anchor under its canvas. He berated himself for not thinking of Santa Monica sooner, squared his scrawny shoulders, and hurried into town.
The first place he walked into was typical of the many livery stables he had visited. It was a sprawling wooden structure big enough to shelter a variety of buggies and wagons for rent, with stalls for numerous horses, and a new mechanic’s section with wrenches, grease guns, and a chain hoist for motor repairs. A bunch of men were sitting around jawing: stablemen, grooms, auto mechanics, and a brawny blacksmith. By now, he had seen enough to know all these types and was no longer intimidated.
“Horse or car, kid?” one of them yelled.
“Horseshoes,” said James.
“There’s the blacksmith. You’re up, Jim.”
“Good afternoon, sir,” said James, thinking that the blacksmith looked morose. Big as the man was, his cheeks were hollow. His eyes were red, as if he didn’t sleep well.
“What can I do for you, young fella?”
By now, Dashwood had learned to ask his questions privately. Later, he would show the sketch to the whole group. But if he started off in front of all of them, it would turn into a debate that resembled a saloon brawl.
“Can we step outside? I want to show you something.”
The blacksmith shrugged his sloping shoulders, got up from the milk crate he was sitting on, and followed James Dashwood outside next to a newly installed gasoline pump.
“Where’s your horse?” the blacksmith asked.
Dashwood offered his hand. “I’m a Jim, too. James. James Dashwood.”
“I thought you wanted horseshoes.”
“Do you recognize this man?” Dashwood asked, holding up the sketch with the mustache. He watched the blacksmith’s face and, to his astonished delight, he saw him recoil. The man’s unhappy face flushed darkly.
Dashwood’s heart soared. This was the blacksmith who had fashioned the hook that had derailed the Coast Line Limited. This man had seen the Wrecker.
“Who are you?” asked the blacksmith.
“Van Dorn investigator,” James answered proudly. The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, and the blacksmith was running full tilt down an alley.
“Stop!” Dashwood yelled, jumped to his feet, and gave chase. The blacksmith ran fast for a big man and was surprisingly agile, whipping around corners as if he were on rails, losing no speed in his mad turns and jinks, up and down alleys, through backyards, tearing through laundry hung from clotheslines, around woodsheds, toolsheds, and gardens and onto a street. But he hadn’t the stamina of a man just out of boyhood who neither smoked nor drank. Once they were out in the open, Dashwood gained on him for several blocks. “Stop!” he kept shouting, but no one on the sidewalks was inclined to get in the path of such a big man. Nor was there a constable or watchman in sight.
He caught up in front of a Presbyterian church on a tree-lined street. Grouped on the sidewalk were three middle-aged men in suits, the minister in a dog collar, the choirmaster gripping a sheaf of music, and the deacon holding the congregation’s account books under his arm. The blacksmith barreled past them, with James hot on his tail.
“Stop!”
Only a yard behind, James Dashwood launched himself into a flying tackle. As he flew, he took a heel on the chin, but he still managed to close his skinny arms around the blacksmith’s ankles. They crashed to the sidewalk, rolled onto a lawn, and scrambled to their feet. James clung to the blacksmith’s arm, which was as thick as the young detective’s thigh.
“Now that you caught him,” called the deacon, “what are you going to do with him?”
The answer came from the blacksmith himself in the form of a wide fist ribbed with thick knuckles. When James Dashwood came to, he was lying on the grass, with the three men in suits peering down curiously at him.
“Where’d he go?” said James.
“He ran off.”
“Where to?”
“Anywhere he wanted to, I’d reckon. Are you all right, sonny?”
James Dashwood rose swaying to his feet and wiped the blood off his face with a handkerchief his mother had given him when he moved to San Francisco to work for the Van Dorn Detective Agency.
“Did any of you recognize that man?”
“I believe he’s a blacksmith,” said the choirmaster.
“Where does he live?”
“Don’t know,” he answered, and the minister said, “Why don’t you let be whatever got between you, son? Before you get hurt.”
Dashwood staggered back to the livery stable. The blacksmith was not there.
“Why’d Jim run off?” a mechanic asked.
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“He’s been acting strange, lately,” said a stable hand.
“Stopped drinking,” said another.
“That’ll do it,” said a groom, laughing.
“The church ladies claim another victim. Poor Jim. Getting so a man’s not safe on the streets when the Women’s Christian Temperance Union holds a meeting.”
With that, grooms, stable hands, and mechanics broke into a song that James had never heard but they all seemed to know:
James took out another copy of the sketch. “Do you recognize this man?”
He received a chorus of nos. He braced for a “Broncho Billy” or two, but apparently none of them went to the pictures.
“Where does Jim live?” he asked.
No one would tell him.
He went to the Santa Monica Police Department, where an elderly patrolman led him to the chief of the department. The chief was a fifty-year-old, well-groomed gentleman in a dark suit, with his hair cut close on the sides in the modern way. Dashwood introduced himself. The chief acted cordially and said he was happy to help a Van Dorn operative. The blacksmith’s last name was Higgins, he told Dashwood. Jim Higgins lived in a rented room above the stable. Where would he go to hide out? The chief had no idea.
Dashwood stopped at the Western Union office to telegraph a report to the Sacramento office to be forwarded to wherever Isaac Bell was. Then he walked the streets, as darkness fell, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man. At eleven, when the last streetcar left for Los Angeles, he decided to rent a room in a tourist hotel instead of riding back to town so he could start hunting early in the morning.
A LONE HORSEMAN ON a glossy bay rode a ridge that overlooked the remote single-tracked Southern Pacific line just south of the Oregon border. Three men, who were grouped around a telegraph pole squeezed between the track and an abandoned tin-roofed barn, spotted him silhouetted against the sharp-blue sky. Their leader removed his broad-brimmed Stetson and swept it in a slow full circle over his head.
“Hey, what are you doing, Ross? Don’t wave hello like you’re inviting him down here.”
“I’m not waving hello,” said Ross Parker. “I’m waving him off.”
“How the hell is he going know the difference?”
“He forks his horse like a cowhand. A cowhand knows damned well the cattle rustlers signal for
“We ain’t rustling cattle. We ain’t even seen any cattle.”
“The principle is the same. Unless the man is a total fool, he’ll leave us alone.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“We’ll blow his head off.”
