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CHAPTER 3

      FRANK NUGENT was an imposing figure as he strode through the big beveled-glass and brass door of the Palace Hotel.

      He wore a black broadcloth frock coat with matching vest over a linen shirt with a disposable, turned down paper collar. Except for a little trail dust, he looked fresh and rested, despite the four hours on horseback it had taken him to get there from Tres Marias. His narrow string tie was the height of fashion, and spanning his vest was a gold chain, attached to a fine B. W. Raymond railroad watch. He wore a pair of durable yellow-brown Nankeen trousers, and flat-heeled half-Wellington boots. His hat was made by John B. Stetson. In his hand he carried a light suitcase that he had tied behind his saddle. It held a change of underwear, his shaving gear, a couple of extra collars, and some of the Havana cigars he liked so well that he paid $25 a thousand for them, wholesale.

      The Palace was Central City's nicest hotel. Its lounge featured good imported whiskey and a violinist who spoke with a European accent, and its restaurant had food with French names, which the waiters knew how to translate. Upstairs were two floors of rooms, some with canopied beds and velvet drapes. Everything was first-rate at the Palace. Even the women who could be discreetly obtained there were so beautiful and intelligent that customers kept marrying them, much to the management's consternation.

      But Frank Nugent couldn't have cared less about women as he walked up to the front desk. He thought only about Weitnaur, that miserable bucket of lard. Why had he sent him another of his damned cryptic telegrams?

      The desk clerk gave him Weitnaur's room number, and he walked up the crimson-carpeted staircase.

      On the second floor he strode down the corridor and tapped on Weitnaur's door. There was a sudden creak of bedsprings then whispering.

      "Alex!" he called.

      After a long wait, the door opened a crack and the banker peered out.

      Nugent pushed his way in. There was a woman sitting up in bed holding the covers up to her neck.

      "Honey, pull your clothes on and get out of here. We got business to talk," Nugent said.

      When she got out of bed and started dressing, Nugent saw an ugly bite mark on her thigh that oozed blood."

      "Now, did he do that to you?" Nugent asked.

      She gave Weitnaur a withering look, and emboldened by Nugent's presence, said, "He's not what I'd call a gentlemen, Sir."

      Nugent nodded. "Oh, I know that, Honey. I just hope you don't get rabies from him." He handed her a couple of bills from his coat pocket. "Now get out of here."

      She finished dressing in silence while Weitnaur, his face red, clumsily put his clothes on, having trouble because his right hand was bandaged.

      After she flounced out the door, Nugent sank into the chair by the window. "Get your fingers caught in a bedroom door?"

      Weitnaur said. "There was no call for you to insult me just then, Frank."

      "Just tellin' her the truth, Alex," Nugent said mildly. "Now, what did you want to tell me?"

      Weitnaur groped around for a way to put it and thought it might be better if he was direct. "I got robbed Monday night."

      Nugent had been looking out at the street below, but Weitnaur's words suddenly got his undivided attention. "Robbed? How much?"

      "Around $900 and a little gold. I put up a good fight, Frank." He held up his bandaged hand. "I was reaching for the two-shot in the safe when he kicked the door on my hand. He was tough, Frank."

      "Oh, I'm sure he was."

      Weitnaur could tell that Nugent thought he was making the story up, and had put the money in his pocket. "He almost killed me. He wore a mask with a skull painted on it."

      Nugent's face grew grave. Without moving his eyes from Weitnaur's face, he slid a cigar out of his pocket and lit it. "A mask with a skull on it? Isn't that a little dramatic?"

      "It's a miracle I'm alive, Frank. He pointed that damn gun right at my head from maybe just five feet away, and when it went off, I thought I'd died."

      "But you didn't die, did you," Nugent said softly.

      "He must have knocked me out or something. Or maybe there was some miracle."

      "Let me see," Nugent said, "he was standing right over you — I suppose you were on the floor then?"

      "I was hog-tied on the floor, yessir."

      "And he was there, with that gun, which I presume was not a rifle"

      "It was a big old Colt .44 —"

      "And he had plenty of time to aim, and when he fired he missed from five feet away? Well, that was a miracle!"

      Weitnaur was embarrassed and angry. Nugent was making fun of him.

      Nugent shook his head. "If ever a man deserved to die, it was that robber for being such a bad shot. He should be strung up."

      "I'll goddamn sure tell you it wasn't funny!"

      "No, it's you that's funny, Alex," Nugent said harshly. "You expect me to believe all that? Listen, you want some money, come in like a man and ask me for it, and I'll give it to you, but don't try to fool me with some cock-and-bull story."

      Weitnaur was good and angry now, pacing back and forth, towering over Nugent, who still sat on the chair. "It's no story, Frank. I'm tellin' you the truth. And there's something else. I asked him why he wore the mask and he said so I wouldn't recognize him! And he said he never liked me. He's somebody we know, Frank. And he didn't just take the money, he took the books."

      "The books?"

      "The books that show the little deal you and I worked out, so we're getting more than the rest."

      Nugent frowned at that. "I don't like that, Alex. I thought you kept those records at home?"

      "I kept them in the safe. A safe is where things are supposed to be safe."

      "What did he sound like?" Nugent asked.

      "He whispered. I couldn't tell who he was."

      Nugent said thoughtfully, "You're saying it was one of us?"

      "I'm just telling you what happened."

      Nugent said, "I know you're a liar, Alex, and being a banker, you are an especially good liar. How much of this are makin' up?"

      Weitnaur shook his head. "Why would I make up a story like that? Wouldn't it be simpler if I just said somebody came in and robbed me."

      Nugent turned his head and looked out the window for a long time. Then he shook his head, "You know, I actually believe you Alex." He scowled and stared at the end of his cigar. "How big was this masked man?"

      "Middle height. Average."

      "Was he heavy?"

      "He wasn't heavy and he wasn't thin. Just ordinary. But he was strong. . . ."

      "Did he wear a ring? Did he have a fancy belt?"

      "Ordinary! Just ordinary!"

      Nugent shook his head. "Why is it I always get bad news from you, Alex?

      "Would you rather I just kept my mouth shut?"

      Nugent smiled and shook his head. "No, my friend, I guess it's always best to know." He stood up and opened up his watch. "Let's go down and have a drink and something to eat. I've got a lot to think about."

      Nugent wished he had killed Weitnaur a long time ago. He had never liked the man. Now, as they left the room, he slapped him on the back and offered him a cigar.

      In the next room, Purdy stood with his ear to the wall. He lit his own cigar and smiled. He had learned a lot about Nugent and the rest of them from the ledgers. There had been separate accounts for each of the sidewinders, and a second, separate set of books that did indeed show that Weitnaur and Nugent were systematically stealing from the others. Weitnaur kept nice, clear records on everything.

      Before riding up from Denver, Purdy had stuck the ledger and other papers he had taken into the firebox of the stove in the hotel lobby, and watched while they burned. Then he had spent an hour picking out a horse at the livery stable, finally deciding on a fine-riding sorrel that looked to be around six years old. Then, leaving the horse stabled, Purdy had walked to Klein's and bought a new hat which was steam-shaped to his taste, a good heavy black wool suit, some shirts, underwear, new boots, and a warm coat that would cut the wind. He got some blankets and a canvas to roll them up in and use as a groundcloth, and he bought a canteen. He had traded in his Colt on a slightly-used Smith & Wesson Schofield .45, and bullets for it. He also bought a new belt and holster, and a Spencer repeating carbine with a scabbard.

      Then he stopped by the saddlers and bought the saddle he had admired the preceding day. After that he walked the horse over and got it saddled, and tied on the bedroll with his new clothes inside. Then he had started northwest along the road toward Central City.

      Along the way, he stopped to practice with both guns until he became familiar with them. And a couple of miles from his destination, he changed into his new clothes and packed up his old ones.

      When he got to Central City he checked into the Palace, asking for the room next to his friend, Mr. Weitnaur. The desk clerk could tell from the clothes that Mr. Purdy was a man of substance, and gladly obliged, especially after Purdy slipped him a whole dollar.

      Upstairs in his room, Purdy locked the door and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked exactly like a city man fresh into the country. The newness screamed that he was rich, and a tenderfoot, to boot. And that was just fine with him.

      He was glad the walls in the Palace were no better than in most other hotels, so he could hear what was going on in the next room clearly. He did not enjoy Weitnaur's conversation with the woman, but he smiled when Weitnaur was explaining what had happened at the bank.

      He'd already made up his mind what to do.

      After Nugent and Weitnaur left the room, he waited a few minutes and walked downstairs into the hotel's saloon, looking, he hoped, like a somewhat inexperienced man of substance searching for riches. It was an appropriate look for him, he thought — after all just fifteen minutes work in the bank had made him almost a thousand dollars, not to mention other satisfactions. Even after all his purchases, he still had a good wad left.

      Weitnaur and Nugent were standing at the bar. Although he had seen Nugent for only a minute or two by the creek, Purdy would have recognized him anywhere.

      Nugent was clearly a successful man in his prime, strongly built, even handsome. When Purdy had last seen him, Nugent's hair was close cropped like a soldier's to discourage lice and he wore a short beard. Now his hair was long and flowed over his collar, and he was clean shaven. Purdy could see why a man would follow Nugent. Weitnaur, on the other hand, looked like a mean, fat pig beside him.

      Purdy strode up to the bar beside them and ordered a whiskey. He tapped his fingers on the polished wood and studied his face in one of the large mirrors that hung behind the bottles and glassware. A harmless-looking face, it was, with an innocent, unassuming smile.

      "This is quite a place," Purdy said to his reflection.

      When the whiskey came, he tossed it down and ordered another. He nodded to Weitnaur and Nugent. "Don't think we have any place nicer than this anywhere in Ohio."

      The two said nothing.

      "Ever been to Ohio?"

      Weitnaur broke first. "Once, a long time ago." He and Nugent started to edge away.

      "Name's Purdy." He stuck out his hand to be shaken. Weitnaur and Nugent exchanged glances, then Nugent shook hands with him, while Weitnaur just held up his bandaged hand, which gave Purdy a certain satisfaction.

      "Just got here to the Denver area," Purdy continued confidingly. "Came here from Ohio. Always wanted to travel, but my poor old father . . . well, he passed away a few months ago . . ."

      He gave them another of his innocent smiles. "Lord rest his soul, he was a saving man, but before he died he raised up and said 'Bill' — that's my given name — 'you're all I have left. Take everything, and go West to see what you can see.'"

      "And what have you seen?" asked Nugent.

      "Opportunity!" Purdy beamed. "I never saw such a livewire town as Denver. And I do believe that Central City will surpass it."

      Nugent and Weitnaur exchanged glances.

      "Opportunity abounds," murmured Nugent.

      Purdy drank his second whiskey in a single gulp and tapped the shot glass on the wood. "Would you gentlemen allow me to buy you a drink?" He pulled out a roll of bills and started to pay for his drinks.

      Nugent laid a hand on his arm. "We'd be pleased to have a drink with you, Mr. Purdy, but let it be my treat. What sort of work do you do, sir?"

      "Why, that's what I'm looking to find out," Purdy said earnestly. "Surely with so much opportunity surrounding me, I will find something good. I'm thinking about leaving for Cheyenne tomorrow to scout out opportunities there, but if I don't find any, I'll probably come back here — perhaps open a store like Kleins in Denver. Fine store."

      The others nodded sagely. Weitnaur said, "Oh, I think you'll want to choose Colorado. Cheyenne is mostly cattle, whereas here we've got mining and we're much richer. But a mercantile! You have to have a lot of capital to open one of those."

      "As I said, gentlemen, my father was a saving man, and he left me well off. My bank will send me the money I need."

      Weitnaur broke in with an oily smile. "I hope you have a secret code, sir, by which you identify yourself so no one else can draw upon your account."

      Purdy smiled and nodded.

      "My name is Alex Weitnaur. It just happens that I own a bank in Denver with my associate, Frank Nugent here," and he put his arm around Nugent, whose pale blue eyes had never left Purdy's face. "Perhaps I can help you with your investments. There's some mighty good property around here."

      Nugent said, "Gold and silver — that's how the fortunes are being made here. You should come up to Tres Marias. It's going to be the next Central City. I own several enterprises there myself."

      Nugent's face was as open and innocent as Purdy's face. His smile was infectious. And behind it he was thinking that the man before him was the stupidest ass he had ever seen — spilling all that to strangers.

      "Well, Mr. Purdy, here's to your success," Nugent said.

      The three raised their glasses to each other and drank. Then Nugent said, "What say we retire to the dining room and become better acquainted, Bill."

      Purdy beamed with genuine joy. He had been pretty sure that no sidewinder rattlesnake, no matter how rich, could pass up the opportunity to eat a pigeon.

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