Jeffire had been by. Unlike her, she figured, Jeffire would start somewhere other than the saloon.
Bird made her way to the store and stepped inside. A man wearing a white apron over a blue shirt and peering through horn-rimmed glasses glanced up at her. He had a thick black pencil in his hand and had been squinting at a long, narrow sheet of yellow paper.
“Howdy,” he said. “Help you?”
“I’m looking for two people,” she said. “One is a reporter named Roger Jeffire from the Big River Bugle who would’ve come up here looking for a girl. The girl, now, she was supposedly seeing the young preacher who was murdered a couple weeks back. Have you seen Jeffire or know the girl?”
He made a checkmark on the sheet of paper with the pencil, then set both down.
“I don’t,” he said. “No reporter came by here, and believe me, if there was a girl in town who’d been seeing this preacher, I would’ve known about it. Big River isn’t that far away and Harlan’s Crossing isn’t that big. We all heard about that killing—and the new one.”
“I see,” Bird said.
“If Jeffire had stopped by here but didn’t talk to you, is there anyone or anywhere else he would have gone?”
The man thought for a moment and then shook his head. “No, sorry,” he said.
Bird thanked him, left the store and went to the saloon. The place was about half full but the end of the bar was open, so Bird took up position there where she could see the whole saloon.
When the bartender came over, she ordered whiskey and asked him about Jeffire and the girl. The bartender had the same response as the general store owner: no sign of the reporter and no information about a girl who might have been involved with Egans.
Bird drank her whiskey and thought back to the meeting she and Tower had had with Martha Jeffire. Bird liked the woman but wondered if she had been telling them the whole story. But why lie? What benefit would she have to send them off on a wild goose chase?
She drank another whiskey and refilled her glass, trying to get the tension out from between her shoulders, but that nagging feeling wasn’t going away. And Bird sensed that no matter how much good whiskey she poured down the hatch, something else was going to have to happen to put her mind at ease.
Bird thought again of the reporter. If Roger Jeffire hadn’t come out to Harlan’s Crossing, then where was he? And if there wasn’t a girl from Harlan’s Crossing who had been seeing Bertram Egans, why had Martha Jeffire said there was?
She nursed the questions in her mind, poured another whiskey, and a very simple answer appeared.
At the same time, two men pushed their way into the saloon.
One small. One big.
Henry Jones. And Mr. Seven.
Thirty-Seven
Mike Tower and Walter Morrison stood by the platform at the train station. There were a dozen people milling around, some with bags and others checking their pocket watches, wondering how much longer before loved ones would arrive.
Morrison had tracked down Tower and urged him to meet the afternoon train, which would be carrying a passenger of great interest. Tower had pressed for more information but Morrison hadn’t divulged any additional tidbits.
They were several minutes early, and Tower studied the handbills posted along the ticket office’s exterior walls. There were signs for a show that was coming to Big River, the usual advertisements for the saloons and land agents. There was also a sign warning rustlers and horse thieves to stay clear of Big River. The image on that one was a crude drawing of a man wearing a flour sack over his head with eye holes cut out.
“Yes, Big River has never had much of a problem with rustlers,” Morrison said. “Unlike other boomtowns profiting from the cattle industry. I’ve heard stories of rustlers practically bankrupting a town with their thievery.”
“So, how has Big River solved the problem?”
“Only one way to do it,” Morrison said. “Like you mean
Bird made her way to the store and stepped inside. A man wearing a white apron over a blue shirt and peering through horn-rimmed glasses glanced up at her. He had a thick black pencil in his hand and had been squinting at a long, narrow sheet of yellow paper.
“Howdy,” he said. “Help you?”
“I’m looking for two people,” she said. “One is a reporter named Roger Jeffire from the Big River Bugle who would’ve come up here looking for a girl. The girl, now, she was supposedly seeing the young preacher who was murdered a couple weeks back. Have you seen Jeffire or know the girl?”
He made a checkmark on the sheet of paper with the pencil, then set both down.
“I don’t,” he said. “No reporter came by here, and believe me, if there was a girl in town who’d been seeing this preacher, I would’ve known about it. Big River isn’t that far away and Harlan’s Crossing isn’t that big. We all heard about that killing—and the new one.”
“I see,” Bird said.
“If Jeffire had stopped by here but didn’t talk to you, is there anyone or anywhere else he would have gone?”
The man thought for a moment and then shook his head. “No, sorry,” he said.
Bird thanked him, left the store and went to the saloon. The place was about half full but the end of the bar was open, so Bird took up position there where she could see the whole saloon.
When the bartender came over, she ordered whiskey and asked him about Jeffire and the girl. The bartender had the same response as the general store owner: no sign of the reporter and no information about a girl who might have been involved with Egans.
Bird drank her whiskey and thought back to the meeting she and Tower had had with Martha Jeffire. Bird liked the woman but wondered if she had been telling them the whole story. But why lie? What benefit would she have to send them off on a wild goose chase?
She drank another whiskey and refilled her glass, trying to get the tension out from between her shoulders, but that nagging feeling wasn’t going away. And Bird sensed that no matter how much good whiskey she poured down the hatch, something else was going to have to happen to put her mind at ease.
Bird thought again of the reporter. If Roger Jeffire hadn’t come out to Harlan’s Crossing, then where was he? And if there wasn’t a girl from Harlan’s Crossing who had been seeing Bertram Egans, why had Martha Jeffire said there was?
She nursed the questions in her mind, poured another whiskey, and a very simple answer appeared.
At the same time, two men pushed their way into the saloon.
One small. One big.
Henry Jones. And Mr. Seven.
Thirty-Seven
Mike Tower and Walter Morrison stood by the platform at the train station. There were a dozen people milling around, some with bags and others checking their pocket watches, wondering how much longer before loved ones would arrive.
Morrison had tracked down Tower and urged him to meet the afternoon train, which would be carrying a passenger of great interest. Tower had pressed for more information but Morrison hadn’t divulged any additional tidbits.
They were several minutes early, and Tower studied the handbills posted along the ticket office’s exterior walls. There were signs for a show that was coming to Big River, the usual advertisements for the saloons and land agents. There was also a sign warning rustlers and horse thieves to stay clear of Big River. The image on that one was a crude drawing of a man wearing a flour sack over his head with eye holes cut out.
“Yes, Big River has never had much of a problem with rustlers,” Morrison said. “Unlike other boomtowns profiting from the cattle industry. I’ve heard stories of rustlers practically bankrupting a town with their thievery.”
“So, how has Big River solved the problem?”
“Only one way to do it,” Morrison said. “Like you mean
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