“You’re joshin’ me!”
“No, it’s the truth. Way I hear it, Doolin’s sweet on Edith Ellsworth. The postmaster’s daughter.”
Tilghman looked worried. “Maybe I ought not to pay a call on the Dunns. I’d sure hate to run across Bill Doolin in the flesh.”
“Well—” the barber started snipping again. “So I’m told, he’s not there now. Took off a couple of days ago.”
“By golly, for an outlaw, he’s got damn few secrets. Seems a mite strange.”
“The Ellsworth girl tells her friends, and they tell their friends, and word gets around. Not many secrets in a small town.”
“And nobody’s turned him into the law?”
The scissors stopped. “I wouldn’t risk my life against him and his Wild Bunch. Would you?”
“Nosiree,” Tilghman said, wagging his head. “Let him rob all the banks and trains he wants. Live and let live, that’s my motto.”
“Exactly right, Mr. Curry. Why borrow trouble?”
* * *
Early that afternoon Tilghman reined to a halt on Council Creek. He was two miles southeast of Ingalls, and ahead, beyond a bend in the stream, lay the Dunn brothers’ ranch. Dismounting, he took a folding telescope from his saddlebags and left his horse tied in a grove of trees. He walked forward, taking cover in the treeline.
Extending the spyglass, he slowly studied the ranch compound. The main house was a log and frame structure, situated at the bottom of a low knoll. A short distance away was a large corral with some thirty head of horses standing hip-shot in the corral. East of the house a storm cellar had been dug in the hillside and roofed with heavy timber. Smoke funneled from the house chimney, indicating it was occupied. But no one was in sight.
After a thorough inspection, he collapsed the spyglass. Based on the barber’s information, he hadn’t expected to spot Bill Doolin. Still, he’d wanted to scout the lay of the land, perhaps have a word with the Dunns about horses. But now, having seen it, he decided there was no point in pushing his luck. Better to return another day, when he was certain that the gangleader was there. The idea was to capture Doolin, not put him on guard.
On the way back to town, Tilghman sorted through the pieces. There was no reason to disbelieve a talkative drunk or a gossipy barber. In fact, from their reactions as well as their words, there was good reason to believe they were telling the truth. All of which would explain where Doolin had spent the winter months, and why. Even outlaws had a personal life, and everything indicated that Doolin was serious about the Ellsworth girl. The masterstroke was that no one would have looked for Doolin so close to Guthrie. He’d fooled them all.
Yet one piece of the puzzle was still to be found. The letter to the U.S. marshal left no doubt that someone had a score to settle with Doolin. A grudge so strong, in fact, that someone had betrayed him to the authorities. Whoever it was preferred to remain anonymous rather than risk death. But the letter had been postmarked from Ingalls.…
Tilghman played a hunch. Earlier that day, he’d noticed a post office sign hanging over the door outside the general store. A bitter wind blew in from the north as he dismounted before the store and looped the reins around a hitch rack. Inside, a woman waited while a man behind the counter made change for her purchases. She was the only customer in the store.
A cage at the rear fronted a space that served as the post office. Tilghman walked to the cage window and halted, leaning on the counter. The storekeeper was in his early forties, a heavyset man with thinning hair and wire spectacles hooked over the bridge of his nose. When the woman departed with her parcels, he turned and moved toward the rear. He nodded to Tilghman.
“Afternoon.”
“Howdy,” Tilghman said. “Got anything general delivery for Jack Curry?”
The storekeeper glanced at a rack of mailboxes on the wall. “Sorry,” he said. “Nothing for general delivery at all.”
“Too bad.” Tilghman looked at him through the cage. “You the postmaster?”
“John Ellsworth,” the man said, nodding. “I take it you’re Mr. Curry.”
“That’s me,” Tilghman said. “Just got to town today, and you know—I heard the darnedest thing.”
“What might that be?”
“Heard your daughter’s keeping steady company with Bill Doolin.”
Ellsworth’s face blanched. His jowls rippled as he shook his head. “You heard wrong, Mr. Curry.”
“Think not,” Tilghman corrected him. “Not after that letter you sent to the U.S. marshal.”
Ellsworth blinked, his features suddenly gone pasty. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The startled reaction was all Tilghman needed. He now had the answer as to who had written the letter. A respectable storekeeper, trying to protect his daughter, had silently betrayed an outlaw. He nodded to Ellsworth, then walked toward the door.
“Give my regards to Doolin next time he calls on your daughter.”
CHAPTER 12
The plains of western Kansas were blanketed with light snow. Overnight the skies had cleared and a warm morning sun was slowly melting the snowfall. Wet and glistening, a ribbon of steel, the Santa Fe tracks stretched onward to the horizon.
The California Express hurtled through the town of Cimarron. Coupled to the rear of the engine and the tender were an express car and five passenger coaches. As the locomotive sped past the small depot, the engineer tooted his whistle. The train’s final destination was Los Angeles.
A mile west of town, on a dogleg curve, a tree had been felled across the tracks. The engineer set the brakes, wheels grinding on steel rails, and the train jarred to a screeching halt. The sudden jolt caught the passengers unawares, and there was a moment of pandemonium in the coaches. Luggage went flying from the overhead racks as women screamed and men cursed.
Then, suddenly, a collective hush fell over the coaches. From under the bridge where trees bordered the river, a gang of riders burst out of the woods. Four men rode directly to the express car, pouring
