his jorongo and sombrero, I knew it was Captain McAllen even before Maggie spurred ahead.
I guessed that McAllen was somewhere in his early forties, but he was not the type of man you asked personal questions. His no-nonsense demeanor was reinforced with terse conversation and a rigid sense of honor. Even from a distance, I could see that, despite his irregular wardrobe, he was clean-shaven and well-groomed. He also looked formidable, even when sitting perfectly still.
I reined up Liberty to let Maggie say hello to her father before making my own greetings. I noticed that Carl and Mary Schmidt did the same.
As we had ridden out of Prescott, Thumb Butte dominated the landscape. It was unusual and dramatic, but it didn’t look like a thumb to me: more like a rock outcropping extending up from the top of a hill. As we got closer, the angle changed, and it looked like an ordinary forested hill. It was probably my one-eyed accountant cast of mind that kept me from seeing the butte as anything other than a butte.
The Schmidts hadn’t said a word, so I asked if they remembered Jeff Sharp.
They looked at each other, and Carl responded. “Of course. Man in his fifties with little education, sturdy built, confident, no sidearm but carries a rifle, says whatever he thinks, and has big appetites. A rough sort.”
I didn’t like the description. “He has little formal education, but he knows more than most college graduates, and I’m not talking about what he’s seen and experienced. The man reads everything.”
“ I’ll take your word for that.” The tone was dismissive.
I turned in my saddle to look straight at Carl Schmidt. “Do you have a problem with Sharp … or me?”
Schmidt looked as if he had been jerked out of a reverie. “I don’t really know you or Mr. Sharp. We met only briefly outside Leadville.”
“ You’re bullshitting me. You hunt con men, so you’ve got to be good at judging people right off.”
Schmidt turned in his saddle to look me in the eye. “You’re correct on every count. I am bullshitting you. I am an expert at judging people, I don’t like Mr. Sharp, nor do I believe a self-educated man from the backwoods can achieve erudition or class. Mr. Sharp is the type of man who is fully capable of killing an enemy, and the evidence that he did so in this situation is substantial.”
Schmidt looked taken aback when I started laughing.
“ What’s so amusing?”
“ Harvard, Yale, or Princeton?”
He looked wary. “I graduated from Harvard. Why is that amusing?”
“ Only a Harvard man could take a playacting job and still feel superior.”
“ Our work is important,” Mary Schmidt protested from the other side of her husband.
“ I wasn’t addressing the job; I was addressing the haughty attitude.”
“ Who made you an expert on Harvard graduates?”
“ Columbia University.”
Carl Schmidt tipped his hat in mock homage. “I never would have guessed.”
“ I know. Perhaps you’re not as good at judging people as you suppose. For example, you’re right that Jeff Sharp is the kind of man that’s capable of killing an enemy, but you missed the most important part of his character … he would never shoot a man in the back.”
“ He was falling-down drunk.”
“ Drunk or sober, Jeff would fight fair.”
“ I’ll take your word for that.” Again, the tone was dismissive.
I was about to argue further, but McAllen waved us over. It was just as well. I was growing to dislike Carl Schmidt. I also understood that he resented my interfering with his work. I presumed that was the reason he took pleasure in needling me.
As we drew near, McAllen stood in his stirrups, leaned across his saddle, and shook my hand.
“ Good afternoon, Captain,” I said. “Thank you for responding so fast to my telegram.”
McAllen smiled with closed lips. “I suppose that means you sent me a telegram after Jeff got himself arrested.”
“ I did.”
The smile faded. “We
I guessed that McAllen was somewhere in his early forties, but he was not the type of man you asked personal questions. His no-nonsense demeanor was reinforced with terse conversation and a rigid sense of honor. Even from a distance, I could see that, despite his irregular wardrobe, he was clean-shaven and well-groomed. He also looked formidable, even when sitting perfectly still.
I reined up Liberty to let Maggie say hello to her father before making my own greetings. I noticed that Carl and Mary Schmidt did the same.
As we had ridden out of Prescott, Thumb Butte dominated the landscape. It was unusual and dramatic, but it didn’t look like a thumb to me: more like a rock outcropping extending up from the top of a hill. As we got closer, the angle changed, and it looked like an ordinary forested hill. It was probably my one-eyed accountant cast of mind that kept me from seeing the butte as anything other than a butte.
The Schmidts hadn’t said a word, so I asked if they remembered Jeff Sharp.
They looked at each other, and Carl responded. “Of course. Man in his fifties with little education, sturdy built, confident, no sidearm but carries a rifle, says whatever he thinks, and has big appetites. A rough sort.”
I didn’t like the description. “He has little formal education, but he knows more than most college graduates, and I’m not talking about what he’s seen and experienced. The man reads everything.”
“ I’ll take your word for that.” The tone was dismissive.
I turned in my saddle to look straight at Carl Schmidt. “Do you have a problem with Sharp … or me?”
Schmidt looked as if he had been jerked out of a reverie. “I don’t really know you or Mr. Sharp. We met only briefly outside Leadville.”
“ You’re bullshitting me. You hunt con men, so you’ve got to be good at judging people right off.”
Schmidt turned in his saddle to look me in the eye. “You’re correct on every count. I am bullshitting you. I am an expert at judging people, I don’t like Mr. Sharp, nor do I believe a self-educated man from the backwoods can achieve erudition or class. Mr. Sharp is the type of man who is fully capable of killing an enemy, and the evidence that he did so in this situation is substantial.”
Schmidt looked taken aback when I started laughing.
“ What’s so amusing?”
“ Harvard, Yale, or Princeton?”
He looked wary. “I graduated from Harvard. Why is that amusing?”
“ Only a Harvard man could take a playacting job and still feel superior.”
“ Our work is important,” Mary Schmidt protested from the other side of her husband.
“ I wasn’t addressing the job; I was addressing the haughty attitude.”
“ Who made you an expert on Harvard graduates?”
“ Columbia University.”
Carl Schmidt tipped his hat in mock homage. “I never would have guessed.”
“ I know. Perhaps you’re not as good at judging people as you suppose. For example, you’re right that Jeff Sharp is the kind of man that’s capable of killing an enemy, but you missed the most important part of his character … he would never shoot a man in the back.”
“ He was falling-down drunk.”
“ Drunk or sober, Jeff would fight fair.”
“ I’ll take your word for that.” Again, the tone was dismissive.
I was about to argue further, but McAllen waved us over. It was just as well. I was growing to dislike Carl Schmidt. I also understood that he resented my interfering with his work. I presumed that was the reason he took pleasure in needling me.
As we drew near, McAllen stood in his stirrups, leaned across his saddle, and shook my hand.
“ Good afternoon, Captain,” I said. “Thank you for responding so fast to my telegram.”
McAllen smiled with closed lips. “I suppose that means you sent me a telegram after Jeff got himself arrested.”
“ I did.”
The smile faded. “We
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