He got up. “Sorry, ma’am.”
She did not reply.
He started to leave, then turned and seated himself where he could watch the street outside. She had made him feel a fool, and it was not a feeling he liked. Her story was perfectly logical. Of course, every really smart crook he had ever known had a good cover story. He had heard them discussed on a number of occasions. They had considered him as one of them and talked freely. Yet he couldn’t see anything he could get a handle on. One thing he had neglected to ask: where was she staying? No doubt she had a good answer for that, too.
The waiter brought his coffee and he stared out toward the street. Suppose he himself was planning such an operation, how would he bring it off? By involving as few people as possible, so there would be less chance of loose talk. And keeping those few out of sight until they made their move, or else by using people who had a reason for being around town. The plotters, if there were any, would want to make their move, as Barrett believed, just when Vince Patterson hit town.
Shanaghy swore softly and the girl glanced his way. It had suddenly occurred to him that they must know exactly when that cash shipment was to arrive, and that meant they had somebody on the inside at one end or the other. How would they do it? They might strike just as the stuff was brought from the train, move in quietly, knock out or strangle the guards, and reload the stuff on the train to be taken off at some point further along. That would be one way. Another would be to have a rig standing by, or a wagon, and load the money on and move out while the shooting was in progress. Undoubtedly those ranchers who were in town would try to get away, and they could simply go with them.
There was still another way. Arrange to hide it right in town until the shooting was over, and until people had stopped looking for it. If they should hide it in town … where? And how could they get it away, or be sure of getting it away, during the fighting they would expect to take place? The way Shanaghy saw it was that the money must be taken right from the depot.
If not on the train, then by a rig … but taken where? There would be immediate pursuit when the robbery was discovered … or would there? Who would be apt to pursue? Who would first realize the gold was missing? Suppose … just suppose there was no one who knew the gold was due to arrive? Carpenter, Holstrum and Greenwood all knew, but supposing that during the fight they were killed or otherwise put out of action? If that were to happen the thieves might have several days in which to disappear. If those men were marked for death, then he would also be on such a list. When would these killings be carried out? Either at the time or just before the robbery, and probably under cover of the Vince Patterson raid on the town. Suppose somebody actually riding with Patterson was involved? The cowman had taken on some gun-hands for this trip north, and among them might be one or more men involved in the theft.
As Shanaghy considered all that might happen, a rider approached outside and dismounted across the street and one door further along. He dismounted stiffly as if he had been riding for some distance. He whipped the dust from his clothes with his hat and then turned to loosen his cinch. As he did so, another man crossed the street to the walk just beyond the rider and turned to walk past him. It was George.
When near the cowhand, George paused to light a cigar, and for a moment his hands were cupped around the match. Was he speaking? After a moment he shook out a match and dropped it, then walked on.
Off to his left where the young woman sat, Shanaghy heard a cup click hard against a saucer, as though it had been put down with some impatience or anger. Shanaghy turned and looked at her, smiling. Her lips tightened and she turned her eyes from his. She was angry, without a doubt. He glanced around again. The rider was walking toward Greenwood’s. His horse wore a-p-connected brand … one of those used by Vince Patterson. When Shanaghy looked back, the girl was gone. A moment later he heard the click of her heels on the boardwalk. He got up, leaving money on the table, and went outside.
Who was the rider? Had he actually spoken to George? Had the girl been angry because it all happened while he, Shanaghy, was watching? Was the rider a messenger? If so, from whom? Did Patterson know he had come? Shanaghy hesitated, then turned toward Greenwood’s. No guns were to be worn in town, he had said. Well, that meant now.
Or was this man merely a bait for a trap? Perhaps today was the day they meant to eliminate him. Tom Shanaghy had served too long with Morrissey not to suspect such things.
If this man was bait, there would be others around. They would not be likely to trust such a job to one man alone, unless he was very, very good. Even then they would have someone else. They would want some insurance. Which meant another marksman.
Would that be George?
For several minutes Shanaghy sat still, thinking it over. Wherever the girl had gone it was not to the street, for she had not appeared there. He finished his coffee and went back through the kitchen and out the back door-but only after a careful glance up and down to see if anyone lurked there. At the corner of a building, he hesitated, looking around it toward the saloon. From there, he had a good view of the swinging doors. This rider was from Patterson’s outfit and he had issued his ultimatum to them … no guns in town. Now this man had ridden in wearing his guns … Was it a test? A direct challenge?
Or maybe the man had gone to the saloon to hang up his guns?
If not, the challenge must be met, and he would meet it now. From inside the saloon the patrons could see up and down the street, but approaching the building indirectly, Shanaghy could be crossing the street before they saw him. He was in the middle of the street and walking fast before he glimpsed the two horses tied in the alleyway beside Holstrum’s store, and then he was going up the steps and into the saloon. Two strangers sat at a table on the right side of the saloon. The Patterson rider was at the bar. Greenwood looked up and directly at him, but he said nothing.
Shanaghy walked to the bar. “Sorry, cowboy,” he said, smiling, “while you’re in town you will have to hang up the guns. Mr. Greenwood will take them for you.” “Hang up my guns?” the cowhand took a half step back. “You want my guns, you got to take them!”
The man was ready, and so were the other two. “Oh, well,” Shanaghy replied cheerfully, “if you feel that way about it.” He turned away and to the bar, as if no longer caring.
Frustrated in his attempt to start a fight, the cowhand let his hands fall away from his guns, and Shanaghy hit him.
It was a smashing backhand blow to the mouth, yet no sooner had the blow struck than Shanaghy’s hand dropped to the cowhand’s shoulder and grabbed him by the collar. Shanaghy jerked the man into a wicked left hook to the belly. Flipping the man around with his back to Shanaghy, the marshal flipped his guns from the twin holsters, covering the two men at the table. “Get up!” he spoke sharply, but cooly. “Get up and unfasten your gunbelts!”
“Look here! You got no call to-!”
“Now,” Shanaghy shoved the gasping cowboy toward them, rearing back both hammers. The clicks of the cocking hammers were loud in the room.
“All right,” the shorter man said, “looks like you got-“
He drew, and Tom Shanaghy shot him through the tobacco tag hanging from his shirt pocket. The man went down, and the left-handed gun was on the other. His face yellow and sick-looking, the second man slowly, carefully, lifted his hands.
“Put ‘em down,” Shanaghy said, “and let go your gunbelt. If you feel lucky, you just play the fool like your partner did.”
He shoved the cowhand he had grabbed over to the table. The cowhand was grasping his side, a pained expression on his face. “Damn you!” he said. “You busted a rib!”
“Only one? That punch is usually good for three. My best day it was five, but he was coming at me.”