The Inheritance (25 page)
McKenna Ashford had certainly given him no encouragement to hope for anything more, and his being in Copper Creek wouldn’t guarantee anything. But there was something there. He’d sensed it when he was with her. Or else his imagination was deceiving him. ’Course, she’d turned him down for dinner, so that didn’t bode well.
He wasn’t going to push things with her, but if their paths happened to cross again somewhere down the road—something inside him softened at the thought, and he felt a smile—he might just be open to that. He wasn’t against “helping” their paths cross either. Sometimes things needed a little nudge.
Another bullet whizzed past him. Up around the roofline.
“Polk, we’ve been at this for two hours,” he yelled, inching out from behind the building. He fired and Polk’s hat went flying. He heard Polk cussing.
“You did that to my last hat, Marshal! This one’s brand new! I just broke it in!”
“You’re trapped, Polk. Walk on out of there, and I’ll tell the Denver judge you were civil about things. They might go a little easier on you this time.”
“I don’t know, Marshal. I’m thinkin’ I can make it out. I made it clear of Denver, didn’t I?”
“There’s a rock wall behind you, Polk. You’re not going anywhere!” Growing weary of the back-and-forth, Wyatt fired two more shots to keep Polk pinned down, and then skirted the mound of scrub brush. He’d tracked Grady Polk from Copper Creek all the way to Boulder, and as Polk left the brothel this afternoon, he’d been waiting for him.
What Wyatt hadn’t counted on was the owner of the livery yelling a big hello across the street to someone at that same minute. Polk had spotted him, and the game was afoot.
A good distance from the mining shack where he’d been, Wyatt fired another shot at the rock where Polk was holed up. But lower this time. An experienced gunman would have known Wyatt was on the move, but not Grady Polk.
Polk’s specialty was knife fighting. Wyatt had seen two corpses of men unfortunate enough to have drawn knives with Polk. So while he knew the man couldn’t shoot a fish in a barrel, he held a high amount of respect for Polk’s “talent,” and the man’s earnest desire not to return to jail any time soon.
“Why don’t you just come on out from behind that fancy badge of yours, Marshal, and we’ll talk things through. Man to man. I’ll even let you choose—guns or knives.” Polk had a high-pitched laugh that carried for miles. Made tracking the man a little easier.
Wyatt spotted him, fifteen feet away. Polk’s back was to him. Polk kept peering above the rock, watching the mining shack. It wouldn’t take him much longer to realize Wyatt wasn’t there anymore.
Wyatt readied his gun. “Polk!”
The man turned and Wyatt fired. Polk’s pistol went flying.
The man cussed a blue streak and rolled on the ground, holding his hand. “I told you before, I
hate
it when you do that! Takes me a week to shake off the sting!”
“Be glad you still have your hand.” Wyatt gestured. “The knives . . .”
Feigned innocence swept Polk’s expression.
Wyatt cocked his gun.
Polk pulled a knife from his left sleeve and dropped it, then his right. One from his belt and another from inside his boot. Wyatt waved the gun again, and Polk scowled and pulled a ten-inch curved blade from his back waistband.
Wyatt approached, cautious. “That all of them?”
“Why don’t you come on over here and find out, Marshal Caradon.”
“I’m not of the mind to play games with you, Polk. I’ll shoot you, if you choose to go that route. But I don’t want to.”
“Didn’t stop you from shootin’ Slater’s kid brother, now did it?” He spit a dark stream. “That’s what I hear anyway.”
Mention of the boy soured Wyatt’s mood even further. He gestured. “Down on the ground.”
Polk was a wiry little man, but he was fast and made up in speed what he lacked in muscle. “Mind if I get my pack right over here? It’s got some special things from my mama in it.”
“I’ll get your pack. Down on the ground. Now!” Wyatt knew that pack no more contained items from Polk’s mother as it did a stash of gold.
Polk lay facedown on the ground, legs spread wide and arms behind his back. Wyatt bound his wrists and helped him up. Keeping an eye on the man, he gathered the pack and the knives. Two of the blades probably cost more than Wyatt made in six months.
“If you wouldn’t spend so much on knives, Polk, you wouldn’t have to rob so many stores.”
“A man’s gotta have somethin’ he loves, Marshal. And I love knives.”
Wyatt whistled for Whiskey, who came trotting from over behind the shack. Gun trained on Polk, Wyatt swung into the saddle. Polk stayed a few feet in front of him—he knew the routine by now.
They made the Boulder jail in about a half an hour. A deputy met them at the door.
Wyatt glanced inside. “Sheriff Tanner in?”
“No sir, Marshal, he’s not. He’s over
at Lou’s having some lunch. He’ll be back in a while.”
Wyatt hesitated, not knowing this particular deputy but thinking the boy was nearly of age to start shaving. These guys seemed to be getting younger all the time. Or he was getting older.
“I can take him for you, Marshal. I’ve got a cell open right here.” The deputy drew his gun.
Wyatt stared at the jail cell a few feet beyond, then at the young deputy, sizing him up. He seemed eager but capable. Wyatt finally nodded. “Much obliged. I’ll stop back by before I leave town to see Tanner. And be careful. The man’s fond of sharp objects, knives especially.”
Wyatt was back on his horse when he heard the crash. He made it through the door in time to see Polk wielding what looked to be a letter opener. The deputy had a fresh cut across his left cheek. But to his credit, he was up and fighting.
Polk stabbed at the deputy again, lightning fast, and got him across the back of the hand. He turned toward Wyatt. “I’m not of the mind to mark you up, Marshal. I’ll do it though, if you choose to go that route. But I ain’t wantin’ to,” Polk said, repeating Wyatt’s earlier threat, laughing high-pitched and squeaky at his own joke.
“You want me to shoot him, Marshal? I can! I’m ready!” The deputy cocked his gun, then turned and looked at Wyatt.
Wyatt saw it in Polk’s eyes. And knew the deputy didn’t.
Wyatt drew his gun as Polk grabbed the deputy’s hand that held the pistol. Polk aimed it at Wyatt, and fired.
Wyatt dove behind a desk and the back of his head met a sharp edge. He felt a flash of pain and a warm gush as a second shot landed somewhere in the wall a foot from him. His head screamed and Wyatt knew he’d busted his skull open.
He heard scuffling, then heard the deputy cry out. Taking a breath, he prayed, and rose up on one knee.
With vicious delight in his face, Polk raised the letter opener and brought it down, aiming straight for the deputy’s gut. Wyatt fired. Polk fell back, eyes round with shock. He clutched his right hand, or what was left of it.
“You shot me, you—”
Wyatt dragged Polk by his good arm, threw him in the cell, and locked it up, with Polk kicking and screaming the entire time.
Polk had sliced the deputy on the jaw and on his hand. But thank God, nowhere else. Wyatt knelt beside him and leveled his gaze. “Never . . . never . . .
never
take your eyes off the prisoner, son.”
Tears rose in the deputy’s eyes. “Yes sir, Marshal. I’m real sorry.”
Wyatt clasped his shoulder and helped him up. The young man swiped at his tears, obviously embarrassed.
“And don’t you be ashamed of those either. We see the worst that goes on in this world, and those’ll help keep you from getting hardened to it.”
He nodded. “Yes sir, Marshal.”
“Now you go fetch the doc.” Wyatt fingered the back of his head and came away with blood. “Tell him he’s got three patients who need his attention.”
The deputy closed the door behind him, and as Polk still raged and cursed and cried, Wyatt thought of the telegram in his pocket—and of her—and held on to that hope.
L
ate the next afternoon, an hour out of Copper Creek, Wyatt urged Whiskey onto a side trail that wound upward some seven hundred feet to the town of Severance—site to one of the biggest gold strikes in Colorado history.
Caves surrounding Severance had shown more gold to men plumbing the mountain’s depths than any others. But that was years ago, and since that time, the mountain—if she had anything left to give—had been holding back. Rumor in recent months was that she was reawakening, hinting at color even richer than before. And the almost-forgotten town of Severance was being birthed again. That wasn’t necessarily a good thing.
Severance was rough, even by Colorado standards, and drew the kind of men Wyatt usually kept in his sights, which was why he was headed that direction. The Marshals Office listed Severance as a town involved in a gambling ring, along with Bixby and Copper Creek, and his meeting with one of the higher-ups in Boulder that morning had shed new light on the assignment.
Gambling was a lucrative business, and the Marshals Office had no intention of trying to shut it down. That’d be like holding back an ocean. Their focus was narrower in scope. They were after the key conspirators in the ring, the handful of men who had orchestrated the robberies.
Wyatt guided Whiskey around a larger boulder in the path.
A man by the name of Brinks owned a fleet of stages used for transporting money and valuable goods across the mountains, and to towns on the plains. After numerous robberies, Mr. Brinks approached the Marshals Office about investigating the incidents, which they’d been obliged to do—seeing as the two men killed in the last incident were two of their own. Wyatt had known the marshals. They were good men. Or had been.
His visit to Severance today was more for scouting, seeing what and who was here. He’d been to Severance twice before, and had been warned by his superiors to keep a low profile, as he typically did at this stage of an investigation. No one knew his occupation in Severance, that he knew of, and the Marshals Office had made it clear it was to stay that way. If he lost that advantage, the chance of finding the men responsible for the crimes was slim to none. And like his superiors, he was eager to see justice meted out, before anyone else was killed.
He’d been given no names yet, no arrests were to be made. Right now, he only wanted to get something to eat and down a cool drink to ease the ache in his head, then he’d start scouting the place.
The winding trail opened into the main—and, only—thoroughfare in Severance. Clapboard buildings and shacks lined the road, most either built adjacent to the other, or sharing common walls that looked weary of shouldering the load. With few exceptions, the structures housed saloons, brothels, or the larger and more lucrative gaming halls—which typically offered both gambling and “comfort,” as it was called. The places were open for business all hours. And were always busy.
As he rode, Wyatt gently probed the back of his scalp, feeling the prick of stitches. A good bit of the swelling had gone down, but the gash was still tender. And would be—the doc had said yesterday—for quite a while. The young deputy in Boulder would bear the scars from his run-in with Grady Polk for the rest of his life, but at least he still had his life.
With that in mind, Wyatt tethered Whiskey in front of Clell’s Eatery. He spotted the same red-and-white checkered curtains framing the splintered glass window from the time before. “
Providin’ the boys with a touch of home
,” is what Clell Watson, the proprietor, had said when Wyatt commented on the curtains his last time through.
Clell’s daily special was the same as before. It consisted of a plateful of beans, a generous portion of venison, and buttered cornbread, and was as filling as it was tasty. Wyatt ate it, grateful, and left Clell Watson a tip that showed his appreciation.
Back outside, he stared up into the night sky and took in a lungful of cool mountain air. How could a place he didn’t hail from feel so much like home?
He started down the street, taking the town in, when a shout coming from a gaming hall next door drew his attention. It wasn’t so much the familiar voice as it was what the fellow had said. Wyatt paused—listened again—and bowed his head. It couldn’t be. Not all the way up here.