The rain turned the road into mud the consistency of oatmeal and made the stones alongside slippery, so there was no good place for a horse to walk. Putney’s horse, splattered with mud to the barrel, stumbled a little and broke stride. He swore at it, booting it in the flanks so that it hurried forward a few steps before resuming its plodding pace. A gust of wind flung rain into Putney’s face and he swore at that, too. He had been swearing a lot since leaving Corinne a couple of days ago: at the weather, his horse, the morons he met along the way who couldn’t remember seeing two men and a boy, one of them driving a wagon. Mostly he swore at Dove Ed, Tom Mulvehill and their friend whatever his name was, bitter oaths and promises of what he would do to them when he caught them up.
Riding away from the ranch with Sloan’s money in his pocket and Sloan’s pistols on his belt, Putney imagined the looks on the faces of Tom and the others when he shot them dead, and the idea made him smile. Approaching Corinne, his smile faded. Those three might be anywhere, in town or out, and it wouldn’t do to come upon them accidentally, maybe have them get the drop on him. And if they had left town already, no telling where they might have got to. He rode into town cautiously, looking for the wagon, for Tom, for Dove Ed, or for Tom’s lean friend, seeing no sign of any of them. With no better plan he headed for Haney’s Saloon.
Putney took care to look the place over from outside, though the wagon wasn’t there and the horses out front seemed familiar enough. Pushing through the doors, he stopped just inside and scanned the room, hands near his holsters. The hour was drawing late and the saloon filling up, but the men he sought were not among the customers. Instead it was the usual mix of working men ending their day with a meal and wealthier men come to talk business. Putney shouldered his way to the bar and motioned to Merle Haney.
“Evening, Jacob,” Haney said. “What can I get you?”
“Nothing, Merle. I’m looking for that kitchen boy of yours. Seen him?”
“Dove Ed?” Haney shook his head, a frown pursing his jowly face. “That lazy Mick son of a bitch disappeared three days ago without a word, left me with no one to wash dishes. Stole some whiskey, too. I checked the storeroom, and I’m short about six bottles.”
“Thieving bastard,” said Putney. He knew full well that Dove Ed had only stolen one bottle, but what did he care if Haney sold a few off the back porch and blamed the little potato-eater? “Tell you what, when I catch up to him I’ll take it out of his hide for you.”
Merle Haney grinned at the thought. “Much obliged, Jacob. But what do you want him for? What’s he done?”
“Not him. He’s with two fellows, one tall and thin, the other stout. They cheated me at cards, so I plan to ask them for my money back.”
“Was they driving a wagon and team from Sloan’s ranch?” someone said next to him. Putney and Haney glanced over to see a man dressed in carpenter’s coveralls looking at them.
“You seen them?” Putney said.
“I seen three boys like you said, a tall one, a heavy one and a kid, loading a wagon from Sloan’s,” the carpenter said. “Caught my eye, they did, ‘cause they was busting up the iron cage from the bank.”
“They what?”
The carpenter nodded. “My feelings exactly,” he said. “I asked what the hell they was up to, and they said they’d bought the vault door from Levi Dobson. ‘What for?’ I says, and the heavy one, the older guy says, ‘We’re starting our own bank.’”
“Did he say where?”
“You know, I asked him that. He says, ‘Wherever we put the door.’ Which I took to mean, mind your own business.”
Putney’s eyes narrowed as he thought it over. It sounded like Tom Mulvehill all right, the sly know-it-all son of a bitch. For the life of him he couldn’t think what they wanted with the vault door from a burnt-down bank, but he decided he didn’t care. If they were driving a wagon burdened by several hundred pounds of iron they wouldn’t be moving quickly. Even with three days head start they couldn’t have gotten far. He turned back to the carpenter.
“Did you see which way they went?” he said.
That was his first lucky break; the carpenter had watched them drive north out of Corinne. Following them, it occurred to Putney how lucky it was that no one had noticed him wearing Sloan’s pistols. That would have led to some uncomfortable questions for sure. He settled down for the ride, confident that in a day or two he’d catch them on the road and take care of things once and for all.
Now, three days later, that confidence had ebbed away. The rain that soaked him seemed to have washed his luck clean off. No one on the road remembered seeing the three men or the wagon, not even the proprietors of the stage stations and trading posts along the way, where Tom and his gang almost surely stopped for supplies or a meal. Putney began to swear and hadn’t stopped since.
His first sight of Malad City
With gray drizzle falling from gray clouds, Malad City
“You can get a good drink in any of them,” the groom said. “But Owens and Price there is closest, and they serve a decent steak.”
Putney slogged up the street, staying to the edges to avoid the morass created by passing horses and wagons, before mounting the board sidewalk in front of the saloon. As he used the boot scraper by the door, he peered through the glass windows set in it, trying to spy his quarry. Though several tables were taken, he didn’t think he’d suddenly gotten lucky, and he was right. He recognized none of the patrons. Putney pushed open the door and went in.
The place felt warm and smelled of whiskey and cooking food, a welcome change from the chill mist outside. Putney deposited his bags on an unoccupied table and peeled off his wet gloves. He noted dispassionately the doorway on the side that led through to the bank. He still had over a thousand dollars of Sloan’s money in his pocket, but it never hurt to make plans in advance should there come a day of need. With who knew how many armed men in the saloon at any given time, robbing the bank was probably a losing proposition, but with a big enough crew…
Putney shrugged off his slicker and draped it over a chair, then turned toward the bar at the back of the room, where a mustachioed geezer stood looking at him expectantly. “Care for a drink, sir?” he said when Putney caught his eye.
“Hell yes,” said Putney. “Whiskey, any kind, and something hot to eat.”
The barkeep nodded and went to the door beside the bar, holding it open just enough to call for food. Then he poured a drink and placed it in front of Putney. Putney slid his hand past it and lifted it to show a ten-dollar gold coin beneath, then raised his eyebrows at the geezer, who looked at the coin, then at Putney.
“Was there something else you wanted, sir?” he said in a level tone.
“I’m looking for three men,” Putney said. “Friends of mine. This is just the sort of place they’d stop for a drink, and I wondered if you seen ‘em.” The geezer crossed his arms over his chest and nodded, bidding him continue. “An older fellow, sort of stout through the chest; a taller one, kind of scruffy; and a kid, maybe fifteen or sixteen.”
The bartender stroked his mustaches, considering the money and its source. He had still to answer when the kitchen door swung open and a girl came out carrying a bowl of stew and a plate of rolls, which she set on the bar at Putney’s elbow. He looked her over, and she was good to look at, young and pretty but not shy or weak. She didn’t drop her gaze or flutter her eyelashes, but regarded him squarely and said, “Would you care for anything else, sir?”
Putney’s drooping eyelid opened wide, and he grinned at the girl. She took a step backwards and glanced over at the old geezer. “You sure got a pretty voice,” Putney said. “My friend, the younger fellow, had a way of talking just like that.”
“A fair few around here do, sir,” said the girl.
The geezer spoke up. “This gentleman is looking for three friends of his: a boy, a tall man, and a heavyset man. He hasn’t got around to telling me their names.”
“Dove Ed is the boy’s name and Tom Mulvehill is the heavyset man. They’re riding with a third fellow. Don’t recall his name. It’s important I find them.”
“We’ve seen them in here,” said the geezer.
The girl said, quickly, “But not for days. They said they had a mind to do some prospecting. In Montana
“That a fact. When’d they leave?”
The girl looked at the old man. He squinted at the ceiling, thinking. “They came in three days ago, I believe. Had themselves quite a party, slept it off over at Peck’s Hotel and left the next day.”
“Ain’t seen them since,” said the girl.
Putney nodded and reached out with his right hand to pat the ten-dollar piece on the bar. “Much obliged,” he said. “That’s for you.”
The girl looked to the old man for approval, and he nodded his head at the coin. “Thank you,” she said, and moved to pick it up.
Putney moved quicker. As her fingers closed on the heavy gold coin, his hand flashed out and took hers by the wrist. Reflexively she pulled back, but he didn’t let go. She squeaked in protest. The old geezer said, “Now, here!” and flapped his hands at Putney, who ignored him.
“What’s your name, sweetness?” Putney said.
“Let me go!”
“I said, what’s your name.” When their eyes met, she went still as a stone.
“Alice
“I like you, Alice. You been real helpful. Just promise me one thing. If you see my friends, don’t mention you saw me, huh? I’d rather surprise ‘em.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
Putney released her arm and she drew it back, cradling her wrist. She turned away and hastened into the kitchen without looking behind her. The old geezer said, “Mister, why don’t you find someplace else to do your drinking?”
Putney picked up the spoon beside the bowl of stew. He said, “I paid handsomely for this stew; I intend to eat it.”
“No. You intend to go someplace else.” The iron in the old man’s voice brought Putney’s gaze up from his meal. He found himself looking down the wide bore of a shotgun, the barrel filed off short. A single barrel, but standing as he was less than a yard from Putney, the geezer could hardly miss, and one shot would be more than sufficient. Putney could hear the customers in the saloon scrambling to be sure they weren’t behind him.
He put the spoon down. “Little Alice
The geezer shook his head, but the muzzle of the shotgun never wavered. “Way I see it, you offered her ten dollars as an apology. She accepted, and that’s why you’re not dead already. Now get out of here.”
Putney backed off, holding his hands away from his sides. He retrieved his slicker and his bags from the table, giving the geezer’s stare back to him, then spun and strode out of the saloon. On the sidewalk he paused long enough to don the slicker. Across the street he could see Peck’s Hotel and headed that way, back into the rain and mud. As he went he made up his mind: after he found Tom Mulvehill he would come back and rob that bank, and when he did he was going to kill that old geezer, just for laughs.
Inside Peck’s Hotel, Putney wasted no banter on the desk clerk. As he checked in he said, “I’m looking for three men came in here a few days ago, pretty drunk. One named Tom Mulvehill, a boy named Dove Ed, and another guy. You know who I mean?”
Putney took it for granted that Alice and the geezer had lied to him about Montana Malad City
The clerk, a skinny yokel wearing a tattered waistcoat and a vacant expression, thought it over long enough that Putney repeated, “You know who I mean?”
“Yeah, they was in.”
Putney waited, expecting more. “And?”
“They was pretty drunk.”
Putney thought that blowing the yokel’s head off would not help the situation much, but he was tempted nonetheless. “Are they still here?”
“Nope.”
“When did they leave?”
“’Bout noon.”
Gritting his teeth, Putney said, “I mean what day did they leave?”
“The next day.”
“Did they say where they were going?”
“Nope.” Putney pushed away from the counter, swearing under his breath. He almost missed it as the clerk added, “But I can guess.”
“Oh yeah?”
The clerk’s head bobbed on his skinny neck like a prairie hen pecking for seeds. “They was talking about supplies, so I guess they went to the Co-op or Vanderwood’s Store.”
Stomping down the hotel steps, Putney mentally added the clerk to the list of people he would shoot when he came back to rob the bank.
An hour later his list had grown long indeed. It included two ranch hands who rode by at a fast clip, splattering him with mud from the street; a matronly woman buying sugar at the Co-op who chatted with the shopkeeper while Putney fumed and waited his turn; and the shopkeeper and other employees of the Co-op who didn’t even remember selling supplies to Tom and his crew. Putney bought a box of cartridges for his revolver from the Co-op with the idea that he would return the bullets to each of them personally.
Soaking wet and hungry, he went into Vanderwood’s Store, already putting proprietor A.E. Vanderwood at the bottom of the list, just to save time. To the inquiring gaze of the storekeeper, Putney said, “You seen a boy name of Dove Ed or a man name of Tom Mulvehill two days ago, maybe sell them supplies?” He looked around the inside of the general store at the assortment of tools, clothes, and foodstuffs on display, paying little heed to the man behind the counter, who judging from the fellow’s fastidious appearance and graying hair was none other than A.E. Vanderwood himself.
“Dove Ed Williams?” the man said. “Sure, he was here.”
Putney smiled, all discomforts and slights forgotten for the moment. “That a fact?” he said. “Alone, or…?”
“No, there was a couple fellows with him,” said Vanderwood. “They friends of yours?”
“That’s right. I been trying to catch up to them the last few days. We’re throwing in together, doing some prospecting, but my mount went lame and I fell behind. Did they say where they might be headed?”
Vanderwood shook his head. “They bought some tools and provisions, and I thought maybe they planned to work Williams’ old farm together, but they said they were after gold.” He shrugged. “I told them they’d do better in Montana or maybe Idaho City
Putney said, “Williams’ farm? Dove Ed has a place near here?”
“His father’s old place, out Samaria
“How might I find it?”
In the gathering dusk, Putney left the store with vague directions to Hugh Williams’ farm and a fresh sense of purpose. Tonight he would look for a decent meal and a drink in some establishment other than Owens and Price Saloon, then he would have a restful night’s sleep before setting out for Samaria
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