ante for him.
McDaniel interrupted his thoughts. 'Jeff, they can't blame you for those robberies because I know you haven't been off this place in eleven days. When we go to Richfield Saturday for those grain wagons, I'll just circulate around and tell everyone—'
'You'll tell them nothing,' Danner interrupted shortly, despite his partner's good intentions.
Temper colored Lona's cheeks then. 'But if you can prove your innocence—'
'I need no defense against idle rumors. If and when I am charged with a crime and brought to trial, I'll prove my innocence. Meanwhile, the
Lona whirled away from him and an accusing glance from Olie didn't cool his temper any. But when Lona faced him again, she spoke in tight, clipped tones.
'If you do go to town Saturday, promise me you'll leave your gun here.'
'A lot of people would like to catch me unarmed,' Danner told her.
'Unarmed men don't get into trouble.' Banner bit back another reply. Like Melinda, Lona had less trust in him than in the intentions of Browder's bunch. But he nodded reluctant agreement and she thanked him with a brief smile.
Danner completed his part of the Saturday morning chores soon after sunup. While McDaniel filled the water trough, he fixed breakfast. After eating they dressed for the trip to town. Danner buckled on his gun belt, then considered his promise to Lona. Thoughtfully, he caressed the butt of the Colts .45. Reluctantly, he unbuckled the belt and hung it on a peg on the wall.
Except for the occasional creak of saddle leather and the soft thud of hoofs on the packed soil of the well- used road, silence rode with them as they headed for Richfield. McDaniel rode loosely, lost in his own thoughts and oblivious to the jouncing of his big frame.
They rode along the same route the grain wagons would take to Richfield. Danner found himself considering possible ambush sites where Browder might strike if he should try wrecking the wagons before they reached the railroad.
Most of the road lay across flat plains that wouldn't hide raiders. But when Danner and McDaniel rode up to Wilson Ford, Danner decided this would be an excellent spot. It was little more than a dry wash this time of year.
Danner looked closely as he rode into the dip and up the far side. Riders could hide here and not be seen until they were ready to start shooting.
Half an hour later they passed through a timbered area. Dense underbrush screened the interior of the timber on each side of the road, making the spot another fine place to wait in ambush.
Just out of sight and hearing of Richfield, they wound around a series of small rises that seemed the least likely of the three possible trouble points. Any hiding place here would put raiders more than two hundred yards from the road, a sufficient distance to permit wagonmen to get set, then pick off attackers with long guns. Either of the other two points would be much better sites.
Although it wasn't yet mid-morning when they reached Richfield, grangers flocked around the Trading Center making last-minute arrangements for thrashing machines.
'You see about the wagons,' Danner told Billy. 'I'll go check on the boxcars at the depot.'
McDaniel nodded, then veered off into the maze of wagons crowding in front of the Trading Center. While still two hundred yards from the hotel, Danner saw Tuso come out and swagger off away from him, heading west. Since going to work for Browder, Tuso had bunked in a storeroom at the granary. Evidently he had moved into the hotel now. He would have taken his possessions with him, including a pin-fire pistol, if he owned one.
Reaching the hotel, Danner reined in and stepped to the ground. The veranda was deserted; so was the lobby. Even the desk clerk was off somewhere. Danner flipped open the register and scanned it until he found Tuso's name opposite room number two-ten. He stepped behind the desk and took a tagged key from the two-ten mail slot.
A worn carpet cushioned his boots on the steps and along the second-floor corridor. Like the room Danner had occupied for four years, two-ten consisted of a nine by twelve space containing only a bed, washstand, chest of drawers and a closet. He found Tuso's trunk in the closet.
Ten minutes of searching revealed some odds and ends of clothing, but no personal papers or mementos— and no LeFaucheaux pin-fire revolver.
Danner sat down on the bed, puzzled by a feeling that he had missed something. He scanned the room, certain he had checked everything. Even a man like Tuso accumulated a few personal items, a tintype or two, some letters and other papers. Yet no such items were here.
Danner peeled back the bedcovers and checked the mattress, finding nothing. He glanced around the room again and this time his gaze caught on the opened closet door. Two belts hung on a nail, one of them a two-inch black leather cavalry belt.
In two quick steps Danner reached the door and grabbed the cavalry belt. The silver buckle bore the crossed sabers and the letters C.S.A., which Danner identified as the insignia of the Confederate cavalry. Elation swelled his chest then, for this increased the odds that Tuso possessed a LeFaucheaux pin-fire. But where was it? Hanging the belt back on the nail, Danner left the room, locking the door behind him.
He met no one until he reached the lobby. There, the desk clerk was sorting mail and turned around only when Danner reached the desk.
'Any mail for me since I moved out?'
'Just some newspapers from Kansas City.' The clerk bent over, reaching under the counter. Danner moved around the end of the desk and replaced Tuso's key in the mail slot, unnoticed by the clerk. Taking the newspapers, Danner went out to his horse and stuffed them in his saddle-bags. Then he mounted and moved on toward the depot.
The familiar clanging in the workshops across the yards and the familiar smells so closely associated with railroading brought a nostalgic tightness to his throat. A way of life grows on a man, he thought; it stays with him eternally.
Danner moved along the platform and into the musty depot, waiting while a stocky woman wearing a faded calico dress and ragged shawl bought a single ticket to Junction City. As she turned away from the ticket window a soft tread sounded behind Danner. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Tom Wainright—a different Wainright. Some of the bitterness still showed on the young-old face, but a touch of harassment lurked there also. Wainright nodded.
'I'd like to talk to you privately, Mr. Danner.' He hesitated, then added a bit grudgingly, 'If you aren't too busy.'
The temptation to ignore the request was strong in Danner, but curiosity was stronger. He nodded assent, then turned to the ticket clerk.
'The first of our grain will arrive in Richfield Monday. Will the boxcars be here?'
'They're on the siding now, waiting,' the clerk nodded.
Danner ducked his head in thanks and turned to Wainright, who hadn't moved. 'Now?'
'If you don't mind,' Wainright nodded, turning. Danner followed him out to the platform. Wainright seemed unsure of himself as he groped for words.
'I—I guess you've heard about the warehouse and train robberies.' He glanced at Danner, keeping his body turned so that his empty left sleeve was out of sight.
'I've heard,' Danner said coldly.
'Some other thefts have occurred also—little things, mostly, like kegs of spikes, sledge hammers, even two flatcar-loads of rails.' He squirmed uncomfortably. His embarrassment puzzled Danner.
'And you think I might supply the answers,' Danner challenged him, 'because your biggest shipper—'
'No!' Wainright protested, flushing. 'No, I just wanted to make sure you understand what is going on because—well, I want you to return to your job and straighten out this mess.'
Amazement struck Danner like a huge fist. He could only stare at Wainright. What a galling thing it must have
