A persistent pattern of operation had been established and invariably the raids had been timed to coincide with the availability of large sums of money. Such a time had come to Sentinel, as Fitz Moore had reason to know.
So, unless all his reasoning had failed, the town was marked for a raid within the next two hours. And he was marked for death.
Fitz Moore was a tall, spare man with a dark, narrow face and carefully trimmed mustache. Normally his face was still and cold, only his eyes seeming alive and aware.
As he entered the restaurant he removed his black, flat-crowned hat. His frock coat was unbuttoned offering easy access to the Smith & Wesson Russian .44. The gun was belted high and firmly on his left side just in front of his hipbone, butt to the right, holster at a slight angle.
Three men and two women sat at a long community table but only one murmured a greeting. Jack Thomas glanced up and said, “Good morning, Marshal,” his tone low and friendly.
Acknowledging the greeting, the marshal seated himself at the far end of the table and accepted the cup of coffee poured by the Chinese cook.
With his mind closed to the drift of conversation from the far end of the table, he considered the situation that faced him. His days began in the same identical manner, with a survey of the town from each of the six windows of his house. This morning he had seen the gray horse tied behind Peterson’s unused corral, where it would not be seen by a casual glance.
With field glasses the marshal examined the horse. It was streaked with the salt of dried sweat, evidence of hard riding. There were still some dark, damp spots indicating the horse had been ridden not long before, and the fact that it was still bridled and saddled indicated it would be ridden soon again. The brand was a Rocking R, not a local brand.
When Fitz Moore had returned to his living room he had seated himself and for an hour he read, occasionally glancing out of the window. The gray horse had not been moved in that time.
At eight when he left for breakfast the horse was still there, but by the time he had walked a block it was gone. And there lingered in the air a faint smell of dust.
Where was the horse?
Down the arroyo, of course, as it gave easy access to the forest and the mountain canyons where there was concealment and water. Taking into consideration the cool night, the sweat-streaked horse … not less than six miles to the point of rendezvous.
The rider of the gray had obviously been making a final check with a local source of information. To return to the rendezvous, discuss the situation and return, gave him roughly two hours, perhaps a bit more. He would deal in minimums.
The marshal lighted a cigar, accepted a fresh cup of coffee and leaned back in his chair. He was a man of simple tastes and many appreciations. He knew little of cattle and less of mining, but two things he did know. He knew guns and he knew men.
He was aware of the cool gray eyes of the young woman, the only person present whom he did not know by sight. There was about her a haunting familiarity that disturbed him. He tasted his coffee and glanced out the window. Reason warned him he should be suspicious of any stranger in town at such a time, yet every instinct told him he need not be suspicious of her.
The Emporium Bank would be open in about an hour. A few minutes later Barney Gard would leave his saloon and cross the street with the receipts from Saturday and Sunday. It could be a considerable sum.
The Emporium safe would be unlocked by that time and, as they had been accepting money from ranchers and dust from miners, there would be plenty of cash on hand. In approximately one hour there would be no less than twenty thousand dollars in spendable cash within easy reach of grasping fingers and ready guns.
The Henry gang would, of course, know this. By now they were in the saddle, leaving their camp.
He did not know the name of the stranger who played poker with the Catfish Kid, but he had known the face. It had been the face of a man he had seen in Tascosa with Fred Henry, the bandit leader, some two years ago. Tied to this was the fact that the Rocking R was a brand registered to one Harvey Danuser, alias Dick Mawson, the fastest gunhand in the Henry outfit.
He was suddenly aware that a question had been directed to him. “What would you do, Marshal,” Jack Thomas was asking, “if the Henry gang raided Sentinel?”
Fitz Moore glanced at the end of his cigar, then lifted his eyes to those of Jack Thomas. “I think,” he said mildly, “I should have to take steps.”
The marshal was not a precipitate man. Reputed to be both fast and accurate with a gun, he had yet to be proved locally. Once, not so long ago, he had killed the wrong man. He hoped never to make such a mistake again.
So far he had enforced the peace in Sentinel by shrewd judgment of character, appreciation of developing situations, and tactical moves that invariably left him in command. Authorized to employ an assistant, he had not done so. He preferred to work as he lived … alone.
He was, he acknowledged, but only to himself, a. lonely man. If he possessed any capacity for affection or friendship it had not been obvious to the people of Sentinel. Yet this was an added strength. No one presumed to take him lightly or expect favoritism.
Long ago he had been considered a brilliant conversationalist and, in a time when a cowboy’s saddlebags might carry a volume of the classics as often as Ned Buntline, he was known as a widely read man. He had been a captain in the cavalry of the United States, a colonel in a Mexican revolution, a shotgun messenger for Wells Fargo, and a division superintendent for the Butterfield Stage Line.
Naturally, he knew of the Henry gang. They had been operating for several years but only of late had they shown a tendency to shoot first and talk later. This seemed to indicate that at least one of the gang had become a ruthless killer.
Three marshals had been killed recently, each one shot in the back, an indication that a modus operandi had been established. First kill the marshal, then rob the town. With the marshal out of action it was unlikely resistance could be organized before the outlaws had escaped.
Fitz Moore dusted the ash from his cigar. He thought the gray horse had been standing long enough to let the sweat dry, which meant the horse had been ridden into town before daybreak. At that hour everything was closed and he had seen nobody on the street, and that seemed to indicate the rider had gone in somewhere. And that meant he not only knew where to go at that hour but that he would be welcomed.
So the Henry gang had an accomplice in Sentinel. When the rider of the gray horse left town that accomplice had undoubtedly been awake. With a raid imminent it was unlikely he would risk going back to sleep. What more likely place for him to be than right in this cafe? Here he could not only see who was around but would have a chance to judge the temper of the marshal.
Had anyone entered before he arrived? Fitz Moore knew everyone in the room except the girl with the gray eyes. She was watching him now.
Each of the others had a reason to be here at this hour. Barney Gard had opened his saloon and left it to the ministrations of his swamper. Jack Thomas directed the destinies of the livery stable. Johnny Haven, when he wasn’t getting drunk and trying to tree the town, was a hardworking young cowhand and thoroughly trustworthy.
The older of the two women present was Mary Jameson, a plump and gossipy widow, the town’s milliner, dressmaker, and Niagara of conversation.
When she finished her breakfast she would walk three doors down the street and open her shop.
But what of the girl with the gray eyes? Her face was both delicate and strong, her hair dark and lovely, and she had an air of being to the manor born. Perhaps it was because she did possess that air, like someone from the marshal’s own past, that she seemed familiar. And also, he thought reluctantly, she was just the sort of girl —
It was too late now, and there was no use thinking of it. He was not fool enough to believe there could be any such girl for him now. Not after all these years.