The Fire of Greed (18 page)

“When Mr. Waldron hired Mr. Cole to bring them in, he said he wouldn't mind one bit if they came back dead, but he brought 'em back alive.”

“Your boss
hired
that bounty hunter?” Muriday asked.

“Yeah, did you think he just
found them
out in the desert somewhere?”

“Reckon I did,” Muriday said with a nod, not letting on that he had
seen
Cole “just find them.”

“You got no hesitation about killing them, then?” Siward repeated.

“If they try to escape . . . wouldn't we wanna try and catch 'em first?”

“If that didn't work . . .”

“Got no problem killin' 'em if that's what it takes,” Muriday confirmed.

“Good.”

Siward looked at Muriday, trying to read his expression, but it was hard to figure out anything from his caricature of a face, with its narrow-spaced eyes and strangely shaped mouth.

Gardner and Stanton had already been mounted on horses by the time that Siward and Muriday reached the siding where the cages had been parked.

“Look familiar?” Jasper Gardner shouted to Muriday as they approached, holding up his hands, which were tethered to the saddle horn.

“You talkin' to me?” Muriday asked.

“Was
you
who was doin' just this same thing to us a few days back.”

“You got me mixed up with that bounty hunter who done brought you in,” Muriday laughed.

“No, I ain't,” Gardner retorted. “I never forget a face . . . especially one as ugly as
yours
.”

“I may be ugly, but at least I ain't wearin' hemp bracelets and headed to judgment day.”

“What's he talkin' about?” Siward asked Muriday.

“Last time I seen him 'twas in a cantina down in Santa Rita,” Muriday lied. “The only thing touching his wrists down there was the top of the bar.”

Chapter 32

“MISS DE LA GRAVIÈRE,” EZRA WALDRON SAID, RISING TO
greet Nicolette. “Such a pleasure to see you.”

“Mr. Waldron,” she said with a smile, entering the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe offices with a large tray. “I hope you don't mind. I brought you a bit of lunch.”

“I don't mind in the least. This is so delightful. It smells
wonderful
.”

He watched eagerly as she folded back a cloth napkin to reveal a plate of tortillas, accompanied by sliced meats and tomatoes.
What a delightful girl
, he thought to himself.

“I waited until Mr. Ames departed,” she said. “I fear he does not like me.”

“It's not that he dislikes you. It is that he's consumed with the ongoing financial difficulties and deeply angered by this turn of events.”

“And yourself?”

“I'm troubled as well, of course,” Waldron said. “But I hope that my worries are unaccompanied by unwarranted discourtesy toward you.”

“No, sir . . . but Mr. Ames . . . It certainly displeases
him
that I call on you at your place of business.”

“I call on
you
, Miss de la Gravière, at your place of business.”

“Thank you . . . Thank you
so
much for the rose,” she said with a smile. “And the opportunity to accompany you to the theater tomorrow.”

“As far as my colleague is concerned, you may certainly consider his bark worse than his bite.”

“It still makes me nervous to come when he is here.”

“You are welcome here at any time, Miss de la Gravière.”

“Thank you . . . and if I may be so bold, sir, you may call me Nicolette.”

“Thank you, I shall call you Nicolette, and you may certainly feel free to call me Ezra.”

“Thank you, Ezra,” she said, feeling the way the word flowed from her lips in conversation.

He stood to get a cup of coffee and offered her one.

“Thank you, Ezra,” she said, giggling slightly at the repetition.

“I hope that you do not find the difficulties of the railroad unduly troubling, Nicolette,” he said, savoring the feel of her name as its three syllables rolled across his tongue.

“Except as it affects you,” she said. “It is always troubling to see someone whom you . . . whom you know, facing difficulties.”

“Nothing to worry about,” he said in a reassuring tone.

“Mr. Ames does not share your confidence,” she noted. “He feels rather strongly about your decision to publicize the robbery.”

“He is entitled to his opinion.”

“What made you change your mind?”

“Well, um,” he said, almost as though he had not considered what it was that had caused him to do so. “I suppose it is not good to conceal facts . . . facts that might cause greater embarrassment if revealed at a moment not of one's choosing . . .”

“I have heard that the perpetrators will be brought here to Santa Fe later in the day,” she observed, changing the direction of the conversation, if not its subject. “I saw the sheriff and several of his men depart earlier as I was on my way to the post office.”

“They'll be in jail here tonight,” Waldron said in a tone that suggested concern.

“When do you imagine the trial will start?” she asked.

“I don't know,” Waldron said, seeming distracted, as his eyes drifted to the window and gazed down the street toward the courthouse. “It would have saved the people of New Mexico a goodly sum had Mr. Cole decided to bring them back dead, rather than alive.”

“Ezra . . .”

“I'm sorry,” he said, startled to have caught himself in a perceived indiscretion. “I'm
so
sorry, I did not mean to discuss such subjects as killing in the presence of a lady.”

“Ezra,” she said again. “The ‘lady' does not take offense at discussion of dead bandits, who for all we know, deserve a hangman's noose, only at the thought that you would advocate a bounty hunter serving arbitrarily as an executioner.”

“That's not what I meant, of course. It was merely an observation that a trial of obviously guilty men is expensive.”

“I'm not quibbling about their guilt,” she clarified. “But are not trials as much a means of ascertaining the
truth
of the circumstances as they are about determining
guilt
?”

“Absolutely,” Waldron said, nervously. “The truth is paramount, of course.”

“I know little of the matter aside from what I read in the newspaper,” she said. “And
you
were there when the bounty hunter delivered his prisoners and his report.”

“As you read, the bounty hunter
did
report evidence of these two men having murdered a pair of their confederates.”

“Did his evidence seem credible as offered?” Nicolette asked.

“It seemed as much,” Waldron replied with a nod. “And on top of that, they had been killed in cold blood . . . shot in the
back
.”

“That's disgusting,” she said, an exaggerated grimace creasing her lips the crimson of chilies.

“Indeed,” Waldron agreed.

“I suppose the bounty hunter will be called to testify in the trial,” she said, realizing as she articulated this thought that it flowed from that place deep inside her where her bosom was still bewitch'd by the thought of Bladen Cole. If he was in town for the trial, would he return to the Refugio del Viajero?

“Probably . . . it is probable that he would be called.”

Nicolette turned abruptly at the sound of the door opening, fearing that it was Ames, for whose return she had stopped watching.

She breathed a sigh of relief. It was Tobias Gough of the
Santa Fe New Mexican
.

“Is this a bad time?” the newspaperman asked of Ezra Waldron. “If it is, I can come back.”

Waldron glanced at Nicolette, who shook her head slightly. Her curiosity about what Gough had on his mind outweighed any concern she might have had over an interruption of a light lunch with the man with whom she was
almost
courting.

“What can I do for you, Tobias?”

“The sheriff will be back by the end of the day, and the perpetrators in the crime will await justice,” Gough said, setting up the premise for his question. “This closes the circle on this affair. What are your thoughts?”

“We were just discussing this,” Waldron said. “I would have to say that we at the railroad are pleased that these men will be tried in a court of law, and that justice will be done. The fact that these men were apprehended demonstrates that New Mexico Territory is not the uncivilized and lawless place that is portrayed in the Eastern press.”

“Very good,” Gough said as he scratched feverishly in his notebook.

“And now, Miss de la Gravière,” Gough continued after he had scribbled Waldron's entire quote. “As a member of the public, how do you view the apprehending of these men and their being brought to justice?”

“I view it as Mr. Waldron does,” she said. “I believe that the ‘public' sees it as excellent news indeed that the robbers were caught, and that a significant robbery has not gone unresolved.”

“And thieves have been brought to justice,” Gough interjected, leading her.

“Of course,” she continued. “The public will await the trial with considerable eagerness.”

“The public will be delighted to see justice prevail,” Gough added in a way that invited further comment.

“Justice and
truth
,” she said with a smile.

“I imagine that you'll be following the trial intently,” she said after giving him a pause to scribble down her last comment.

“I plan to be in the courtroom each and every day,” he said. “Our readers will have a keen interest in the proceedings.”

“I've enjoyed your articles, Mr. Gough,” she said.

“Thank you,” he replied to the unanticipated compliment.

“I recall one in particular that you wrote two months ago. . . about Delmonico's,” she said with a broad smile.

“Yes . . .”

“I was wondering if I might invite you to consider writing one about Refugio del Viajero?”

“Yes . . . of course . . . That would be . . . That's a very good idea,” he said. “I believe that would be a wonderful idea.”

With this, Gough folded up his notebook, mentioned his deadline, thanked both of them for their time, and scuttled out the door.

“I believe that I too must be moving on,” Nicolette said. “I have tables to set and chores to do before this evening.”

“Thank you once again for coming,” Waldron said. “Thank you also for bringing the lunch. It was so kind of you.”

“Think nothing of it. I thought you deserved some cheer in light of everything which has transpired.”

“Once again, it was so kind of you. I hope you drop in often . . . with or without lunch.”

“I will be delighted.”

“As I have said, you are welcome here at any time, Nicolette. If I am not here, you are welcome to await my return.”

“Thank you . . . Ezra.”

Chapter 33

“WHEN YOU RECKON WE'LL MEET UP WITH THE SHERIFF?”
Ben Muriday asked Nathaniel Siward.

The monotonous ride through the rolling hills north of Lamy invited the making of conversation.

“Reckon we'll see him in an hour or less,” Siward replied, appearing a bit anxious.

“What's troubling you?” Muriday asked. “You're seeming a bit nervous. Like you never been this close to criminals before.”

“As a matter of fact, I have
not
,” Siward admitted.

“Well . . . they's both tied up and they ain't goin' nowhere. If they do, we's the ones with guns.”

“Yes, I know.” Siward nodded.

The ride continued uneventfully. They passed a couple of freighters in wagons loaded with supplies bound from Santa Fe, but other than greetings shouted to these men, Siward and Muriday now rode mainly in silence.

They crested a low ridge and saw an open trail ahead for at least a mile. Muriday yawned.

Suddenly, Gabe Stanton and Jasper Gardner, riding ahead of their captors, reined their horses to opposite sides of the trail and turned.

“What the hell?” Muriday shouted, grabbing for his gun.

Hours of boredom suddenly exploded into fast, confusing action. Lulled practically to the verge of napping, Muriday's reflexes had been dulled.

Before he could react, Stanton had ridden up to him and was grabbing for the pistol that he was drawing from his holster.

How did he get untied?

Muriday's horse reared, and he tried to break his fall. As he leaned sideways to get away from Stanton's grab, he was tipped off balance and could not help but slide from the saddle as the horse bucked. As he fell, he felt his Colt tumbling from his grasp.

K'pow! K'pow!

When he heard the shots, simultaneous with his hitting the ground, Muriday's first thought was that his own gun had gone off when it struck the ground.

However, when he stared up through the dusty haze, he saw Jasper Gardner holding Siward's rifle.

How did
he
get untied?

He raised it, aiming it straight at Muriday.

K'pow!

Muriday felt the pain in his cheek, and the pain in his throat as he gasped and inhaled a swirling cloud of dust.

“
Ride! Ride!
” Gardner shouted.

There was the chaotic pounding sound of sixteen prancing hooves all around him, then the rhythmic thundering as half that number were spurred into a gallop.

Muriday sat up, feeling his cheek, which was soaked with dust-caked blood. It felt as though half his face had been shot away, but he quickly determined that he had been hit not directly, but by gravel kicked up by a ricochet.

He stood up, looking at the scene.

Siward was on the ground, and their horses were a short distance away.

“
Ooooh,
” Siward moaned, writhing it pain.

“Where you hit?”

“I ain't . . . He missed . . . hurt my back fallin'.”

Muriday stepped to his aid.

“Never mind me,” he shouted through his anguish. “Go . . . Go after 'em. You gotta stop 'em.
Stop 'em with a bullet
.”

Muriday retrieved his Colt from where it had fallen and ran toward his horse.

The two fugitives had left the main thoroughfare, but he could see their dust in the distance. He kicked his horse into a gallop, bent on revenging his honor from the ignoble tumble that he had experienced when Stanton rushed him.

Also on his mind as he raced in pursuit was his
plan
. As much as he cursed that which had just happened, he realized that it potentially turned the tide of events in
his
favor. Ten minutes ago, he had expected to have been
part
of a posse that delivered Gardner and Stanton into the cold embrace of the law. Now he had been handed the splendid opportunity to be
the
man, and the
only
man, to bring them into Santa Fe.

Muriday licked his dusty lips at the thought.

Their lead was measured in minutes, so he had every reason to believe that he would catch up to them sooner rather than later.

As he watched them in their distant dust cloud, his right hand moved to his holster, but he decided against it. Taking a pistol shot at this distance would serve only to waste ammunition.

He had them outgunned, a rifle and a pistol to their one long gun, but he had no way of knowing how many rounds they had left. He wished that he had asked Siward how many rounds he generally kept in his Winchester.

Muriday also wished he knew how both Stanton and Gardner had gotten their hands untied. He had ridden with these two men for four days, and only once had Gardner gotten free—and when he did, he had not managed to free his hands until after his escape.

Damned fool railroad people! Can't even tie knots right
.

Horses cannot gallop forever, and within a half hour, the pursuer and the pursued were riding at a walk.

They remained close enough to see each other, less than a mile apart, but too far to shoot—or so Muriday thought.

Pop . . . tzing!

The sound of a distant shot was followed by that of a bullet coming near.

Damned fool is a pretty good shot—or
a lucky shot
, Muriday thought to himself.

Muriday considered retaliation, but thought again about the futility of returning fire at this range. Good shot or lucky shot, whichever phrase described Gardner, Muriday knew that he was
neither
.

As the fairly open country gradually became more rugged, Muriday periodically lost sight of his quarry, who now moved in and out behind boulders and clusters of short pine.

He kept his eyes glued to the distance.

There they are.

There they aren't.

There they are again.

There they aren't again.

They still aren't.

Where are they?

He breathed a sigh of relief as they reemerged.

This went on, and on, for what seemed like an hour, but which was probably much less.

Then came the inevitable moment when he realized that he had not seen them for much too long.

Had they gotten clean away?

Knowing the hotheaded Jasper Gardner as he did, he knew that he was not a man to go away quietly when he had a gun.

An ambush was the only answer.

Muriday studied the distant terrain nervously.

Somewhere out there, Gardner was drawing a bead on him.

Where?

How long had it been since Gardner and Stanton had stopped?

It couldn't have been more than a minute or two.

Muriday tried to calculate the place where he had last seen the two. Having done this, he tried to figure out where near this place he would set up for an ambush if it was him doing the setting.

There were a couple of places, rocky areas of high ground near to one another, that offered both good cover and good visibility, so he rode forward, screening himself, as much as possible, from this area.

It was one of those cat-and-mouse moments when the passage of time literally stopped in its tracks.

Had it not been for the impulsiveness of Jasper Gardner, Muriday would have been practically on top of them before the first shot was fired, but restraint was not in Gardner's nature.

K'pow!

Punctuating the stillness of the windless midday desert, the shot startled Muriday, even though he'd known that it would be coming.

He turned to see a whiff of powder on a small cliff less than fifty yards away.

As he slid off his saddle, he expected a second shot.

K'pow . . . tzing!

Muriday had covered most of the fifty yards before his nemesis fired again.

K'pow!

It was Muriday's turn to squeeze off a round.

“Betcha runnin' low on ammo,” Muriday shouted.

K'pow . . . tzing!
came the reply.

For a moment, the only sound that Muriday heard was his own measured breathing.

Then there was the noise of gravel falling on a slope.

Gardner had gotten tired of waiting for his target to appear in his sights.

Muriday moved toward the sound.

K'pow . . . chunk!

The bullet hit a pine limb an inch from his head.

Muriday looked into the wild eyes of Jasper Gardner, just twenty feet away. The Winchester was on his shoulder, and his hand was on the lever.

It would be less than a second before he fired again.

Muriday aimed and squeezed.

K'pow!

He saw Gardner fall backward and the rifle fall from his grasp. A growing, dark red stain had appeared on his shoulder.

“Damn you, Muriday,” he said angrily through the pain. “What the hell are you doing?”

“What I shoulda done a long time ago,” Muriday said, walking closer and pointing his gun at Gardner's head.

“You're outta your
mind
, damn you,” Gardner said, realizing that Muriday was aiming to deliver a
coup de grâ
ce
to a defenseless man. “What the hell . . . ?”

K'pow!

Muriday's shot, aimed by a man who was, by his own admission, a poor marksman, was intended for Gardner's forehead, but it struck his neck instead.

Jasper Gardner's last moments of life were extraordinarily painful.

Muriday quickly grabbed the rifle and scrambled up the hill looking for Stanton.

The second fugitive had not waited to see what happened next. He was already running, but he had not gotten far.

K'pow!
K'pow!

Muriday's rifle shots did not hit Stanton, but they unnerved him.

Beginning to run erratically, he tripped and fell.

K'pow!

Again, the shot missed, but again it frightened the intended target.

“I give up,” Stanton shouted, raising his hands from a seated position. “You got me. Don't shoot.”

Muriday did not, but he kept the rifle ready as he walked slowly forward.

Through his mind ran the words that Siward had used.

“I want to be sure that if need be, you wouldn't mind shooting these men . . . Stop 'em. . . 
Stop 'em with a bullet
.”

“You got me,” Stanton repeated. “I said you got me . . . Put down the damned gun you crazy sonuvabitch.”

K'pow!

The bullet struck Stanton's gut.

He looked up at Muriday with pain and anger in his eyes.

As Muriday came closer, Stanton coughed, and blood spilled out onto his chin.

K'pow!

Fired from point-blank range, the bullet struck Stanton's forehead, and he toppled backward into the dirt.