The Bridge by Robert Knott

left the Western Union office.
    “Why would somebody do this?” I said.
    “Got to be some reason,” Virgil said.
    We stayed on the porch and watched it snow for a moment, thinking.
    “Cox lives in the big house on the corner of Fourth Street,” I said. “Maybe we let him know about this?”
    Virgil nodded.
    “Maybe he knows something,” I said. “Something we need to know.”
    Virgil nodded.
    “Maybe,” he said, and we stepped off the porch.
    We walked to Cox’s place. It was a three-story structure toward the north end of town. We climbed the dark steps and I knocked on the door.
    It took a while before a light appeared at the top of the steps. Slowly a man descended and came to the door.
    “Territorial marshals,” I said. “Mr. Cox?”
    We heard the door handle twist. It cracked open a little and a small black man peered out at us.
    “No, sir,” he said. “I’m Mr. Cox’s butler, Jessup. Mr. Cox is asleep.”
    “We need to talk to him,” Virgil said.
    “Now?” Jessup said.
    “Now,” Virgil said.
    “Let him know it’s important,” I said.
    Jessup looked to me, then to Virgil, and opened the door.
    “Come in,” he said. “This way, please.”
    Jessup led us. We walked through a set of doors leading into a stately office with books from floor to ceiling. Jessup set the lamp down and lit two lamps that were sitting on the corners of a huge desk.
    “I’ll get Mr. Cox,” Jessup said.
    Cox’s office was a shrine to his accomplishments. We walked around the room, looking at all the books.
    “Goddamn library,” I said.
    “Is,” Virgil said.
    Behind the desk were gilded framed placards. I moved closer to read them.
    “Graduate of Harvard University,” I said. “Certificate of excellence from Philadelphia Law. He’s no slouch.”
    “Look here,” Virgil said.
    I walked over to where Virgil was standing near the front window. Tacked on the wall were drawings of the Rio Blanco Bridge and sitting on a table in front of the window was an impressive wooden model of the bridge.
    “Damn,” I said. “Something.”
    “Was,” Virgil said.
    “Yep.”
    “No more,” Virgil said.
    “Goddamn shame,” I said.
    “Lot of work,” Virgil said.
    We heard footsteps coming down the stairs, and in a moment G. W. Cox walked into the office, followed by Jessup.
    Cox was very tall and thin, with broad shoulders. He was wearing a proper English robe with velvet lapels over a dark-colored silk sleeping gown. He looked to be in his mid-sixties. His hair was silver but his eyebrows, sideburns, and mustache were dark. His nose was long and pointed, with a high ridge in the middle. He had an instant, distinguished air of sophistication about him.
    “Gentlemen?” Cox said in a deep southern baritone. “Jessup here said you men need to see me.”
    “We do,” Virgil said.
    Virgil stayed near the window next to the bridge model, and I moved toward Cox.
    “We’re territorial marshals out of Appaloosa,” I said. “I’m Deputy Marshal Everett Hitch and this is Marshal Virgil Cole.”
    “G. W. Cox,” he said.
    I shook his hand.
    “What is it? What’s happened?”
    I looked to Virgil.
    “We got word,” Virgil said. “A telegram from the Rio Blanco Bridge way station. Two days ago, the bridge was destroyed. Three men dead.”
    Cox didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at us with a blank expression on his face.
    “I’m sorry?” Cox said with his slow long drawl. “Could you repeat that? Two days ago, whhhuuut ?”

— 28 —
    V irgil nodded to the model in front of the window.
    “This bridge was blown up,” Virgil said. “Three men died, they were killed.”
    Cox shook his head.
    “This can’t be,” Cox said.
    Virgil nodded.
    “’Fraid so,” Virgil said.
    “Two days ago?” Cox said.
    Virgil nodded.
    “Any idea who would do this?” Virgil said.
    Cox looked to the floor for a long moment. He shook his head slightly, then walked to the big desk and dropped into his