Shaye studied the determined set of the young woman’s chin for a moment and knew he was licked.
“Can you at least have someone go to town and send a telegram for me?”
“I can do that,” she said. “I’ll get you some paper and pencil so you can write it out.”
“I’m much obliged to you, ma—Wendy.”
“I’ll be right back,” she said, “with pencil, paper…and some food. And if you don’t eat it, I won’t loan you a pair of my father’s pants.”
As she left the room, Shaye had to admit that he was feeling hungry. Some food and a good night’s rest in a plush bed like this one would do him a world of good, and then he could hit the trail again early the next morning.
When she returned and set a tray of stew by his bed—after eliciting from him the promise to eat it—he wrote out his telegram for her to have sent to Vengeance Creek for him. He hoped it would cross wires with something from one or both of his sons, so he could know where they were and how they were.
He never would have guessed the response he’d receive.
66
When Thomas and Ralph Cory finally rode into Denver, they were tired, hungry, dirty, and bearded.
“First thing we’ve got to do is talk to the local law,” Thomas said.
“That would be the police,” Cory said. “They have a police department here, like in the East.”
“No sheriff?”
“Oh, there’s a sheriff, but he’s not a sheriff like your pa is,” Cory said. “No, we have to talk to the chief of police—but before we do that we’ll have to clean up, or he won’t even see us.”
“What if Cardwell’s already here?”
“We’ll have to hope he’s not,” Cory said. “We have to hope we didn’t come over the mountains and through the pass for no reason at all. But either way, I’m tellin’ you the police chief won’t see us lookin’—and smellin’—like this.”
“All right,” Thomas said. “We’ll take baths, get shaved, and then go see him. Can we do that without actually checking into a hotel?”
“We could,” Cory said, “but checkin’ into a hotel sounds like a good idea to me. We’re likely gonna have to spend a few nights here, no matter what happens.”
“Ralph,” Thomas said, “we should probably get right over to the bank and warn them.”
“Thomas, do you know which bank Cardwell wants to hit?”
“Davis told us,” Thomas replied. “The Bank of Denver.”
“Do know how many banks are in Denver?” Cory asked. “Do you know how many of them are called the Bank of Denver?”
“There’s more than one?”
“Oh, yes, there’s more than one.”
“Then…how will we know which one Cardwell’s gonna hit?” Thomas asked, suddenly feeling very helpless.
“We’ll discuss it with the chief of police,” Cory said. “He can probably tell us which bank is the biggest. Or will have the most money on hand. If Cardwell’s been waiting his whole rotten career to hit this bank, it’ll probably be the biggest.”
“But before the chief will see us…”
“Right,” Cory said, “bath and shave. Come on, we’ll check into the closest hotel.”
“Will they have baths?”
“Thomas,” Cory said, “in this city all the hotels have baths—in your room!”
“Right in the room?” Thomas said. “No.”
Later, after they’d secured a room, had a bath and a shave, and paused to have a drink to wash the trail dust out of their throats, they went to police headquarters on Cherokee Street and asked to speak with the chief of police.
The uniformed policeman at the front desk asked, “What’s it about?”
“A bank robbery.”
“Where did this take place?”
“It hasn’t happened yet,” Thomas said. They’d agreed he would do the talking, since he was the one wearing a badge.
The officer, a big, florid-faced man in his fifties, stared at him and asked, “Then how do you know it’s gonna happen?”
“Look,” Thomas said, “my name is Thomas Shaye, I’m a deputy sheriff from Vengeance Creek, Arizona, and I’ve tracked a bank robber and killer to your city. I think he’s gonna hit another bank here.”
“Which one?’
“The Bank of Denver.”
“Son,” the man said, “we have a lot of Banks of Denver—’”
“I think if I could speak with the chief of police we could get this cleared up.”
The man thought this over while Thomas inspected the gold and silver badge on his uniformed chest that said DENVER POLICE. Finally, the man said, “Wait a minute,” and picked up the receiver of a telephone on his desk. Thomas had only seen a telephone once before, in Oklahoma City, and he’d never used one. Denver also offered him a second look at trolleys and electric lights, things he’d also only seen the year before during his brief and deadly stay in Oklahoma City.
“All right,” the officer said, “the chief says he’ll see you. Wait here and someone will come for you.”
With that, the officer proceeded to ignore them.
“This might not be easy,” Thomas said.
“What is?” Cory asked. “Just don’t back down, Thomas. Be confident.”
Thomas nodded just as a young officer came out and asked, “Deputy Shaye?”
“That’s right.”
“Come with me, please?”
“All right.” Thomas and Cory started forward.
“Uh, who’s this?”
“He’s with me,” Shaye said.
“And your name?”
“Ralph Cory.”
“Are you a deputy?”
“I’m a volunteer.”
The young policeman hesitated, then said, “All right. Follow me.”
They trailed him down a long hall to a closed door with gold lettering that proclaimed: OFFICE OF THE CHIEF OF POLICE. The young man knocked, opened the door and announced, “Deputy Shaye and Mr. Ralph Cory.”
He stepped aside to allow Thomas and Cory to enter.
That same morning, sixty-seven miles away in Colorado Springs, Ben Cardwell sat in a cafe with four men.
“You four are hired, and you have to bring in eleven more men. This is a job that’ll take a dozen of us.”
The four men exchanged a glance, and then Scott Dolan said, “We can do that.”
“By tomorrow mornin’,” Cardwell said.
This time there was hesitation, but Dolan said, “All right.”
“Saddled up and ready to go at first light. I want to be in Denver by tomorrow night.”
“That’ll take some hard ridin’,” Dolan said.
“So get me eleven men who can ride hard,” Cardwell said.
“We’re gonna need some money to outfit.”
Cardwell had come prepared. He had a couple of packs of Vengeance Creek money folded into a newspaper
