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CHAPTER 28

      AS SOON as Purdy saw Travis on the floor, and Ellie holding Hopper's body, he knew that the rider they had just seen was Amhearst.

      Without a word, he turned and started running in the direction that Amhearst had taken, but the night was so black under the cloud cover he tripped over brush and rocks and couldn't stay on his feet when he ran.

      After a bit, he slowed to a walk. Why hurry? He thought he knew where Amhearst was going. Behind him he could still hear Ellie Hopper wailing, but at that distance it could have been the wind. He didn't want to go back and see her crying, and Travis, whom he'd kind of liked, lying dead on the floor. He hated seeing dead people.

      And he didn't want to see Beeme and Pike, because they called him Marshall Feeney, and that wasn't his name, any more than Purdy was his real name. He was tired of it all.

      He started walking back to town. He hadn't been at the hotel for a couple of days, but he still had his spare clothes in the room, and he guessed he'd better settle up. It was time to get out of Tres Marias. His business had moved on; it was time to get back to Denver. He yawned as he walked. The cold air felt good in his chest. The buffalo grass and stones underfoot, hard to run on, were comfortable at a walk. A thin moon was beginning to fight its way through the clouds, and the snow had quit falling.

      Slowly his spirits rose. He began thinking it hadn't been so bad, really. Three of them were dead now: Hopper, Watson, and Gaines. His job was half over. The only ones left now were Weitnaur, Amhearst . . . and, of course, Nugent.

      It had never occurred to him that Nugent was really dead. Why would anyone go to so much trouble to make the body hard to identify? There had been too many shotgun blasts to the head — and although the place smelled of spilled coal oil, most of had been poured on the body, which was almost the only thing burning when he went in. The Chinese wouldn't have gone to the trouble to set fire to a house before they'd taken what they wanted from it. Afterward perhaps, but not before.

      No, Nugent had wanted a burned body there. A body that was about his size. The fire would burn the hair and hands, make the young body of Clay indistinguishable from Nugent's older body. Eventually the flames would consume it, but not before somebody would see it. And if not, what matter?

      As he walked past the livery he could still see a red glow where Nugent's house had been, but now some of the lights were back on in the houses by the river. He crossed the narrow bridge and went directly to the hotel. Inside the front room was empty. A lamp on the counter burned so low it only intensified the gloom. He went up the steps to his room and unlocked the door.

      When he looked at himself in the mirror he saw a drawn face with a heavy stubble of whiskers. So be it; he looked the way he felt — a tired used-up man. He thought how good it would be to sleep in a real bed, maybe just for an hour or two, and wake refreshed and ready for his long ride.

      He'd lie down for just a few minuted, he thought.

      He awoke about an hour before dawn, splashed some water on his face and went down to the privy, then got his stuff together and rolled it up in his blanket, tied it with a string, and slung the roll over his shoulder. He went downstairs past the rattling snores coming from behind other doors and woke up the hotel clerk and paid him. The clerk seemed surprised that he had come back at all. And pleased. For fifteen cents, he made Purdy a greasy ham sandwich to eat along the way.

      Purdy ate the sandwich while he walked along the river to the mining camp, where fires were already burning. Some of the men recognized him and waved, and one man said, "Good job, Marshal."

      He didn't know what to say so he just raised his hand and nodded, and kept walking. After a time, he came to where his horse was corralled with some others near Beeme's tent. He found his gear and saddled the sorrel, and he was mounting up when Beeme came out.

      "Where'd you go last night?" Beeme asked, grinning and easy.

      "I'm done here, Lem," Purdy said softly.

      Beeme's face fell. "But there's so much to do. Who's going to help us get this town organized? Amhearst is still loose, and we need to set up a real mining district."

      "Not me." Purdy said. "You do it — you're an honest man. I've got other fish to fry."

      "I don't know where to start," Beeme said.

      "At the beginning . . . or with what you think is most important. One thing at a time. Call a meeting and talk it over," Purdy shrugged. "Hell, I don't know any more about that kind of thing than you do. But you know the people here, and that should help."

      "What about Amhearst?"

      "He's one of the fish I'm going to fry."

      Beeme handed him the old Roman coin. "Take this to remember us by — and for luck. I found it on the table last night, at Nugent's."

      Purdy looked at the coin, and for a moment was strangely silent. "Thanks," he finally said, slipping it into his pocket. He reached down and shook Beeme's callused hand. "You're a good man, Lem," Purdy said. "I'm glad I knew you."

      He touched his heels to the sorrel's sides and it moved off smartly. He heard Beeme call, "Good luck, Marshal." But he didn't look back. The road ahead was long, and he'd dilly-dallied too much already. It was almost dawn. He was glad dawn came late this time of year.

      At Central City he had a good meal and got a shave and bath while the horse rested and took on some oats and hay. But he pushed hard when he left Central City for Denver; he wanted to get there while it was still daylight.

      It was late afternoon when he rode into Denver. It seemed like only a day or so ago that he first saw Larimer Street, and in fact it had been less than a week. So much had happened in so little time.

      Yet he had done almost nothing himself, never fired a shot. He had simply put a rock in the gearworks, and the deadly machine had begun grinding itself to pieces with its own greed. Purdy had known that the men who made up the Society of Sidewinders were murderers to the core. They could be depended upon to do what they did best.

      So now he was on Blake street, and as he approached the bank, the late afternoon sun was slanting down warm and turning the street to mud, and he was sweating under his coat. The city was noisy with the rattle of carriages and wagons, men shouting and working, the sound of music and laughter from saloons. Over it all, he heard gunshots, four of them, two from a shotgun.

      He dismounted and tied his horse to a post and walked the remaining half block to the bank. Although Blake Street was crowded, the area around the bank was devoid of people. Purdy started into the bank, and a man hiding behind a wagon across the street called out, "Don't go in there, Mister, there's been shootin' inside!"

      Then a blue cut-under Studebaker phaeton came racing out of the alley where a few days before Purdy had waited at the bank's back door. The driver was bundled up in scarf and his face was obscured, but he was so heavy on the whip that the big bay pulling it went scrambling and almost slipped as it picked up speed.

      Purdy opened the door of the bank and saw the clerk, dead on the floor, his chest blasted by a shotgun.

      Instantly he turned and dashed back to the sorrel, leaped on, and rode in the direction the carriage had taken. But though he rode up one street and down the next, he could find on sign of it.

      He took his time, asking passersby and people in other carriages if they had seen a blue phaeton going full out, but they said they hadn't. Then he began criss-crossing the streets, working his way into open country. Once he thought he saw it, but when he rode up it was painted mostly black and pulled by a draft horse, and the woman in it and her two children were afraid of him, riding up out of nowhere as he did.

      About a half hour had passed before he got back to the bank, and now there was a crowd at the front entrance. A wagon with an open canvas tarp was parked outside, its driver smoking a cigarette waiting patiently for the bodies. Inside there was a bright puff of light and acrid smoke as a photographer took pictures.

      Purdy was detained at the entrance by a policeman who told him he couldn't go in there, but when Purdy showed him Feeney's papers and badge, he was allowed through.

      A couple of men were kneeling over the body of the clerk, and Purdy saw a beefy florid-faced man dressed in a black suit standing in the doorway of Weitnaur's office writing laboriously on a small pad. Purdy held up Feeney's badge and identification. "I was just passing by and saw the crowd," he said. "Anything I can do?"

      "Doesn't appear so," the detective said. He stepped aside and Purdy could see Weitnaur's and Amhearst's bodies sprawled grotesquely on the floor.

      "The portly gentlemen was the bank president," the detective said. "The one wearing the sheriff's star is Tom Amhearst, from his papers. It appears Amhearst came in and blasted the clerk with the shotgun, then rushed into Weitnaur's office and Weitnaur shot him. Then, before he went to hell, Amhearst got the other round off from the shotgun and fairly well blew Mr. Weitnaur's heart out of his body."

      "Anything missing?"

      "We'll have to get somebody to compare what's here to the bank's books, but it don't look as though there was time for him to get anything, if this Amhearst was robbin' the bank.

      "Could there have been anybody else involved?"

      "I don't think so. Some of the people said a carriage came out of the alley pretty fast right afterwards, but that would be natural if somebody was cutting through there and heard shots." He smiled at Purdy. "I met Whiskey-eyes yesterday. You enjoying your stay in Denver, Marshal?"

      "It's a wonderful city and I like it more every day." Purdy touched his hat, took one long look at Amhearst and Weitnaur, and left the bank. He wondered who Whiskey-eyes was.

      The clerk's body was already in the wagon and the driver was covering it with one end of the tarp. The crowd was thicker. Purdy looked from face to face, but there was nobody he recognized.

      He would bet anything that it was Nugent in the blue phaeton.

      Purdy rode over the two blocks to where they were building the train station, and went into the temporary building near it and inquired when the next train east would be leaving. The clerk said at around 10 a.m. in the morning.

      "Is there a place near hear a man could leave his carriage and horse?"

      The ticket agent barely looked at him. "Try Scotti & Sons, right down the street. They're the closest."

      At Scotti & Sons, there were several carriages and wagons inside and outside, and a big area with stalls and storage space was occupied by horses and several other carriages. Lamps were lit and the place was dry and snug, smelling of horses, hay and leather. "Can I help you?" a young man asked.

      "Man named Weitnaur keep his horse and carriage here?"

      "The banker? Sure does."

      "Is it here now?"

      "No sir. A friend of his came by and got it for him early this afternoon."

      "A blue Studebaker phaeton?"

      "That's it."

      "Other man somewhat older than me, a little thinner than Mr. Weitnaur?"

      "Why are you asking me, Mister?"

      "He's a friend of mine. Been hunting him all over. Was that who it was?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "By any chance know where Mr. Weitnaur lives?"

      The boy nodded. "Sure, I know where most of our customers live. It's down by Cherry Creek. Big house."

      "I'll give you two dollars if you'll guide me out there," Purdy said.

      The boy smiled. "Two dollars! When?"

      "Right now." Purdey said, showing him the money.

      The boy up and smiled. "Then let's go, Mister." He called to an graying man behind a desk in an office cubbyhole. "I'll be back in about an hour, Pop."

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