The Fire of Greed Page 2

  “His name is Griffith,” the stranger said, handing Richardson a folded piece of paper.

  “So I see,” Richardson said, comparing the picture and description on the wanted poster to the man lying on his table. “Healed scar in the shape of a V on the left cheek . . . receding hairline. Yes, this is Mr. Griffith.”

  “I’ve got papers on the other one too,” the stranger confirmed.

  “I have no doubt you do.” Richardson nodded. “You still haven’t told me how you came by these gentlemen, although by my observation of that weapon on your hip, I could venture a guess.”

  “I have papers on that as well,” the stranger said.

  “Of that I have no doubt.” The coroner chuckled as the man handed him a warrant. He needed only to glance at the papers to see that they authorized one Bladen Cole to apprehend the two men and return them to Durango, Colorado—dead or alive.

  “This warrant’s been issued up in Colorado,” Richardson said, handing the warrant back to Cole. “Why did you bring them here?”

  “Would you want to be spending four days on the trail in this heat with this rotten cargo?” Cole asked, obviously stifling a grin. “A signed and notarized death certificate is the next best thing. And it saves the authorities up in Durango the cost and aggravation of putting ’em in the ground.”

  “You know the law, Mr. Cole,” Richardson said, kneeling to take a look at the face of the second man and to compare his observations to the picture on the second wanted poster. The missing front teeth and the long-healed scar tissue left no doubt.

  “Used to wear a badge,” Cole said, in reply to the coroner’s observation.

  “And now you ply the trade of a bounty hunter.”

  “Don’t like being too long in one place.”

  “What was her name?” Richardson asked with a smile.

  “Sally Lovelace,” Cole answered with a startled expression. “How’d you know about . . . ?”

  “Been around a bit, sir. Lots of men wander and some settle down. When a man who’s settled . . . in a lawman’s job for instance . . . starts wandering again, nine times out of ten, there’s a woman involved.”

  By now, Domingo had returned with a wheelbarrow full of ice, and he helped Richardson slide the two corpses through a trapdoor and down a wooden slide which led to a cool subterranean cellar. The younger man then disappeared with the wheelbarrow through a door at the end of the room. Cole could hear the sounds far below of ice being dumped into a metal tub as Richardson slammed the trapdoor.

  “Miss Lovelace is none of my business,” Richardson said as he pumped some water into a large metal sink and rinsed his hands. Without asking, he filled a metal cup with water and handed it to Cole. There was no need to ask.

  Nor was there need for Cole to ask as he handed the cup back to the coroner for a refill.

  When Domingo reappeared, Richardson sent him to fetch the justice of the peace, and invited Cole into his office.

  “Have a seat while I fill out the death forms on these two,” he said as he rustled in a desk drawer. “We’ll get the J.P. over here to view the deceased and sign off, and you’ll have what you need to go over yonder to the county clerk to get your death certificates.”

  “Feels good to sit down in something other than a saddle,” Cole said, removing his hat and wiping his brow with his bandanna.

  “I can’t help but detect a trace of the Old Dominion in your accent, Mr. Cole,” Richardson said, glancing up from his paperwork.

  “I had you pegged for a Virginian yourself, Doc,” Cole replied.

  “Fauquier County,” the coroner nodded.

  “Caroline County.”

  “Were you in the war?” Richardson asked.

  “Too young, really,” Cole explained. At the time, he had longed to be old enough to wear gray and fight for Virginia, but over time, his perspective had changed, as it might be expected to change the more one meets men who are making do with one arm, one leg, or other battle damage. “I rode in a couple of raids, but not until it was almost over. I didn’t turn seventeen till ’65. My brother enlisted in ’64. I rode with him a few times, but I was never in uniform. What about you?”

  “Yes, I was.” The older man nodded. “I was a doctor at the time, practicing in Warrenton. Virginia needed doctors. I volunteered. Served as the surgeon with the 7th Virginia Cavalry. Company A, the Fauquier Mountain Rangers. Served under Turner Ashby.”

  “That’s a well-known name.” Cole nodded, recognizing the celebrated Virginia cavalry commander.

  “I was with him when he died at Harrisonburg,” Richardson nodded. “At his side . . . couldn’t do anything. He was too far gone.”

  “Been out West long?” Cole asked.

  “Came out in late ’65.” The coroner nodded. “There just wasn’t any future in Virginia.”

  “What was her name?” Cole smiled.

  Richardson looked stunned for a split second, then he too smiled.

  “Touché, Mr. Cole,” he said, glancing back at the paperwork that he was filling out.

  “Did those gentlemen put up much of a fight?” Richardson asked, changing the subject.

  “That was their intention,” Cole confirmed. “One of ’em drew his gun. The other had hold of a Mexican girl so I had to aim a little more carefully.”

  “I have to commend you, Mr. Cole.”

  “How so?”

  “Single kill shot to each,” Richardson said, nodding in the general direction of his cellar morgue. “You certainly know your trade. As you can imagine, I see a great many gunfight deaths crossing my table. Bloody mess, most of ’em.”

  “Only takes one shot to kill a man.” Cole nodded. “I don’t care to do more than is necessary. Truth be told, I wanted to take ’em alive. I caught up to ’em at Pagosa Springs, but figured it would be a helluva shootout, so I let ’em calm down and waited until Arroyo Blanco. Oh well . . . at least nobody else got hurt.”

  “What about the Mexican girl?”

  “She got a fright she won’t soon forget.” Cole shrugged. “But she had nary a scratch otherwise.”

  “You work clean,” Richardson commented. “Sign of professionalism, I ’spect.”

  Cole just shrugged.

  “I knew a bounty hunter a few years back who favored the use of a shotgun,” Richardson continued.

  “Reckon that’s what you mean by messy.”

  “Not like what I saw in the war, but often a helluva mess.”

  “Shotgun’s exceptional for intimidation,” Cole replied. “It’ll scare the bejesus out of somebody. Also good if you aren’t a good shot, or if you don’t care which innocent parties might catch some stray buckshot. Otherwise the only thing a bird gun is good for is hunting birds.”

  “As I observed, Mr. Cole,” Richardson said as he scratched his signature at the bottom of the various forms that he had been filling out. “You are indeed a professional.”

  Chapter 2

  RED CHILIES.

  As Bladen Cole lowered himself into a chair in the small, low-ceilinged Santa Fe cafe called Refugio del Viajero, preparing to have his first store-bought supper in nearly a week, there were strings of dried red chili peppers hanging on the wall near the doorway though which a fire crackled and appetizing aromas wafted.

  Long ago, more than a decade back, when Cole was new to the West and herding cattle over around Breckenridge, Texas, he had met someone who told him that the only thing anybody out in New Mexico ate was a mush made out of boiled beans, a kind of flatbread called a “tor-tee-ya,” and red chilies.

  One of the first things he noticed when he finally found himself out in New Mexico those many years ago, was that the fellow had been right. The second thing he noticed was that they ate a lot of other things as well, but that those red chilies, which were about the size of a finger and hotter than the muzzle of a rifle, were everywhere.

  Cole had not been in New Mexico for years, and would not have been there now had he not been led by circumstance, and he had forgotten about those small, red peppers.

  Cole had been sleeping on the ground and subsisting on salt pork and hardtack for five days, so tonight he was ready for a soft bed and a hot meal. He was even a bit nostalgic for the searing heat of the chilies.

  He had two copies of the signed and notarized death certificates in his pocket, and he had sent a wire to Durango, telling them to expect him. He had added that they should have the reward money ready. When the sun rose tomorrow, he would be back on the trail, and back to making his bed on the ground, so tonight he would eat well, and sleep long.

  He had gone into this place a few doors off Santa Fe’s central plaza on the recommendation of Dr. Amos Richardson, the fellow Virginian who seemed to have taken a liking to him because they were fellow Virginians. It was small and dark, but so very cool, which contrasted to the hot, dusty day that was now fading toward sunset outside.

  There were only a handful of patrons in this place, which looked to have been some sort of hostelry for about two hundred years. Nevertheless, the coroner had insisted that it was a good place for a hot meal, and this seemed to be confirmed by the fragrances that emanated from the kitchen. Cole’s fellow Virginian had even recommended a favorite dish.

  Richardson had not, however, prepared Cole for the sight that was about to greet his eyes. There was a rustling movement in the corner of his eye and the hint of a cool breeze on his cheek. He glanced sideways to see the flourishing skirts of one of those colorful dresses that young women in New Mexico favored.

  His eyes, still getting used to the dimness in the room, roamed upward, past a narrow waist, a generous bosom, and rested on a face that would have, had he been intending to say something, left him speechless.

  Her lips were the deep crimson of the red chilies, and her hair was the color of the night. Her eyes, dark and deep, flickered with the reflected light of the candle on the table, and with the animation of her spirit.

  “May I help you, señor?” she said and smiled.

  Maybe it was the moody dimness, or his not having been in the near proximity of a woman in the better part of a week—and having not seen a truly attractive woman in a month—that utterly disarmed Bladen Cole.

  “Dr. Richardson,” Cole said after a pause that was a component of his shaking off the initial speechlessness. “He recommends your carne asada.”

  “Good choice, señor,” she replied with a disarming smile.

  He watched her glide about the room, efficiently taking orders, topping off wineglasses, and interacting with the patrons with a genuine warmth. She looked very young, barely out of her teens, but she carried herself with a grace and elegance that was beyond her years. He watched as she spoke to another woman who seemed to be in change of the place, a woman who seemed to be an older version of herself, equally graceful in a regal sort of way, a woman whom Cole took to be her mother.

  At last the plate arrived, the slices of beef still sizzling, and just enough red chili peppers to keep it interesting. He savored every bite as his thoughts retraced a day that had begun with him tying two dead bodies to their saddles in a snake-infested wilderness, and had ended here.

  Things had gone more smoothly and efficiently in Santa Fe than he had anticipated. He was lucky to have found the coroner to be a practical man who didn’t insist that he cool his heels a few days for an elaborate autopsy.

  He was equally pleased that the justice of the peace was an efficient man. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he was authorized to impound the property of the deceased for thirty days or until it was claimed by next of kin. The odds that these two characters had next of kin that were going to make a ten-day round-trip to collect their horses, saddles, and assorted firearms were between slim and none, which would leave the J.P. in possession of these unclaimed items, which could be sold for cash.

  “How was your meal, señor?” the young woman asked with a smile as she came to clear the table. They both chuckled as Cole gestured to his empty plate.

  “I’m trying to place your accent,” he said as she returned to pour him a cup of coffee. “It’s not Spanish, is it?”

  “You have a good ear, monsieur,” she said, looking at him with he dark piecing eyes and smiling with her lips the color of dried red chilies. “Je suis Français.”

  With this, she swirled away, ending what Cole had hoped would be the opening exchange of a conversation.

  * * *

  BLADEN COLE RELISHED HIS NEXT CUP OF COFFEE TEN hours later, at the cafe in the lobby of his hotel as he finished a plate of eggs and red chilies. He studied the newspaper idly, looking for something of interest other than local news about people he did not know and articles about the arrival in New Mexico of the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railroad.

  “Mr. Cole.”

  He glanced up at the sound of someone speaking his name.

  “Good morning Mr. Cole,” Dr. Amos Richardson said as he crossed the room. “I’m glad I caught you before you saddled up for Colorado.”

  “Sheets felt so good I decided to sleep in,” Cole admitted as the big clock across the room began to toll seven times.

  “How was your supper last night?”

  “Couldn’t have been more enjoyable,” Cole said, smiling slightly and gesturing for Richardson to join him at his table.

  “I take it that you met Nicolette de la Gravière,” Richardson said with a grin as the waiter efficiently poured a second cup of coffee.

  “Didn’t actually catch her name,” Cole admitted. “But she did say that she was French. I guess that’s her mother who runs the place?”

  “That’s Therese. She built that place from a seedy cantina into the best place in town for a steak, if you like Mexican-style, and I have learned to like it.”

  “They come from France, then?”

  “They’ve been around since Nicolette was about ten or so,” the coroner began. “They came up from Old Mexico, refugees from the overthrow of the Second Empire. That’s why Therese calls the place Refugio del Viajero. They came over from France when Nicolette was just a little bitty kid. They were part of that big French contingent that Louie-Napoléon sent over with Maximilian when he annexed Mexico.”

  “That adventure didn’t work out so well,” Cole said, commenting on the ill-fated scheme by Napoléon Bonaparte’s nephew to have a New World empire.

  “In hindsight, one does see all the flaws,” Richardson said with a shrug. “At the time, it seemed like it was going to last forever. The European armies really clobbered the Mexicans at first. Nicolette’s uncle was one of Max’s generals. He helped do it. Her daddy was a deputy minister of some kind in Maximilian’s government. She sort of grew up in the royal court, but when the whole thing fell apart, everybody had to run for their lives. Her daddy wasn’t so lucky. He caught a bullet from the same firing squad that shot old Max.”

  “Poor kid,” Cole said.

  “Lots of kids lost daddies on this continent in the sixties,” Richardson reminded him.

  “So true.”

  “Let me get to the point of why I interrupted your breakfast,” the coroner said, changing the subject. “Something has come up, and I might have a business proposition for you.”

  “Go on,” Cole said, perking up his ears.

  “You’ve no doubt sensed the excitement about the arrival of the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe.”

  “Hard to miss.”

  “I know that you’re anxious to get back to Colorado to claim some reward money,” Richardson said as Cole nodded, “but I have a job for you that would add substantially to that nest egg . . . indeed would dwarf it.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Last night, as you were basking in the radiance of Nicolette de la Gravière, there was a robbery,” the coroner said, lowering his voice to near a whisper. “The Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe payroll was taken from a baggage car on a siding about twenty miles east of Lamy. A man was killed.”

  “How much did they get away with?”

  “Something in the neighborhood of nine thousand dollars.”

  “Whooee,” Cole replied. “That’s a big one. I didn’t hear anyone talking about that this morning.”

  “You won’t. It’s being kept quiet. I was told in confidence by a friend who is well connected with the railroad people.”

  “I take it that the railroad people want me to get the robbers and the dough?” Cole queried.

  “I did suggest your services for the task,” Richardson said with a nod.

  “Why doesn’t the sheriff pull together a big posse and go after them?”

  “The railroad men would rather keep the whole affair on the quiet side.”

  “Don’t they have hired guns of their own? I seem to recall that they hired a whole army of gunslingers to battle the Denver & Rio Grande last year.”

  “Yes, they do. That is clearly one option, but not the preferable one in their opinion. They believe that the fewer people involved the better it is for their goal of keeping things quiet. If you are the least bit interested in this, I’d like to introduce you to the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe men.”

  Chapter 3

  “YOUR REPUTATION PRECEDES YOU, MR. COLE,” THE TALL man with the well-trimmed beard said, standing to shake the bounty hunter’s hand. “My name is Ezra Waldron, this is Joseph Ames.”

  In his denim trousers and scuffed boots, Cole felt a bit out of place opposite the well-dressed gentlemen in the well-appointed offices of the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railroad. At least he had sent his shirts out for laundering the night before.

  Substantially overweight, Ames groaned as he stood to shake Cole’s hand.

  “Dr. Richardson has proposed you for a job which is of utmost importance to us,” Waldron continued.