back,” the doctor observed as he poured his own cup.

“That he was, and for good reason, I'll grant you that, but there's something that confuses me.”

“What's that?”

“You were there when the railroad men said they wanted this robbery kept quiet. They were sacred that news of it would spook the money men . . . remember?”

“Yes, I
do
remember that. As I recall, they were quite adamant about keeping it quiet.”

“What do you suppose changed?”

“I reckon the fact that you brought back the cash and the perpetrators trumped their fears of people knowing about the thievery,” Richardson said with a grin.

“Reckon so,” Cole said as Richardson topped off his coffee cup. “None of my concern on any account.”

“Mine neither,” the coroner said. “What are your plans now?”

“Well, I had been looking forward to a plate of
carne asada
over at the Refugio . . . and I made good on that plan last night.”

“Was Nicolette de la Gravière there?” Richardson asked.

“No,” Cole said with a tinge of wistfulness. “'Twas her night off.”

“Probably just as well,” Richardson said, picking up on Cole's pensiveness. “She's been seen around town with Mr. Waldron of all people. Not sure if it's serious.”

“Wouldn't have minded laying eyes on her again before I left town,” the bounty hunter admitted.

“I had figured that you would be on your way north to Durango already,” the coroner said.

“Looks like that'll have to be postponed,” Cole said. “I've got another man that I need to find down here in New Mexico.”

“What's
he
wanted for?”

“Killin' a man.”

“Who?”

“Ummm,” Cole answered hesitantly before deciding to share the facts with the doctor. “He killed my brother.”

“Your
brother
?” Richardson asked, his brow furrowing with concern. “Where? When?”

“It was a few years back . . . down in Silver City. I had pretty well given up on ever finding him again. Then I saw him the night before last.”

“Where? What was he doing?”

“The long story, which I figured was more than the newspaperman needed to know, is that the two I brought in, Gardner and Stanton, fell in with two others down toward the Mogollons. They rode together for a while until there was an Indian ambush. One of the second two got killed, and the other one was the one who killed my brother.”

“Are you sure . . . I mean after a number of years?”

“No mistaking that face,” Cole said, shaking his head. “He's got a face like a rat . . . pointy nose, beady little eyes too close together . . . no chin. Even his whiskers look like whiskers on a rat.”

“What happened to him after you saw him?”

“He got away,” Cole said dejectedly. “I fired and missed. Reckon my hand was shaking, which I'd rather not admit, but I have to admit it to myself. I couldn't chase him at the time on account of the two train robbers.”

“Let's take this to the sheriff,” Richardson said. “He can get a wanted poster out. With a face like that, this fellow won't be hard to find.”

“Don't reckon we can do that,” Cole said. “It was ten years back, and there's nobody to say he done it except me. If the law took it up, it would be my word against him. Will is long dead and long buried.”

“I understand,” Richardson said.

He did.

This was not Virginia. Sometimes in the West, scores needed to be settled between just the two men involved.

Chapter 27

HAVING RENTED A DEPOSIT BOX AT BANK FOR THE SAFEKEEPING OF HIS REWARD MONEY, BLADEN COLE DEPARTED
Santa Fe, riding not north toward Colorado and tomorrow, but west, toward yesterday.

He rode not in search of the dreams embodied in a new chapter of his life, but in search of the worst nightmare from his past.

To succeed, he needed to descend into the depths of the nightmare. He needed to get inside the mind of the man who haunted his dreams.

A decade back, the last time that Cole had gone in search of the rat-faced man, he had done so with no idea from where he had come, and less of an idea of where he was headed. Back then, nobody with whom Cole spoke as he searched had seen a rat-faced man. There was no trail on which to chase him, and even the absence of a trail went impossibly cold.

He had failed then.

He was determined not to fail his second chance.

This time, he returned to the place where he knew the trail began. Riding alone, unencumbered by pack mules laden with gold and a pair of fugitives, Cole was able to get back to the campsite in a couple of hours. It was easy to find. He just looked for the buzzards.

There was virtually no chance of an ambush here now, but he nevertheless studied the area with his spyglass for a long time before approaching the place from which he had watched the opening exchanges of the gun battle on that fateful night.

The body of the young man from the trading post whom Simon Lynch had killed was gone. It had probably been retrieved by his friend who had gotten away.

Lynch's remains, which Cole had ordered Stanton and Gardner to cover with rocks, had been uncovered and dragged a short distance away, probably by the second ambusher when he came back for his late friend. Lynch's body had been mutilated, perhaps originally by this man and certainly, for the past day and a half, by the buzzards.

About this, Cole cared little. His only concern was to pick up Muriday's trail. As he walked through the camp to the place where the tracks showed the man galloping away from the picket line, he noticed that Muriday's saddle was missing. Cole had abandoned it where it lay as too cumbersome to carry.

The bounty hunter had taken Muriday's abandoned boots for spite, and all the guns for practicality, but the saddle was just too bulky. Examining the area where it had been, Cole discovered that Muriday had doubled back and retrieved it. He had then ridden north, away from the direction that Cole had taken with Stanton and Gardner. With no boots and no gun, he had prudently decided that ambushing Cole was out of the question.

Cole imagined that Muriday was wishing now that he had taken the opportunity to simply abscond into oblivion with the money. However, as with a man who has tasted success at the tables, the lust for still more success clouds rational judgment.

Greed is the fuel that feeds the fire of greed.

Nearly two hours later, as he trailed the northward march of the rat-faced man, Cole came to the outbuildings of a small ranch, where two men were shoeing a horse.

“Afternoon,” Cole said in greeting.

“Afternoon,” one of the men said as they both stood to watch him approach.

“I was wonderin' if you might have seen a man ride through here yesterday,” Cole asked, as a way of opening the conversation, rather than as a question, because Muriday's tracks led straight to this spot.

“Said he got caught in an Indian ambush,” one of the men confirmed. “He a friend of yours?”

“Yeah,” Cole lied. “I was supposed to catch up to him up north around Tesuque. Passed the place where the shooting took place this morning.”

“Well, he was sure in a big hurry,” the other man said.

“Youda been too,” the other man said. “If the Indians had got your damned boots . . . and killed your partner.”

“Buzzards are pretty much done with
him
,” Cole said with a nod. “Terrible sight . . . something you never get used to seeing. Glad my friend got away.”

“Least he's got boots,” the first man said.

“Damned
expensive
boots,” the second man laughed. “He done paid me a ten-dollar gold piece for an old pair I had layin' up in the barn and had been figurin' on gettin' rid of.”

Cole laughed along with the two men who thought the idea of a man paying that much for old boots was hilarious.

“He wanted to buy hisself a gun too,” the first man said. “Couldn't help him out there, though. Don't have no old ones of those layin' around.”

“Glad you could help him out with boots, though,” Cole said and nodded.

“Hope you catch up to him pretty soon,” the man said.

“Me too,” Cole said and he rode away.

* * *

COLE CONTINUED NORTH, AS THE DAY WANED AND THE
light began to fade.

It is always easier to trail somebody in the late afternoon, because the low angle of the sun casts long shadows that make the tracks easier to see, but when the sun sets, the tracks virtually disappear.

When this happened, and the night quickly darkened, Cole could see lights in the direction that the tracks had been leading, so he rode toward them.

The source of the lights turned out to be a tiny hamlet dominated by a low-roofed general store. This being cattle country, Cole imagined that this place was probably a boom town during roundup and branding time, but it was little more than a backwater to the economic life of the area during the remainder of the year.

As he rode up, he could see two men drinking at the bar inside the store, and took a long look at their boots. Their posture told him that they were regulars.

“Do you for?” a man asked as Cole dismounted.

His demeanor, as he pitched methodically in a rocking chair outside near the doorway, explained that he was the proprietor.

“Wondering if you might've seen a friend of mine yesterday?”

“Might have.”

“Ugly little character?” Cole said, describing Muriday. “Long pointy nose?”

“No chin?”

“That's him,” Cole confirmed.

“Real jumpy little feller,” the proprietor offered as though adding to the description.

“Well, he
did
get jumped by Indians.”

“Thing that really got him hoppin' was reading the newspaper,” the man explained.

“What newspaper?” Cole asked.

The man nodded toward a paper that was lying on a table just inside the door.

“Big news down in Santa Fe,” the man continued. “Everybody's been talking about it.”

“What's that?”

“Somebody robbed the railroad for some number of thousands . . . forget how much.”

“That so?” Cole asked, as if making conversation.

“They got the bandits . . . Some bounty hunter brought 'em back. Everybody's been talking about it.”

“You say my friend was all excited about this?” Cole asked.

“Yeah, he said it was somebody he knew . . . the bounty hunter that he had met. Probably somebody you know too.”

“Don't recognize the name,” Cole lied as he picked up the paper and read his own name.

“Can I do somethin' 'bout your thirst?” the man asked, lifting his rheumatism-tormented frame out of the chair.

Lumbering inside, he called to the bartender.

“Delgado . . . a whiskey for my friend.”

“Lemme buy
you
one too,” Cole offered.

“Mighty kind of you. Delgado, make it
dos
.”

As he drank with the man, Cole's new friend rambled on, drifting with a train of thought that meandered from past to present and back again. At last, the conversation came back to the railroad, the robbery, and Cole's jumpy acquaintance.

“He got real excited,” the man explained. “He started out talkin' to me like he was in a real quandary about gettin' attacked by Indians and losin' everything. Then he read that article and decided that nothing was gonna make him happier than settin' things right with this bounty hunter down in Santa Fe. He acted like this bounty hunter owed him some money, but he was more interested in setting things right.”

“Those were his words?”

“Those were his words. He wanted to set something right.”

“Did he say what?”

“Something he needed a gun for.”

“A gun?”

“Yeah, I sold him a .45 and four dozen rounds,” the man said. “He said the Indians got the one he had. Guess they didn't get his dough. He paid me a gold eagle for that piece.”

* * *

BLADEN COLE CAMPED ABOUT A MILE FROM THE GENERAL
store where he had shared a couple of shots with the proprietor. That night, he fell asleep in the bosom of his nightmare, but with the exhilaration of knowing that the trail was not cold.

A decade back, Cole had gone in search of a rat-faced man with no idea from where he had come, and less of an idea of where he was headed. This time, he knew where the rat-faced Ben Muriday was headed.

This time
, the rat-faced man would be hunting Bladen Cole. He was coming after the man who had cheated him out of reward money and legitimacy.

The hunted just had to get to the hunter
first
.