the door open and started a methodical rifling of the desk.
One of the bottom drawers was locked. He tugged at the handle, then noticed something and felt a burst of satisfaction. There was no safe in the office. Gashlin was evidently too sure of himself for that; a locked drawer would suffice.
Rome took a letter opener from the desk and thrust it into the slit at the top of the drawer. He worked the opener back and forth a few moments; cursed when it snapped in two. He found a second one with a heavy ivory handle and finally managed to break the latch and open the drawer.
Three papers lay inside. Rome hesitated, listening again. The drunken shouts again, closer. He crouched under the desk and struck a match, reading the first paper.
Received of Bruce Gashlin
1500 dollars for services.
Signed,
Job Thompson
The other two, for seven and nine hundred dollars respectively, were signed by Harry Drew and Giles McMaster. Rome blew out the match, working on the significance of what he’d read.
Gashlin had plenty of money. Enough money to pay the ranchers not to sell the right-of-way. Pay them, in effect, to maintain his business. It was more money than the railroad could offer for the small parcels of land. The Kansas & Western was not yet that big a firm; it ran on a tight budget.
Gashlin was the one with capital. Thompson, McMaster, and Drew certainly knew what kind of a man he was. Knew, for instance, that he would buy people off to get what he wanted; that it wasn’t strictly a matter of being opposed to progress. The three of them were in on the scheme, while the rest of the townspeople were unaware of it.
“Damn,” Rome said under his breath. The church meeting had been a farce, a show staged to keep the townspeople quiet. They could have thrown a lot of weight, but now they were against the railroad. Thompson’s wrath at Gashlin’s lie concerning the attempt to bribe him must have been an act, and that same anger provided the setting for his murder. Thompson evidently was expendable from Gashlin’s point of view. But there was one man who might be able to blow things open, if Rome could get to him.
Stuffing the papers into his pocket, he straightened suddenly. One of the drunken voices was coming from the front porch of the office building. A key rattled in the lock. The door swung open.
Rome crouched in the shadows. The watchman’s lantern swayed in one hand; a bottle hung slackly from the other. The watchman stumbled against the outer office rail, swearing. Rome started to move toward the storeroom through the open door of Gashlin’s office.
The watchman turned, setting down his lantern. “Who in hell … Who is it?” he shouted. He reached for his gun.
Rome moved faster than he thought possible. He clubbed the man’s gun away and kicked him backward with his knee. He had learned the lessons of running outside the law very quickly.
The watchman staggered, his eyes wild in the smoky light from the lantern. He jerked a knife from his pocket and lumbered at Rome, mumbling, “What the hell are you doing in here?” Rome tensed himself and swung out, striking the drunken man across the temple with his gun barrel.
The knife clattered to the wooden floor, blade first. A faint whine filled the air as it stuck and quivered. Then the watchman dropped, a splotchy bruise widening on his skin.
He wasn’t dead. Rome made sure of that, then blew out the lantern. As he stood in the darkness listening to the watchman’s irregular breathing, a new thought twisted the pit of his stomach.
He was now bound to the railroad more closely than ever, though in another way he remained cut off. He was bound to it not merely because he worked for the Kansas & Western—it wasn’t that simple. If the railroad went through, Gashlin would be out of business and there was a good chance Rome would be cleared. If the railroad didn’t go through, he would eventually be a dead man, swinging in a noose.
The thought was ironic.
One of the bottom drawers was locked. He tugged at the handle, then noticed something and felt a burst of satisfaction. There was no safe in the office. Gashlin was evidently too sure of himself for that; a locked drawer would suffice.
Rome took a letter opener from the desk and thrust it into the slit at the top of the drawer. He worked the opener back and forth a few moments; cursed when it snapped in two. He found a second one with a heavy ivory handle and finally managed to break the latch and open the drawer.
Three papers lay inside. Rome hesitated, listening again. The drunken shouts again, closer. He crouched under the desk and struck a match, reading the first paper.
Received of Bruce Gashlin
1500 dollars for services.
Signed,
Job Thompson
The other two, for seven and nine hundred dollars respectively, were signed by Harry Drew and Giles McMaster. Rome blew out the match, working on the significance of what he’d read.
Gashlin had plenty of money. Enough money to pay the ranchers not to sell the right-of-way. Pay them, in effect, to maintain his business. It was more money than the railroad could offer for the small parcels of land. The Kansas & Western was not yet that big a firm; it ran on a tight budget.
Gashlin was the one with capital. Thompson, McMaster, and Drew certainly knew what kind of a man he was. Knew, for instance, that he would buy people off to get what he wanted; that it wasn’t strictly a matter of being opposed to progress. The three of them were in on the scheme, while the rest of the townspeople were unaware of it.
“Damn,” Rome said under his breath. The church meeting had been a farce, a show staged to keep the townspeople quiet. They could have thrown a lot of weight, but now they were against the railroad. Thompson’s wrath at Gashlin’s lie concerning the attempt to bribe him must have been an act, and that same anger provided the setting for his murder. Thompson evidently was expendable from Gashlin’s point of view. But there was one man who might be able to blow things open, if Rome could get to him.
Stuffing the papers into his pocket, he straightened suddenly. One of the drunken voices was coming from the front porch of the office building. A key rattled in the lock. The door swung open.
Rome crouched in the shadows. The watchman’s lantern swayed in one hand; a bottle hung slackly from the other. The watchman stumbled against the outer office rail, swearing. Rome started to move toward the storeroom through the open door of Gashlin’s office.
The watchman turned, setting down his lantern. “Who in hell … Who is it?” he shouted. He reached for his gun.
Rome moved faster than he thought possible. He clubbed the man’s gun away and kicked him backward with his knee. He had learned the lessons of running outside the law very quickly.
The watchman staggered, his eyes wild in the smoky light from the lantern. He jerked a knife from his pocket and lumbered at Rome, mumbling, “What the hell are you doing in here?” Rome tensed himself and swung out, striking the drunken man across the temple with his gun barrel.
The knife clattered to the wooden floor, blade first. A faint whine filled the air as it stuck and quivered. Then the watchman dropped, a splotchy bruise widening on his skin.
He wasn’t dead. Rome made sure of that, then blew out the lantern. As he stood in the darkness listening to the watchman’s irregular breathing, a new thought twisted the pit of his stomach.
He was now bound to the railroad more closely than ever, though in another way he remained cut off. He was bound to it not merely because he worked for the Kansas & Western—it wasn’t that simple. If the railroad went through, Gashlin would be out of business and there was a good chance Rome would be cleared. If the railroad didn’t go through, he would eventually be a dead man, swinging in a noose.
The thought was ironic.
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