Quiet settled again, but a few minutes later gunfire came from down the slope. And shortly after that, the sound of horses running hard, and dying away in the distance.
The rest of the night Struggles asked himself questions. He sat unmoving with the dead cigar stub still in his mouth and tried to think it out, applying logic. Finally he came to a conclusion. There was only one way to find out the answers to last night's mystery.
At the first sign of morning light he rose and started to climb up the slope toward the ledge.
This would answer both questions--it was the only way.
He was almost past caring whether or not the American and his men were still below. Almost. He climbed slowly, feeling the tenseness between his shoulder blades because he wasn't sure of anything. When he was nearing the rim, a hand reached down to his arm and pulled him up the rest of the way.
'Juan.'
The Indian steadied him as he got to his feet. 'You came with such labor, I thought you sick.'
And at that moment Struggles did feel sick. Weak with relief, he was, suddenly, for only then did he realize that somehow it was all over.
He exhaled slowly and his grizzled face relaxed into a smile. He looked past Juan Solo and the smile broadened as his eyes fell on the torn blanket with the pieces of rope coiled on top of it.
'Padre, you ought to take better care of your cassock,' Struggles said, nodding toward the blanket.
Juan Solo frowned. 'Your words pass me,' he said, looking out over the slope; and added quickly, 'Let us find what occurred with the American.'
Struggles was dead certain that Juan knew without even having to go down from the ledge.
Not far down the grade they found him, lying on his face with stiffened fingers clawed into the loose sand. Near his body were the ashes of the cruciform, still vaguely resembling--even as the wind began to blow it into nothingness--the shape of a cross.
Struggles said, 'I take it he didn't believe in the friar, and wouldn't listen to his men who did.'
Juan Solo nodded as if to say, So you see what naturally happened, then said, 'Now there is plenty of time for your silver, Senor Doctor,' and started back up the grade.
Struggles followed after him, trying to picture Tomas Maria, and thinking what a good friend the friar had in Juan Solo.
Three-Ten to Yuma
HE HAD PICKED up his prisoner at Fort Huachuca shortly after midnight and now, in a silent early morning mist, they approached Contention. The two riders moved slowly, one behind the other.
Entering Stockman Street, Paul Scallen glanced back at the open country with the wet haze blanketing its flatness, thinking of the long night ride from Huachuca, relieved that this much was over. When his body turned again, his hand moved over the sawed-off shotgun that was across his lap and he kept his eyes on the man ahead of him until they were near the end of the second block, opposite the side entrance of the Republic Hotel.
He said just above a whisper, though it was clear in the silence, 'End of the line.'
The man turned in his saddle, looking at Scallen curiously. 'The jail's around on Commercial.'
'I want you to be comfortable.'
Scallen stepped out of the saddle, lifting a Winchester from the boot, and walked toward the hotel's side door. A figure stood in the gloom of the doorway, behind the screen, and as Scallen reached the steps the screen door opened.
'Are you the marshal?'
'Yes, sir.' Scallen's voice was soft and without emotion. 'Deputy, from Bisbee.'
'We're ready for you. Two-oh-seven. A corner...fronts on Commercial.' He sounded proud of the accommodation.
'You're Mr. Timpey?'
The man in the doorway looked surprised. 'Yeah, Wells Fargo. Who'd you expect?'
'You might have got a back room, Mr. Timpey. One with no windows.' He swung the shotgun on the man still mounted. 'Step down easy, Jim.'
The man, who was in his early twenties, a few years younger than Scallen, sat with one hand over the other on the saddle horn. Now he gripped the horn and swung down. When he was on the ground his hands were still close together, iron manacles holding them three chain lengths apart. Scallen motioned him toward the door with the stubby barrel of the shotgun.
'Anyone in the lobby?'
'The desk clerk,' Timpey answered him, 'and a man in a chair by the front door.'
'Who is he?'
'I don't know. He's asleep...got his brim down over his eyes.'
'Did you see anyone out on Commercial?'
'No...I haven't been out there.' At first he had seemed nervous, but now he was irritated, and a frown made his face pout childishly.
Scallen said calmly, 'Mr. Timpey, it was your line this man robbed. You want to see him go all the way to Yuma, don't you?'
'Certainly I do.' His eyes went to the outlaw, Jim Kidd, then back to Scallen hurriedly. 'But why all the melodrama? The man's under arrest--already been sentenced.'
'But he's not in jail till he walks through the gates at Yuma,' Scallen said. 'I'm only one man, Mr. Timpey, and I've got to get him there.'
'Well, dammit...I'm not the law! Why didn't you bring men with you? All I know is I got a wire from our Bisbee office to get a hotel room and meet you here the morning of November third. There weren't any instructions that I had to get myself deputized a marshal. That's your job.'
'I know it is, Mr. Timpey,' Scallen said, and smiled, though it was an effort. 'But I want to make sure no one knows Jim Kidd's in Contention until after train time this afternoon.'
Jim Kidd had been looking from one to the other with a faintly amused grin. Now he said to Timpey, 'He means he's afraid somebody's going to jump him.' He smiled at Scallen. 'That marshal must've really sold you a bill of goods.'
'What's he talking about?' Timpey said.
Kidd went on before Scallen could answer. 'They hid me in the Huachuca lockup 'cause they knew nobody could get at me there...and finally the Bisbee marshal gets a plan. He and some others hopped the train in Benson last night, heading for Yuma with an army prisoner passed off as me.' Kidd laughed, as if the idea were ridiculous.
'Is that right?' Timpey said.
Scallen nodded. 'Pretty much right.'
'How does he know all about it?'
'He's got ears and ten fingers to add with.'
'I don't like it. Why just one man?'
'Every deputy from here down to Bisbee is out trying to scare up the rest of them. Jim here's the only one we caught,' Scallen explained--then added, 'alive.'
Timpey shot a glance at the outlaw. 'Is he the one who killed Dick Moons?'
'One of the passengers swears he saw who did it...and he didn't identify Kidd at the trial.'
Timpey shook his head. 'Dick drove for us a long time. You know his brother lives here in Contention. When he heard about it he almost went crazy.' He hesitated, and then said again, 'I don't like it.'
Scallen felt his patience wearing away, but he kept his voice even when he said, 'Maybe I don't either...but what you like and what I like aren't going to matter a whole lot, with the marshal past Tucson by now. You can grumble about it all you want, Mr. Timpey, as long as you keep it under your breath. Jim's got friends...and since I have to haul him clear across the territory, I'd just as soon they didn't know about it.'
Timpey fidgeted nervously. 'I don't see why I have to get dragged into this. My job's got nothing to do with
