“Thought I’d drop in. Pay a social call. You remember social calls? Say hello to an old friend?”
“Not funny. Tell me why you’re here, Billy. Is it about the Piute?”
“What the hell would I care about any old Indian?” Billy cocked his head, trying to read George’s posture, the weary slump of his shoulders. Below the hat brim, the man’s shadowed face looked strained.
George glared balefully. “Is it about that trouble at End-of-the-Tracks?”
“End-of-the-Tracks?” How the hell would George know about that?
“What were you doing? Rolling track layers, for God’s sake!”
“What makes you think it was me?”
George reached into his duster and pulled out some folded papers. These he slid across the table.
With his left hand, Billy picked them up, unfolded them, and stared. The best likeness was a drawing of his face, almost good enough to be a tintype. Below, it proclaimed:
Murderer and Thief
$500 Reward.
Wanted for the brutal murder and robbery of
Angus McFarley and Sam Howell
The fine print went on to note that the reward was offered by the Union Pacific and would be payable upon delivery of the miscreant.
“Seems a remarkable likeness of you, don’t you think?” George asked. “My agents tell me that McFarley was one of their route surveyors, and when you hit him with that pick handle, you hit too hard. Same with Howell, though it took him four days to die.”
George pointed at the drawing. “Seems that you almost ran over a man getting away. Turns out he was an artist back East before his wife left him and he ran off to build a railroad.”
George gestured. “Those other two are just circulars. One from Helena, the other from Virginia City. Both of them looking for whoever strangled and burned a couple of whores. I thought it looked like your work.”
Neither of them had a picture to go with them, just a request for information leading to an arrest and conviction.
George asked, “Want to tell me why you, of all people, were killing railroad men for a couple of dollars like some chucklehead?”
Billy flipped the papers away and took a sip of his rye. “Mostly to keep Win Parmelee from getting suspicious about who I was?”
George seemed to freeze, his eyes like daggers. “Parmelee? You were riding with Parmelee? My people thought they had him in Virginia City. Somehow the son of a bitch killed several of my associates and got away. And you end up traveling with him?”
Billy shrugged, fighting a smile. The stranglers had been George’s men? What kind of strange was that? “I knew I’d heard of him. Seems to me, it was right here, in this place. Mooney mentioned him to you. But here’s the thing, I never knew what your interest in him was until Win told me about the Goddess, and how he killed her man. He says she stole his whorehouse.”
George was stewing, chewing his lip. “So, where’s Parmelee now?”
“Headed to Denver to kill this Sarah Anderson. Reason I’m here? I thought I’d see what you wanted me to do about him. ’Specially after he kilt the whore.”
With tentative fingers George reached up to absently probe the side of his face where a small scar was whitening on his cheek. “That son of a bitch. When’s he planning on doing this?”
“He had some things to do over in Cheyenne. Don’t reckon he’ll be in Denver till tonight at the earliest. Figure he’ll take a day to scout out the whorehouse, lay his plans.”
“The scheming cunt’s sold the place to Big Ed and his partners. She’s bought herself a house at the edge of town. Figured I’d pay her a visit before I headed west. ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord’? In a hen’s ass!”
George narrowed an eye. “That walking-shit friend of yours is forcing me to move my schedule up. Parmelee might be a cock-beater of the first order, but she threw it in my face! Ain’t nobody gonna get away with that. Not in light of what those California peckers just did to me.”
“What California peckers?” Billy asked.
George studied him from under his hat. “You know the names William Ralston, John MacKay, James Fair, or maybe James Flood?”
“Heard of ’em in Helena, for sure. Mining bosses. Fighting with each other, ain’t they? Out in the Sierras? What they call the Comstock.”
“You think Meagher was your biggest kill? Why, Mr. Meadowlark, after you get done filling out my list in California, you’re going to be the most wanted killer in all the world.”
“What did they do to you?”
“Took me for a fucking fortune over the Piute Lode. Don’t know if it was Ralston or MacKay, but someone sold me a pig in a poke.”
“How bad?” Billy wondered, thinking of George’s fortune.
“Bad!” He pointed a hard finger. “But that ain’t your concern.”
“So, after I kill Parmelee, we’re going to California?”
George stood. “Right now we’re riding to Denver. Seems I’ve got to get the Goddess before Parmelee, or that sick buckey is going to ruin her before I get my chance.”
119
June 29, 1868
Butler stepped down and loosened Apple’s cinch. Taking Shandy’s lead and Apple’s reins, he tied the animals off on the hitching post ring. Patting Apple on the neck, he added, “You be good now, old friend, and feel free to add to the piles.”
A ring of old manure was visible around the hitching post where it had been beaten into the street by countless hooves. Business at Doc’s must have been good.
Butler glanced up and down Fifteenth Street. Denver really was turning into a city. New three- and four-story buildings were going up; teams of bricklayers on scaffolding labored in the midday sun. Despite being gone for just shy of a year, he found the changes dramatic.
“Reckon this heah might be the equal of Memphis in a year or two,” Phil Vail said admiringly where he stood to the side. The rest of the men were crowded around the boardwalk in front of Doc’s.
“Don’t seem yor brother missed you
