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CHAPTER 11

      EUCLID HOPPER met Purdy at the business door of the funeral parlor, and proudly showed him Mr. Sanders, looking very respectable in his elegant clothes, the wax-filled bullethole in his head almost matching the rest of his skin.

      Purdy dutifully admired the work. Then Hopper took him into the kitchen and introduced him to Ellie. She was a little, plain-looking woman with a young-sounding voice and eyes that looked as though they'd seen more than enough trouble and hard work. She didn't say ten words during the meal of back bacon, fried eggs, thick slices of sourdough bread to sop the bacon grease with, and hot black coffee, but after they had finished their second cups, and she was clearing away the greasy plates, she said, "Euclid said you might be stayin' here in Tres Marias."

      "I thought of it," Purdy said.

      She shrugged. "I suppose there are worse places, but not many."

      Euc Hopper frowned. "Ellie would like to live someplace more civilized, but the truth is, we want for nothing here. Supplies come in through all kinds of weather. Take those eggs, for example. They're fresh as can be, sent up from Denver, packed in sawdust, without a crack in them. And pretty soon we're going to have some real culture, too — just like in Central City. Frank's talking about building a library in town, so people can improve their minds with good books."

      "Nugent!" Ellie said, and her tone of voice told of her disgust. "Him and his wonderful Outlaw and Disorder Committee!"

      Hopper looked both angry and embarrassed. "When you say things like that, it's slappin' at me, Ellie. I'm a member of the committee."

      She stared at him and opened her mouth, but her eyes fell on Purdy and she resumed clearing the table.

      "It's all right, I'm not exactly a friend of Nugent's," Purdy said. "I met him just a couple of days ago, and he invited me up here to consider some investments."

      "Did he mention anything about the railroad?" Hopper asked.

      "Yes."

      "That's good! That means he's considering cutting you in on it. We're already lining up some choice investors."

      "Are you in it?"

      Euclid grinned. "Up to my ears. It could make me a millionaire."

      "If it ever gets built," Ellie murmured.

      Euclid gave Ellie a dark look, then stood up. "C'mon, let's get going. I've got a burial to do this afternoon."

      He got his gun and strapped it on, and without another word to Ellie, or even another glance, he went outside across a strip of snow-covered earth into a big shed with stalls to put the horses in, when it got colder. Three empty coffins were stacked along one wall next to a pile of precut boards to assemble more from. About a fourth of the space was taken over by a handsome black hearse with big oval windows. Each corner of its roof was decorated with a large finial in the shape of a vase. Through the glass Purdy could see the bundles of black-dyed turkey feathers that would be put in the vases when the hearse was carrying a coffin to the cemetery.

      In the adjacent corral, a couple of well-matched mules watched sleepily as Hopper saddled a big gray, and Purdy got his own sorrel from where he'd tied him. It was turning into a beautiful morning, crisp and moist, smelling of pine and woodsmoke.

      They moved down to the creek and followed it west as it wound around the canyon. "Don't get the wrong idea from Ellie's talk," Hopper told Purdy. "She's a good wife, it's just that — you know — things happen with a man's friends that women don't like."

      "Like what?" Purdy asked.

      Hopper glanced at him and smiled obliquely. "Like nothing."

      Purdy felt a certain admiration for Hopper. He must be a fairly decent husband. Ellie wouldn't have talked that way if she was afraid of him.

      They had gone about a mile and a half when their path rounded a bend. Ahead of them Purdy saw a jumbled collection of log and board shacks, dugouts with canvas roofs, and scores of tents along the creek. Perhaps a hundred men worked industriously at various contraptions along the edge of the stream.

      "Know anything about mining?" Hopper asked.

      "Not much."

      "Lots of ways of getting gold out of Mother Nature's grasp," Hopper said, eager to be the teacher. "Generally placer mining — like this is here —- starts when a man is panning for gold. When he finds a trace in the stream bed, he knows it probably washed down from someplace higher up, so he keeps on moving upstream until it seems like he's found the richest place, like it is here, and he keeps on scooping up mud in his pan, shaking and rinsing it until all the sand and gravel is out. That usually leaves heavy black iron — mostly magnetites or maybe some pyrites — in the bottom of the pan.

      "Then he takes a magnet and wraps it in cloth and drags it through the black sand, to pick up the iron. When he get a good load of iron on the magnet, he gets rid of it by unwrapping the cloth, so it just falls off. Sometimes while he's doing that, he'll find a nugget or at least some grains of gold dust in the bottom of the pan, and that he pinches out and puts in his pouch. But most of the time he gets rid of all the iron he can pick up, and dumps what's left in the pan into a jar and repeats the process over and over again.

      "Later he'll mix the stuff in the jar with quicksilver. That dissolves the gold out of it. Then he puts the mercury in a chamois skin and twists it until the gold clumps up and the mercury is squeezed out and saved so he can use it again. What's left is just a little lump of mercury-covered gold. Later that's heated in a iron kettle and all the mercury boils away and the gold melts into a lump."

      Purdy was impressed. "And that's all there is to it?"

      Hopper nodded. "Except for one little thing. Mercury's a poison when it turns into vapor, so if you ever decide to smelt any gold, make sure you're in a well-ventilated place." He laughed. "Take it from your friend the undertaker."

      They were riding into the mining area, and below them in the creekbed, men in high boots were up to their shins in mud at the edge of the stream, shoveling up sand and gravel into wooden contraptions Hopper identified as sluice boxes, a quicker way to get gold than panning. Two men generally worked a box and as many as five men were working longer versions Hopper called long toms — in both cases streams of water carried what they shoveled past screens, then down several small wooden steps and along the riffle bars — boards nailed across the width of the sluice box. As the mud washed across them, the heavy gold settled out at the boards. Some of the sluice boxes were even built with rockers; one man shoveled while another rocked it like a cradle. The miners were intent on their work, watching carefully for any glint of gold.

      "Sometimes a nugget will turn up," Hopper said, "and the men leap on it, even if it's only half the size of a pea, and they wipe it clean and hold it up and admire it before stowing it in their sacks. All the gold taken from the sluice boxes is usually divided up among the box's workers, according to whatever agreement they made beforehand. The man who owns the claim always gets the most."

      Purdy watched for several minutes, but he never saw anyone find a nugget.

      Each group of miners worked alone, scarcely conversing, seldom even looking up. The glances Hopper and Purdy got were neither friendly nor hostile. Only one man waved, and Hopper waved back. "Man's wife died a couple of months ago," Hopper confided. "I gave her a fine sendoff. Big crowd of people — Ellie knew her and she sang a couple of hymns. She's got a real nice voice, and he appreciated it."

      Purdy kept his eye open for Lem Beeme, but didn't see him, although at one point he saw half a dozen men with rifles grouped around a tent. They stared at him coldly and this time there was no wave for Hopper. The tent flap was folded back and Purdy could see somebody tall and skinny sitting on a cot. Purdy thought that might have been Beeme, but he wasn't about to make sure. The men on guard looked as though they'd enjoy killing anyone who approached the tent.

      The sun was high when Hopper led Purdy to a crude log building with smoke coming from a tin stack. They dismounted and Purdy followed Hopper inside and saw that the place was a saloon, complete with a fancy mirror. There was a long plank bar and shelves with bottles of whiskey and glasses behind it. The chairs and tables looked as good as those Purdy had sat in at The Rose, but the floor was dirt and sawdust, spongy and cold underfoot. In the center of the saloon, clearly the leading attraction (except for the whiskey) was a big pot-bellied stove with its isinglass window looking in on a roaring fire.

      Behind the bar was a slender man with muttonchop whiskers and thick spectacles that had been tied together with string. He leaned forward and squinted through the glasses. "Somebody die, Mr. Hopper?"

      "Probably happening somewhere right this minute, Eugene," Hopper said. "This is my friend Mr. Purdy."

      Eugene nodded, and took out two glasses and filled them up for them. "On the house. Put in a word for me with Mr. Gaines, okay?

      "Of course," Hopper said. To Purdy he said, "Homer and Frank own this saloon, too. Pretty quiet here in the morning, but it cuts loose at night. Eugene is the bartender of choice because he's so blind he can't see what to steal. Ain't that right Eugene?"

      The bartender said piously, "Why, a man would be crazy to steal from Mr. Gaines, sir."

      Hopper laughed and led Purdy to a table close to the stove so they could take off their coats and let its heat bake them directly. "I guess both Homer and Frank are pretty well off," Purdy said conversationally. "They know each other long?"

      "Pretty long time."

      "How about you? You known them a long time, too?"

      Hopper's hazel eyes met Purdy's. "What are you driving at?"

      Purdy smiled. "I'm just thinking that it looks like some of you men have worked a pretty good deal."

      "Some of us have, and some of us haven't," Hopper said. "When we get the railroad in here, we'll all do a lot better."

      Purdy nodded. "I just get the feelin' that the Law and Order Committee owns this whole town."

      "We've done all right. A new town like this needs stability, and we've supplied it."

      They went on talking about the growing West, the beauty of Colorado, the need for a railroad, the recent demise of President James Abram Garfield, and the dubious skills of that party hack Chester A. Arthur with his crazy ideas about civil service reform.

      They were speculating about Lincoln's death when the door opened behind Purdy and Hopper said, "Well, Tom! What are you doing here?"

      It was Amhearst, his face screwed up in a scowl, the star gleaming on his coat. He was accompanied by a sawed-off skinny deputy, who looked like he could use a good night's sleep.

      "Take a walk Eugene, and you, Dipp, go stand outside," Amhearst said brusquely. "Anybody wants in, tell 'em to come back later. We don't want to be disturbed."

      The Deputy nodded, and after the bartender took his coat off a hook, the two went out, closing the door behind them. Amhearst barred the door, walked around behind the bar. He took a bottle and a glass from the shelves and brought them to the table and slid into a chair.

      The three of them were alone in the saloon. Gray light filtered through the dirty windows, and the stove crackled with its heat. Amhearst was clearly angry. "I was supposed to do a little job for Watson this morning, but Beeme had so many damned guards around him I decided to postpone it." He stared at Purdy and the affability he had shown the previous night was gone. "I'm glad you're here, Purdy, because I've got some questions for you."

      "What do you want to know?" Purdy met his stare but kept his voice neutral.

      "Who, and what are you?"

      "William Terrance Purdy. That's who I was born, and that's who I am."

      Amhearst sighed. "Maybe so, but last night while you and Euc were drinking at The Rose, I had Dipp go through your room. He found a set of Deputy Marshal's identification papers hidden in the chiffonier. That's not your name on those papers."

      Purdy leaned back and grinned, while his mind raced for an answer. He took a breath. "Well, I guess the cat's out of the bag, then. I am U.S. Deputy Marshal Kenneth Feeney from Nebraska on detached duty in Colorado, where I've been using the name Purdy."

      "Doin' what?"

      "It has nothin' to do with you boys, or your so-called Law and Order Committee. It's government business that I can't reveal." He grinned disarmingly, as though he was glad to finally be able to reveal his true identity. "When I was at Central City, and I ran across your friends Nugent and Weitnaur, I drank with them, ate with them, and when Frank invited me to come up here with him, I decided I'd do it and have a look around. I do have some money, and I'm thinking about leaving law enforcement and making my way."

      Amhearst said, "And that's the truth?"

      "Yes sir, it is."

      Amhearst shook his head. "Good! Except for one little thing — last night I sent my deputy to Central City to wake up the telegraph man and send a message to Lincoln, to the U.S. Marshal's office there. Asked about you, Marshal, and got an answer early this morning."

      Amhearst leaned forward and dropped his right hand under the table, and Purdy figured he had drawn his gun. "Bad news — you're dead! Seems like you were shot and killed two years ago, Marshal Feeney." He brought his gun out from under the table, cocked it, and leveled it at Purdy. "What have you got to say to that?"

      "Let me think about it for a minute," Purdy said, and he was indeed thinking — harder than ever. Grinning and cool, he was nevertheless stalling, with a sinking feeling in his gut. "And by the way, I kind of wish you wouldn't point that gun at me."

      "It won't go off unless you give me trouble," Amhearst said.

      "Trouble? No trouble!" Purdy said. "Be sure of that. But, Sheriff, I have one of Frank's good cigars in my pocket and I want to reach up there and get it . . . but I don't want you to shoot me."

      "Get it," Amhearst said.

      "I'd share with you like a gentleman, but this is my last one," Purdy said looking at Hopper — who looked pretty confused about the goings on.

      He lit it and leaned back in his chair.

      "You better start talking, or I promise it will be your last cigar forever," Amhearst said.

      "Well . . ." Purdy downed the last of his whiskey. "Well, I guess I'll have to tell you the real truth. You see, I'm in what I call the personal services business. People come to me and ask me to do things for them that they can't — or are unwilling to — do themselves."

      "Like what?"

      "Like anything. But mostly —" he met Amhearst's eyes with beguiling candor. "— mostly, I guess I kill people. They tell me who to kill, and they offer to pay me money, and if the amount of money is right, I kill them and I take it. Very simple business."

      Amhearst and Hopper exchanged glances, and then their eyes snapped back on Purdy.

      "And who are you supposed to kill, and why?" Amhearst asked.

      "Well, that's a little hard to explain, seein' that he's apparently a friend of yours. It's . . . well, it's Mr. Frank Nugent."

      "Frank?" Hopper said, surprised.

      Purdy raised his hand. "Now don't get me wrong. I really like the man, but you know in my business, a deal's a deal. I took my customer's money, and I've got to go through with it."

      Amhearst said, "I'll be damned," and he looked over at Hopper and shrugged. "Here I got this man dead certain, and I'm a Sheriff, and he tells me he still intends to shoot our friend." Amhearst shook his head as though to clear it. "You mind telling me just who hired you to do that?"

      Purdy knocked the ash off the end of his cigar. "I hope you don't mind," he said, and very slowly with one finger pushed Amhearst's gun so it wasn't pointing at him. Amhearst just stared at him but didn't put the gun back. "But my customer and I made a deal in Denver, and, of course, if I revealed his name, he wouldn't much like it, would he? What kind of man would I be if I did that? I'd be violating a sort of fiduciary responsibility, and if I did that, why, I couldn't live with myself, gentleman."

      Amhearst and Hopper exchanged glances again, then stared back at Purdy. Amhearst said, "Just like that, huh?"

      Purdy nodded.

      Amhearst and Hopper looked at each other again and both started to speak, but Amhearst have Hopper a look, held up his hand and said, "It was Alex Weitnaur, wasn't it! Alex put his finger on Frank for you in Central City, didn't he!"

      Purdy said nothing.

      "It had to be Alex." Hopper said. "That greedy sonofabitch hates Frank, and he wants the money. Isn't that right, Purdy?"

      When Purdy didn't answer, Hopper continued, "Man's nothing but a thief! Been stealing from us for years." He hesitated. "Did he mention Tom or me?"

      "My lips are sealed."

      "How much money did he give you?"

      Purdy leaned back, relaxed-looking. "I was hired to get Nugent. That's all I'll say."

      They stared at him.

      Then Purdy leaned forward again, trying to look sincere. "But I sense there's no love lost between you two gentlemen and Nugent. He lives in a big house — you fellows live in littler houses. He's a rich man, owns just about everything. While you, Tom, have to risk your life protecting the law, and you Euc, have to dress up and put to rest dead folks — a job I don't imagine you relish."

      Again Amhearst and Hopper exchanged glances.

      Emboldened, Purdy said, "So how about it? Why not let me earn my fee. And go ahead with my job and kill him. Then I'll be away from here forever and you two can take over his various enterprises." He smiled his friendliest smile. "How about it?"

      Amhearst moved his gun back so the muzzle was pointed right at Purdy's head and he said, "Why I ought to kill you right here . . ." But his voice sounded indecisive.

      There was a long pause, and Purdy thought he had gone too far. It would all end here. Dammit! He should have tried to gun them all down at the dinner table.

      Then Hopper said in a reasonable-sounding way, "Now wait a minute, Tom. All Billy here wants is just to do his job and earn his fee."

      Ten minutes later, the bartender had been called back in, and the three of them were friends, drinking together and smiling as though they really meant it. Of course, Purdy was certain that Amhearst and Hopper would be ready to gun him down as soon as he killed Nugent. And then they'd try to kill the other two — Elmer Watson, and Homer Gaines. And then one of them would kill the other.

      "Set 'em up again for my two friends," Purdy said to the bartender. "By the way, Tom, did you happen to tell Frank about our friend Marshal Feeney?"

      "Didn't get around to it," Amhearst said. "Aren't you lucky."

      "Guess I am, sort of," Purdy acknowledged.

      Amhearst fiddled with his glass. "I've got one more question. Why didn't you kill him on the way down here. It would have saved you a long ride down and back, and nobody would have known."

      "I was curious about him," Purdy said seriously. "Some people in my business would just as soon not know about the man they shoot, but that's never bothered me. When I get to know them, I usually find they deserve to be shot."

      "Well, Frank sure does," Hopper said, nodding.

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