Just behind the old man came a younger six-footer, broad of shoulder and nervous of movement, clad in an immaculate black suit, white shirt and string tie. Pale eyes flashed forth an intolerance that contrasted oddly with a polished smugness about thinly drawn lips.
Melinda started toward the two men and Danner hung back. When the younger man spotted Melinda, a smile spread across his face, washing away the lines of bitterness.
'Melinda, my dear, it's wonderful to see you again,' he said.
Danner moved forward slowly, trying to hear her answer, but the locomotive whistle drowned out the words. The young man removed his bowler hat, revealing sandy hair carefully groomed. Hat clutched in his hand, he tried to hug Melinda to his chest, but she pushed him away gently. The movement brought his left side into view and Danner felt the pangs of sudden shock. The left sleeve of the young man's coat was empty—neatly tucked into a side pocket.
Understanding washed over Danner then, for the man's story showed plainly. Here was a proud man, once an active outdoorsman, judging from his well-developed shoulders. The loss of his arm had soured him, turned him bitter and intolerant.
Melinda shook hands with the older man. Then the oldster lighted a long black cigar. He gestured with it while he talked.
After the train pulled away Melinda introduced Danner to the new arrivals. The old man turned out to be G. C. Corbin, president of GPC. The other one she presented as Tom Wainright, Corbin's nephew, who would manage the branch from Richfield to Midwestern.
Both officials eyed Danner carefully—the older one with the shrewdness of a man accustomed to the ways of all kinds of men, Wainright with a bare nod, hardly taking his eyes off Melinda. With an effort Danner avoided looking at the empty sleeve.
Old man Corbin suggested they adjourn to the company office. Melinda and Wainright led the way; Corbin joined Danner behind. The walk was a silent one until they reached the office door. There Wainright stepped aside to permit Melinda and his uncle to enter, but stepped in front of Danner. His voice grated when he spoke.
'That will be all for now, Mr. Danner. We have some business to transact. You may go about your duties.' He started to turn into the inner office, hesitated, and added, 'By the way, we expect our front office personnel to dress neatly and keep clean-shaven.'
Danner's chest swelled with anger, but he nodded silently and turned away.
Through a fog Danner heard a pounding on his hotel room door. He rolled over and buried his head under the pillow. The pounding on the door started again.
'What the devil do you want?' Danner demanded. The noise stopped.
'Mr. Wainright wants to see you in his office.' The voice sounded like Leroy, the railroad office boy.
Fatigue burned in his eyes as Danner picked up the heavy B. W. Raymond watch from the bedside table. Judas! Only two o'clock in the afternoon. He'd been in bed only three hours. He groped under the bed, grunting with satisfaction when his hand found a boot. Savagely he hurled the boot against the door.
'Mr. Danner, please!' The high-pitched voice squeaked with fear. 'Mr. Wainright is very insistent.'
'Boy, you tell Wainright and anyone else who'll listen that if anyone touches that door before tomorrow morning, I'm going to put a couple of bullets through it.'
Silence greeted him. Finally he heard footsteps retreating down the hall. Then he buried his face in the pillow and slipped back into the fog.
When Danner awoke again, morning sunshine burned against his face. Consulting his watch, he found he'd slept till mid-morning. Half an hour later he relaxed in a tub of steaming water in the back room of the hotel barbershop. The heat made him lazy, but his mind cleared gradually. He thought idly of Leroy's message from Wainright, then decided that whatever it was could wait until he finished removing the accumulated scum of the long pursuit. By eleven o'clock he emerged from the barbershop freshly shaved and wearing new nankeen trousers with matching buff-colored shirt, and a dark brown Stetson. Not so new were his polished Wellington boots, wide shell belt and soft leather holster. He felt slightly self-conscious in the new clothes and scowled at one passer-by who seemed to be looking too closely at him.
The usual Saturday crowd filled the street, a curious mixture of grangers, townsfolk and riders. Buckboards, grain wagons and buggies dotted the length of the street. Saddle horses stood in small clusters here and there, mostly in front of saloons. Heat waves danced off the street amid rolls of acrid dust.
Danner sauntered along the walk, staring straight ahead as if no one else were in sight. Some of the people he passed ignored him, their animosity showing plainly. But everyone left a clear path for him along the walk.
The Silver Dollar Saloon reeked of stale beer as he drew abreast of the batwing doors. Danner moved past the hardware store, then stopped abruptly. He retraced his steps and entered the store. A bell attached to the door jingled, and Uncle Bennie plodded up from the back of the building. Danner waited for him at the counter in front of the weapon display.
'Have you heard from Kansas City?' Danner asked.
'Yep,' Uncle Bennie snorted. 'Came in yesterday.' He reached under the counter, almost losing his steel- rimmed glasses as he bent over. He withdrew a large brown envelope and dumped out a folded sheet of paper and an empty cartridge case. Danner picked up the shell and rolled it between his thumb and index finger. It was the same shell he'd asked Uncle Bennie to send to Kansas City for identification—one of the three he'd found near the bodies of the Dooleys. It looked like an ordinary .45-caliber shell case, except for a small pin sticking out of the side near the rim. Uncle Bennie adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat.
'The report says it goes to a LeFaucheaux pin-fire revolver, twelve millimeter,' Uncle Bennie said, squinting at the case.
'Never heard of it,' Danner grunted.
'No wonder,' Uncle Bennie snorted. 'They wuzn't but a few hundred of them ever shipped into this country. The Rebs got them from France during the Rebellion. They didn't get but one shipment because a pin-fire ain't a very handy weapon in a pinch—takes too much time to reload. That little pin sticking out of the side of the shell case has to fit into a slot in the cylinder wall, which takes a lot more time than a regular pistol.'
Danner considered the information thoughtfully. The war had been over sixteen years, and many better weapons were now available even this far west. The odds against a rare pin-fire gun turning up here were beyond calculation. He took the brown envelope from Uncle Bennie and scanned the report. His attention caught on one paragraph and he read it again:
The final page of the report was a sketch of the gun, actual size. Danner studied it carefully, then showed it to Uncle Bennie.
'Have you ever seen a weapon like that— maybe a repaired one? Or had a call for pin-fire shells?'
The old storekeeper shook his head.
Danner paid the service charge on the report, then stuffed it back into the envelope.
'Was that the cartridge that killed the Colonel?' Uncle Bennie asked.
'No.' Danner stuck the envelope in his hip pocket, nodded at the dissatisfied merchant, then left the store, thinking of the defective pin-fire that could be 'identified easily.' The Spaulding robbery had been a carefully manipulated operation, all the way down to the murder of the Dooleys. It seemed impossible that a mind capable of such planning would leave behind a possible link to himself. Yet that was exactly what had happened. Danner started on toward Wainright's office, changed his mind and cut across the street toward the courthouse. Wainright had waited this long—he could wait long enough for a check on the prisoners.
Sheriff Brant sat glumly at his desk, his brow wrinkled in worry. He nodded without speaking.
'Cheer up, Dan,' Danner chided. 'You'll live to be a hundred.'
'
Danner eyed him closely. The sheriff was noted for a gloomy attitude.
