“I’m Bill Tilghman. Deputy U.S. marshal. I need your assistance.”
“Always glad to oblige the law.”
“A lady in town,” Tilghman said easily. “Mary Pierce, down at the hotel. I’m interested in her mail.”
Burnham looked startled. “Her mail?”
“In particular, the letters she receives. I want to know where they’re from.”
“I don’t think I can do that. Bob and Mary Pierce are friends of mine.”
“You’ll do it.” Tilghman’s voice was cold and clear. “Otherwise I’ll charge you with obstruction of justice. The Pierce woman is involved in aiding and abetting criminals.”
“I don’t believe you! Mary Pierce is a fine woman.”
“How would you like to spend five years in federal prison on her account?”
Burnham swallowed, his jowls quivering. “You’re talking about Edith Doolin, aren’t you? Everybody knows her and Mary are friends.”
“Good guess,” Tilghman said with a slight smile. “Look, I’m not interested in Mary Pierce. You cooperate, and nobody gets hurt—including her.”
“You’d let her off, not press charges?”
“You’ve got my word on it.”
Burnham thought about it a moment. Then, as though reconciled to the situation, he shrugged. “Mary’s in bed with the croup, and Bob’s tendin’ her along with the hotel. Guess he didn’t have time to come get the mail yesterday.”
Tilghman felt his scalp tingle. “There’s a letter for her?”
Burnham darted a look out the windows. After inspecting the street, he led the way back to the mail cage. He took a letter from one of the bins, weighing it with a last moment of deliberation. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he slid it across the counter.
Tilghman stared down at the envelope. The writing was in a delicate hand and it was addressed to Mary Pierce. But his attention fixed on the return address. He burned it into memory.
MRS. WILL BARRY
ROYAL HOTEL
BURDEN, KANSAS
“You know,” Burnham said, as though reading his mind, “it’s against the law to open somebody else’s mail.”
Tilghman’s smile darkened. “You just keep your part of the bargain. Not a word to Mary Pierce about me being here. Understood?”
“No need to worry about that.”
“I’ll hold you to it, Mr. Burnham.”
Tilghman rode out of town calculating time and distance. He placed Burden, Kansas, some sixty miles southeast of Wichita, and perhaps thirty miles north of the state line. By horseback, he was at least four days away, and that seemed far too late. By train, he could be there tomorrow.
He rode west toward the Santa Fe depot at Perry.
* * *
The train pulled into Burden late the next afternoon. Tilghman stepped onto the platform with his warbag and walked to the end of the stationhouse. His badge was in his pocket, and his appearance was that of a grungy, bearded cowhand. He stood for a moment surveying the town.
The overnight trip had taken him north from Perry to Winfield, Kansas. There he had switched to the afternoon eastbound, which made several stops before arriving in Burden. He’d stalled his horse at a livery stable in Perry, and brought only the essentials he could cram into his warbag. He thought it would be a short stay.
Doolin and his wife were in Burden, or they were gone. Either way, Tilghman expected to be in town for no more than a day. On the train ride, he’d decided not to contact the local town marshal. His federal commission was good in Kansas, and the fewer who knew of his presence, the better. There were no secrets in small towns, and he was also unwilling to entrust his life to a lawman he’d never met. He preferred to handle it himself.
Uptown, Tilghman kept to the opposite side of the street from the Royal Hotel. A block beyond the main intersection, he checked into the town’s only other hotel, and dumped his warbag. Then, outside again, he turned south as the sun dipped toward the horizon. He had no choice but to verify that Edith Doolin was still in Burden. Whether or not Doolin was staying with her at the hotel was a moot point. He had to take the risk of being seen.
The room clerk had a newspaper spread across the counter of the front desk. He glanced up as Tilghman entered the door, and an expression of distaste came over his face. His eyes were frosty.
“Help you?”
“Hope so,” Tilghman said amiably. “Depends on whether we can make a deal.”
The clerk frowned. “What kind of deal?”
“Information.” Tilghman pulled a wad of greenbacks from his pocket. “I’m willing to pay.”
“Information about what?”
“Somebody stayin’ in the hotel.”
The clerk quickly scanned the empty lobby. His voice lowered in a conspiratorial tone. “That kind of thing doesn’t come cheap.”
Tilghman peeled off several bills. He fanned them out on the counter. “Fifty dollars,” he said. “For the information and your silence.”
Fifty dollars represented almost a month’s wages for the clerk. His eyes brightened with avarice. “What do you want to know?”
“You have a woman here by the name of Mrs. Will Barry?”
“She’s in room two-oh-one.”
Tilghman jerked a thumb upward. “On the second floor?”
The clerk nodded. “All the way up front. Faces the street.”
“Anybody stayin’ with her?”
“Just her and her baby.”
“Anybody called on her?”
“No.” The clerk paused, remembering. “A tramp delivered a package for her. Somebody hired him to bring it around.”
Tilghman looked interested. “Describe this tramp.”
“Worn-out clothes. About my height. Dark hair.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah,” the clerk said, nodding. “Walked with a real bad limp. Must’ve hurt his foot somehow.”
Tilghman pushed the bills across the counter. “Don’t let me hear that you told anybody about our little talk. You’d regret it.”
The cold look in his eyes unnerved the clerk. “No need for threats,” he said. “I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
“See that you do.”
Tilghman turned toward the door. Outside, he crossed the street and entered a saloon with a plateglass window. He took a spot at the end of the bar, where he had a direct view of the hotel. Ordering a beer, he nursed it, mentally reviewing what he’d learned. He felt charged with energy.
For whatever reason, the Doolin woman was still in town. But it
