In fancy letters, demonstrating another of the undertaker’s talents, it said, SENT TO HIS FINAL REWARD BY SHERIFF CALEB YORK. The sign had been used a number of times over these many months.
“The advertising value,” Perkins said, “would help offset the modest fee the county provides.”
“Your fee is unlikely to come from the county, which means you would surely be rubbing your potential client wrong.”
The undertaker frowned. “Who might that client be, Sheriff?”
York nodded toward the dead young man, who was on his back, eyes wide, as if overhearing all this and keenly interested.
“This is Victoria Hammond’s boy,” York said. “From out at the Circle G. The widow Hammond is new to town, but I’m sure you’ve heard of her, and her late husband.”
Eyes widened in the narrow face. “I certainly have!”
“Thought you might. She may well require one of your mahogany numbers.”
Perkins, like many undertakers, was also a cabinet maker and fashioned his own caskets, as well as home furnishings. He did just as well with weddings as he did funerals. His attire was the same for either occasion.
The face stayed long and drawn, but the eyes lit up. “She might indeed. I’ll call upon Mrs. Hammond tomorrow. Thank you, Sheriff, for the, uh . . .”
“Tip? Glad to help.”
Perkins nodded courteously. “You’re always good for business, Sheriff,” he said, and then seemed to realize what he’d said, and scurried over to help his young assistant, who was also in black (apparel too large and somewhat threadbare, indicating a castoff of his employer’s), in loading the corpse into the basket.
Cesar, behind the bar, darkly amused by all of this, made a gesture with his tequila bottle, in case York might like a sampling. He was considering the offer when . . .
“Sheriff!” a familiar voice yelped in his ear.
He managed not to jump as he turned to Tulley, suddenly at his side. “Yes, Deputy?”
Tulley’s eyes were hidden behind slits in the weathered face, and he was hugging the shotgun like something dear to him, which it was. “That there scrivener’s out yonder wantin’ to talk to ye. Should I give him the heave-ho?”
“No, Tulley, we’ll give him the respect he deserves. He’s a gentleman of the press.”
“Wal, he shore as hell been pressin’ me . . . so then I take it by your words that I am to give him a boot in the posterior?”
“No. I mean the opposite.”
Tulley blinked. “That would be right painful.”
York closed his eyes briefly, opened them, and said, “I’ll talk to him outside. Supervise in here.”
After taking Cesar up on that shot of tequila, York went out into the cool night air, where Oscar Penniman was waiting. The editor of the weekly Trinidad Enterprise, a short, slight individual with wire-frame glasses on a narrow face, looked uncharacteristically rumpled in his sack coat and trousers—word of the ruckus had come to him when he was already in bed, it seemed, and he’d had to throw things on. He stood with pencil poised at notebook, his thinning hair uncombed and riding his scalp like tumbleweed.
His voice, however, was composed, a casual baritone that conveyed no judgment even if his words implied otherwise. “Another killing, Sheriff?”
“I take no pleasure in it.” Perhaps, in this case, that was not entirely true, though York wasn’t one to take lightly ending any man’s life.
“I understand,” the journalist said, “the victim is William Hammond.”
“The ‘victim’ was resisting arrest on a serious matter.”
“What matter would that be?”
York allowed himself a sigh. “There’s no profit getting into that. The Hammond boy is dead and what he did to put himself at odds with the law is now between him and his maker.”
Penniman cocked his head. “Word is he ravaged a girl. Thrashed her within an inch of her life.”
“You have my statement. If others wish to speak to you of it, that’s their lookout.”
“But is it true he was holding another young woman hostage when you dispatched him?”
“He resisted arrest, wielding a weapon. That’s enough for your purposes, Penniman.”
“Do you fear retribution from the Hammonds?”
He narrowed his eyes at the man. “That’s all I have to say on the matter. Be on your way.”
Penniman smiled and shrugged. “They’re a powerful family, Sheriff. The late Andrew was a terror, they say. Ruthless. And rumor is his widow is cut from the same cloth. How do you imagine she will take to you sending her youngest son to Kingdom Come?”
“My deputy wants to send you on your way with a kick in the backside. Should I summon him?”
Penniman raised a single hand of surrender and he and his notebook headed back into the night. As he did, he passed by another figure, headed York’s way, another small if stouter individual wearing a derby and cutaway jacket; about fifty, the man sported a graying handlebar mustache. He was no one York recognized.
“You’re Caleb York, I believe,” he said, approaching, doffing his hat.
“I can confirm that belief,” York said.
“I understand there’s been a shooting.”
“If that were the case, how would that be your concern?”
He half bowed. “Alfred Byers. I’m bookkeeper and general factotum out at the Circle G. I was bucking the tiger over at the Victory this evening.”
Poker was the preferred game at the Victory Saloon, but there was often a faro table going as well. Not York’s preference, which might be why he hadn’t encountered Byers yet, as “bucking the tiger” referred to faro, not poker.
The stout little bookkeeper was saying, “I hear there’s been a tragedy involving young Hammond. Is that truly the case?”
As if in answer to that question, the undertaker and his associate came out of the De Toro Rojo lugging the wicker coffin, excusing themselves, and York and Byers stepped aside.
“Hold up,” York said.
Perkins and his helper paused.
“Set it down,” York added.
They did.
Then to Byers, York said, “Would you mind formally identifying the deceased?”
Holding the derby to his belly, Byers nodded and the undertaker lifted the lid.
“That’s William Hammond,” the bookkeeper
