to this remote part of the car shed?”
“You called it, sir, I was curious,” Bixby said. “I grew weary of waiting for my train to depart, so I set upon an exploration of the depot. I wonder, though, if I could prevail upon you to accompany me back to my wife and employee. I do not want to take a chance on encountering anyone else such as these two hooligans. I would be more than happy to compensate you for your trouble.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t feel right in accepting money merely for doing what is the right thing to do,” Matt said. “I will be glad to walk back to the depot with you.”
“I shall be eternally grateful, sir,” Bixby said.
Returning to the waiting room, Bixby pointed out his wife.
“This is my wife, Cynthia,” he said. “Have you ever seen anyone any more beautiful?”
“Jay, please, you are embarrassing me,” the young woman said. “I do not consider myself beautiful, and I find it uncomfortable for you to carry on so.”
“Nonsense, my dear,” Bixby replied. “Of course you are beautiful. Why else would I have married someone like you, if not for your beauty? It certainly isn’t for your intelligence,” he added with a raucous laugh.
Matt saw a flicker of humiliation pass across Cynthia’s face as she glanced down in mortification.
“And this is my employee, Ken Hendel,” Bixby added. “I keep him on because of his business acumen and— also—because he is, at heart, too frightened to ever challenge me.”
As Cynthia had before him, Matt saw Hendel react to Bixby’s harsh words. The reaction, however, suggested that Hendel might not be quite as subservient as Bixby believed, and when Matt smiled knowingly at him, he was pleased to see Hendel return the smile. It was as if Hendel had just verified Matt’s observation.
“Tell me, Mr. Jensen, where are you bound?” Bixby asked.
“Phoenix.”
“Phoenix? Well, what a wonderful piece of luck. We, too, are bound for Phoenix,” Bixby said. “That means we shall be able to keep each other company during the journey.”
“I’ll give you one hundred dollars for all of it,” the jeweler said.
“One hundred dollars?” Meechum complained. “These here necklaces is worth a lot more than one hundred dollars. Why, there’s twenty of ’em here and I’ve seen just one of ’em bring twenty dollars in Denver.”
“You aren’t in Denver,” the jeweler said. “Of course, if you don’t like my offer, you can always take ’em to Denver to sell.”
“Take the money, Billy,” Philbin said. “It’s better’n nothin’, and right now nothin’ is what we have.”
“All right, all right,” Meechum said disgustedly. “We’ll take the one hundred dollars, but that ain’t right and you know it. It ain’t no way right.”
“If it isn’t right from you, consider the Indian you bought these from,” the jeweler said. “I don’t know what you paid for them, but I’d be willin’ to bet you didn’t pay no one hundred dollars.”
“Hah! You got that right!” Cantrell said.
Meechum glared at Cantrell for a moment, then said, “Give us our money so we can get on about our business.”
The jeweler counted out five twenty-dollar gold pieces. Meechum kept two for himself, than gave one each to the other three men.
“How come you get to keep two?” Oliver asked.
Meechum held the piece up. “This here is for all of us,” he said. “We’ll go over to the saloon, get us somethin’ to eat and somethin’ to drink, have some left over for some whores—and we’ll still have twenty dollars apiece in our pockets.”
“Yeah,” Philbin said with a big smile. “Yeah, that sounds good to me.”
The three men tied off their horses, then went into the Last Chance Saloon. The barkeep was at the other end of the bar talking to a couple of his patrons. He laughed loudly at something one of them said, then with the smile still on his face, moved down the bar toward Meechum, Philbin, Oliver, and Cantrell.
“What can I get you gents?”
“Whiskey,” Meechum said. “Leave the bottle.”
“What kind?”
“I don’t care what kind. We want to get drunk, not give a party.”
The bartender took a bottle from beneath the counter. There was no label on the bottle and the color was dingy and cloudy. He put four glasses alongside the bottle, then pulled the cork for them.
“That’ll be a buck-fifty,” he said.
Meechum slid the double-eagle gold piece toward him, then waited for the change.
Philbin poured four glasses, then passed them around. He took a swallow, then almost gagged. He spat it out and frowned at his glass.
“What the hell is this?” he asked. “This tastes like horse piss.”
Cantrell took a smaller swallow. He grimaced, but he got it down. Meechum and Oliver had no problem at all with the whiskey.
