She opened the sliding door, and the older of the men stood, offering her a seat.
She said thank you, but she wanted to stretch her legs.
Kathryn reached into her purse, grabbed her little cigarette case and lighter, and had a bit of difficulty in the wind. The men didn’t talk, just watched the snaking tracks, wheels groaning and scraping under them until the path righted again and they headed due north, the hard earth and parched farms flickering past. The night was as clear as could be, and the stars looked like a million winking diamonds.
“Where you men headed?” she asked.
“ Kansas City,” said the younger man, who hadn’t offered his seat.
The older man wore a cowboy hat and smoked a pipe. He got off his seat again and removed his hat. “ Chicago,” he said.
“Not traveling together?”
“No, ma’am,” he said. “Just passing the time with a friendly drink.”
“Would you like some?” asked the other man, and he got to his feet, using the rail for support. He seemed a bit nervous and a little drunk. But she as hell recognized him as Mr. E. E. Kirkpatrick of Tom Slick Enterprises. Two Gladstone bags lay side by side.
She turned her head and said no thank you, stepping back from the platform into shadow. The sound and vibration of the train coming up into her feet made her knees a bit weak. There was something about the old man that she didn’t trust or like, and, when the train stopped in Arcadia, he got up to stretch, looking across to Kirkpatrick, who shook his head. The old man wore wire-framed cheaters and a gun on his hip. He was old but had the look of the law written across his wide face.
She told the men good night and crawled off onto the platform, looking for the number George had scrawled on a matchbook from the Blackstone Hotel…
“THIS IS WHERE MR. SLICK DRILLED HIS FIRST WELL,” E. E. Kirkpatrick said as the
“You don’t say.”
“I wasn’t with him then,” Kirkpatrick said, taking a sizable swallow, still trying to calm his nerves. “But I know Mr. Slick had some trouble getting leases. Bought space up in the local paper and even joined the Masonic lodge. But he said Tryon people were the most stubborn folks he’d ever met, and he’d had to pull up stakes before they knew he meant business.”
“You might want to slow down with the liquor, partner,” Jones said.
“My hand is steady,” Kirkpatrick said. “My reflexes agile. The drink just keeps the perception a bit more keen.”
Jones nodded and drank some coffee. The dawn focused to the east in a dull, gray light, and the old man stretched his legs and studied the porters hauling suitcases and trunks into the baggage car. The car door rolled to a heavy slam, and the steam engine started up again with the conductor’s whistle.
“Mr. Slick always got what he wanted,” Kirkpatrick said. “He did. Yes, sir. He said he wanted to be a millionaire and didn’t rest till he was the King.”
“And so Tryon made him a millionaire?” Jones said.
“They blasted every hole with nitroglycerin to shake her loose but ended up with nothing but dusters.”
Kirkpatrick grinned a bit to himself and chuckled and took another nip of whiskey, staring straight down the line of tracks from where they’d come, his mind settling on a place that was solid and familiar. He patted the Gladstone bag as he stood. But when he reached for the flask again, Jones pulled it from his hand and tucked it into his coat pocket.
“After the deal, Kirk,” Jones said. “C’mon, let’s get you some coffee.” The black locomotive steamed and chugged on through Tulsa and over the Cimarron River, taking a hard, clanging turn north. Tulsa’s factories bellowing with smoke and the refineries spewing fire soon faded into the lonely glow of old farmhouses and quiet little towns-Bartlesville, Dewey, Coffeyville, and Parsons. Storefronts all shut up with planks over windows and doors. FOR SALE signs across vacant lots and farms. But nothing of the signal. Not even the smell of a fire on the horizon. The old negro porter found the men drinking coffee and smoking in silence as the train jarred to its final stop-the fifty-first from Oklahoma City-and he stood next to them nodding as the Katy’s tracks converged with dozens in a wide, sprawling maze of steel and crushed granite. When Jones peered around toward the engine, he could just make out the big cathedral shape of Union Station coming into view.
“They said for me to come alone,” Kirkpatrick said.
“And we’ll comply.”
“I can handle this.”
“Don’t feel like taking chances on a Sunday.”
“You didn’t have to take away my liquor,” Kirkpatrick said. “Got cold back here.”
“Least eighty degrees.”
“Perhaps we should take two cabs to the Muehlebach?”
“I’ll stay close,” Jones said, holding on to the rail and looking east to a bright sunrise. “These folks are having some fun making us jump through hoops.”
Jones followed Kirkpatrick through the long beams of lights across the marble floors, train schedules being read over the public address, and right through the front doors he’d taken with Joe Lackey what seemed like years ago. In his mind, he still kept the picture of old Sheriff Reed and that young agent chewed up and bleeding to death on the street.
He arrived at the Muehlebach Hotel minutes later and found the house phone so he could be connected to “Mr. Kincaid.” There were potted palms and brass spittoons, sofas as large as beds. Gentlemen and ladies all spoke to one another like they were in a library, and near the registration desk a fella with greased hair played a grand piano. Kirkpatrick finally answered and gave Jones his room number. “Make sure no one sees you.”
“I didn’t figure on being announced.”
Two hours later, the men got a knock on the door. A postal telegram read UNAVOIDABLE INCIDENT KEPT ME FROM SEEING YOU LAST NIGHT. WILL COMMUNICATE ABOUT 6 O’CLOCK.-E. E. MOORE
11
A hand shook Charlie Urschel awake sometime in the middle of the night, him knowing it was night because he’d heard the second plane pass overhead and on account of asking the boy the time every time he’d heard it. He couldn’t see or feel his arm but heard the distinctive click of the chains and felt his dead arm
