“I don’t believe . . .,” the man halted in his speech his face turning beet red. “We will see,” Cobb declared as he limped to the back of his shop. A moment later he was seated behind his work bench removing the bronze plate from the rifle barrel. Turning it over in his hand he read, “To George Dean for exemplary service . . . Marshal Tinsley. Dean! Why that’s the man that was murdered a few months back.”
“Marshal Tinsley,” Royce replied glancing over the man’s shoulder. “I heard they were Cavalry issue. Tinsley is a Territorial Marshal.”
“That makes Dean a Territorial Marshal. I wonder if Walden is aware of this fact,” Cobb said before replacing the bronze plate. “I paid out good money for this rifle. Said it would be first prize in the shooting contest. What do I do now?”
“Can’t say,” Royce replied. “You best talk this over with Walden. Let the sheriff make the decision. Dean is dead. Likely Sheriff Walden won’t do anything about the rifle. She is a honey. I wouldn’t mind owning her.” Royce hoped he had convinced Cobb he had not known the rifle belonged to Dean. He was on thin ice and could feel it breaking beneath his feet. Hoping Cobb would reveal where he had gotten the rifle. The man had not and Royce did not want to ask.
“I will,” Cobb declared agitated. “Did you want something,” he asked as if just realizing Royce was still in his shop.
“I signed up for the shooting contest,” Royce repeated. “Mr. Morse said you were putting up a rifle so I came along to have a look at it,” he stated.
Roger Cobb pulled off his soiled leather apron looking around the shop as if hunting for something. His hat was on the counter in back of the store. “I’ll see Walden right now,” he declared.
“I will walk along with you,” Royce said casually. “I was on my way to see the sheriff when I stopped to have a look at the rifle in the window. When the sun shone off that bronze plate I remembered seeing one like it before. It might have gone undetected otherwise.” Royce waited while Cobb closed and locked his front door. If the man was pretending he was a good actor. His hand shook when he turned the key in the lock.
Amos Walden was in his office when Royce followed Cobb through the door. The gunsmith placed the rifle on top of the sheriff’s desk looking at Walden with trepidation. “This is Dean’s rifle,” he blurted. “I sure didn’t know it when Layfield brought it into my shop and asked if I would trade it for that new colt I had on display.” Cobb ran out of steam and plopped down on the chair in front of the sheriff’s desk.
“What did you say,” Walden demanded picking up the rifle. He eyed Royce with suspicion.
“I saw a similar rifle once,” Royce said elaborating on what he had told Cobb. “I was curious enough to mention the fact to Mr. Cobb. He removed the bronze plate and found George Dean inscribed on the inside. I was told the rifles were ordered special for the Cavalry. In Arizona the Apaches are still causing trouble and a Springfield Repeater can do a lot of damage in the hands of a man that knows how to use one.”
Walden turned the rifle over in his hand his brown eyes turning nearly black in appearance. “I knew Dean was a Territorial Marshal. He was here on assignment. He did not tell me what that assignment was,” he added. “He asked a lot of questions around town. I guest he asked the wrong question to the right person. I contacted Marshal Tinsley after Dean’s death. He sent a telegraph wire that he would get back with me. But never has.” He looked at Cobb. “You say Layfield brought you this rifle.”
“Yes Sir,” Cobb replied. “What do I do about the Shooting Contest? That rifle was to be first prize.”
“I will have to keep it until Marshal Tinsley says otherwise,” Walden replied.
“Well, I guess that is that,” Cobb stated coming to his feet. “The town’s people are not going to be happy about this. No Sir. Not happy at all.”
“I suggest you talk to Mayor Pillsdale,” Walden retorted. “A first prize can be worked out. This rifle is evidence in a murder investigation. I will have a talk with Layfield. See what he knows.” He placed the rifle inside an empty slot in the rifle case behind his desk.
Royce wondered how much of their conversation was hogwash and how much was the truth. Walden admitted he knew Dean was a Territorial Marshal while Cobb confessed no knowledge of the fact. Had Dean asking questions gotten the man killed. What questions and with whom had Dean talked.
“Being a new comer I’m not sure I followed all of your conversation,” Royce said.
Cobb stood and reached for his walking stick. “I’ll see Mayor Pillsdale right away,” he said. Leaning heavily on his cane Cobb made for the front door to the office. “I’ll get back with you,” he told Sheriff Walden.
Royce took the chair Cobb vacated and leaned back placing one ankle over his other knee. “This Dean, you said you knew he was a Marshal.”
“Yes,” Walden replied. He reached for the coffee pot on top of a potbellied stove standing in the corner of the room. “I just wish he had been more forthcoming with what he was doing in Junction City. I have little to go on. The Territory doesn’t like it when one of their Marshals is murdered and nothing is done about it.”
Royce looked longingly at the coffee pot on top of the stove. “My coffee tastes like last night’s dishwater,” he stated and watched Walden’s lips widen
