But it would stay outside and York would go in.
He wore black, though not in mourning—the cavalry pinch hat, coat, pants, boots, string tie, all black, his gray shirt an exception only by a shade. He was a professional man, in his view, as much so as a doctor or lawyer.
Beyond the boneyard, and before the Bar-O’s log arch announced the lane to the Cullen ranch, a trail veered off to the right, leading to the Circle G. Even before the hard winter, the going had been rough on this narrow lane, and anything but scenic—the bunch grass and spiny shrubs had a stomped-on, defeated look. Afterwhile, though, some green came in and soon ahead loomed the squared-off, fence-post archway with its circled G burned into a wooden overhang.
The array of frame buildings—water tower, barn, cookhouse, bunkhouse—was set in and around a backdrop of tall firs that had withstood the wintery onslaught. They were the towering beneficiaries of Sugar Creek, a nearby offshoot of the Purgatory River.
A single corral, absent of men and horses, indicated the Circle G was—although second only to the Bar-O of the ranches surrounding Trinidad—a modest affair. Yet the ranch house itself belied that, a sprawling one-story adobe structure with a half-story, sloping faded-green roof that gave it stature, with matching shutters and, beneath the overhang, a colonnade. York had been inside when others lived here, and knew a courtyard lent the place a real hacienda feel. He’d been told Casa Guerrero dated to the 1830s when a Mexican cattle rancher had built it before the latest corrupt government sold the place out from under him to Americanos.
As York rode in past a cottonwood that shaded the house and seemed none the worse for wear from the rough winter, Byers—who had obviously been keeping watch for him—emerged from the house, the bookkeeper’s expression pleasant, almost friendly. As York tied the gelding up at the hitching post, Byers approached, coming down the two steps from the low-slung porch.
“You’re a man of your word,” Byers said, extending his hand. “Not that I’m surprised.”
They shook.
York asked, “How did your mistress take it?”
“She doesn’t show much in any situation. Any crying was behind closed doors. If she has anger toward you, she hasn’t shown it.... Step inside, won’t you, Sheriff? Mrs. Hammond is waiting in the library.”
York followed the bookkeeper into a world of low open-beamed ceilings, white walls, archways, dark finely crafted furnishings, and colorful Mexican throw carpets on polished wood floors, all much as York remembered from previous visits, with the only change the removal of paintings and statues of the Catholic faith in favor of landscapes of the American West.
As they moved through a living room, with a fireplace and overstuffed seating, York said, “I understand you’ve acted as a sort of advance man for Mrs. Hammond.”
“Yes, I’ve been here for a month or so. Putting things in order. And in motion.”
“Buying up some of the smaller spreads, I understand.”
Byers paused at a closed windowless door, vertically paneled oak and heavy looking. “In the aftermath of any tragedy, there are . . . opportunities. People need to sell out and move on. Other more . . . hearty, resilient souls are left to . . .” Byers searched for the word.
York grinned and said, “Take advantage?”
Byers’s smile was honest, anyway. “It’s the way of the world, Sheriff. I would imagine a man who has lived your rather storied life has no illusions otherwise.... Excuse me.”
Byers opened the door just enough to squeeze through, leaving it ajar as he said, “Mrs. Hammond, the sheriff is here.”
The response came immediately, and the voice was a throaty purr. “Send him in please, Alfred.”
Byers emerged with a mild smile, gestured with an open hand, and opened the door. Hat in hand, York stepped in and Byers closed the door behind the caller.
York found himself in what had been described as a library but was more a den. Two facing bookcases each hugged a side wall, not the built-in expectation, with eight shelves between them. The volumes, at a glance, seemed largely business oriented, although York did catch the spines of two novels—Ben-Hur by the territory’s former governor, and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn—both of which the sheriff (though not an avid reader) had made it through.
At the far end of the room hung a huge oil painting, a standing portrait that York recognized as the late Andrew Hammond, a tall, burly figure in muttonchops with a severe look and a firm jaw. He was dressed in a fine cutaway suit with cravat, but had been known to dress like a cowhand when among his men or out carousing.
York knew him only by reputation, though the stories and illustrations of him in the press were familiar to most in the West—certainly to every lawman, since Hammond’s sizable spread in Colorado was rumored—hell, was known—to have been built on stock rustled below the border by the Cowboys, the now-defunct criminal gang that the Earp brothers took on in Tombstone a few years before.
The white walls were otherwise taken up by even more Western landscapes, a few of which included Indian subjects; all had fancy gilded frames. An Oriental rug was flung on the polished wood floor at an odd angle, like a discarded flying carpet, but it managed to serve as a home for two comfortable black leather button-tufted chairs that faced a massive walnut desk with brass fittings, beautifully carved in the Spanish fashion.
The woman seated at the desk had features every bit as beautifully carved, her cheekbones high, her eyes large and so dark brown as to be almost black, her nose aquiline, her lips rather thin but with a lovely symmetry, the cleft between nose and upper lip well defined. The effect was that God
