The Fire of Greed (3 page)

“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.

“That's what he said,” Cole said and nodded. “It sounds like you need to have a payroll retrieved.”

“That's correct, sir. We need to employ the services of a bounty hunter, and he tells that you, sir, are
the
man for the job.”

“I'm impressed with his skill and professionalism,” Richardson interjected.

“I'm curious why you don't send out the guns you've already got,” Cole said. “I heard tell that you had the likes of Bat Masterson and Doc Holliday on your payroll when you were warring with the Denver & Rio Grande up in Royal Gorge.”

“Among others,” Waldron said, clearly displeased at being reminded of the fact that his railroad had been defeated by its rival both in court
and
on the battlefield. “But the results were less than desired.”

“Discretion is of the utmost importance,” Ames explained. “The idea of sending one man is preferable to the notion of sending a dozen.”

“Fewer men to tell the tale,” Waldron said.

“That's another thing that confuses me,” Cole said. “Why is it so damned important that this thing be kept such a big secret?”

“If I may speak candidly,” Waldron said. “The lifeblood of our industry is capital, and the source of our capital is investment. This is a critical time for the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe. We have barely reached our line into New Mexico, and our need for capital is frankly enormous if we are going to get across this territory and link up with the Pacific coast. Investors are naturally leery of investments in the barbarous West. If the capital markets were to get wind of a robbery of this size occurring within twenty miles of the Santa Fe junction at Lamy, potential investors would just as soon put their money into roads which are located in the East, where such brazen thefts are unlikely.”

“Or even worse, they might shift the favors of their wallets to shares of the Denver & Rio Grande,” Ames chimed in.

“I see.” Cole nodded.

“Why approach the matter with a sledgehammer when it can be addressed with the precision of a surgical scalpel?” Waldron asked rhetorically.

“It this something that interests you?” Ames asked.

Cole nodded.

“Is this something of which you feel yourself capable?” Waldron asked pointedly.

“How many robbers?” Cole asked, bypassing an answer to Waldron's question.

“There were three,” Ames explained. “Although they may also have had a lookout.”

“They probably did,” Cole nodded. “Do you suppose they might have been working for the Denver & Rio Grande?”

“Why?” Waldron asked rhetorically. “Unless they wanted to rub salt into wounds. As you know, the Denver & Rio Grande
won
. They defeated us.
They
won the rights to the route through Royal Gorge. Besides that, these robbers escaped to the
south
not north toward Colorado.”

“South? Could they be headed south to Lincoln County?” Richardson asked, referencing the Lincoln County War, which was still raging unabated across lawless southeastern New Mexico.

“I wouldn't rule it out,” Waldron agreed, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. “I would not rule out the possibility that one or another of the factions down there would undertake a misadventure such as this in an attempt to obtain the resources to finance their spiteful warfare.”

“It would be just like those hoodlums in Lincoln County,” Ames added. “Especially that homicidal maniac William Bonney, of whom we have read in the papers.”

Cole said nothing in the furtherance of this avenue of speculation. He could not imagine a Lincoln County connection. The factions down there were too absorbed in their own affairs and in the endless rounds of feuding and revenge to have an interest in the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe. For its distance from the world of Lincoln County, the railroad might as well be on the opposite side of the continent.

“All the more reason to play it quietly and send a lone professional,” Ames continued.

“I know that Governor Wallace would not like to see a Santa Fe posse getting mixed up with any of the Lincoln County boys,” Richardson interjected.

“Does this sound like something you can handle, Mr. Cole?” Waldron repeated.

“Yes,” Cole said after a thoughtful pause.

“Do you think that you can catch them before they reach Lincoln County?” Ames asked.

“Lincoln County is two days' ride,” Cole answered. “The city of Lincoln is the better part of five, more or less. That's plenty of time.”

Left unsaid was his solid belief that the bandits would not be going to Lincoln County at all.

“So you think you can do it?” Ames asked.

“As I said,” Cole repeated. “I can do the job.”

“
Will
you?” Ames asked.

“What's in it for me?” It was Cole's turn for pointed questions.

“We'll pay you a thousand dollars,” Waldron said.

“Well . . . I don't know . . .” Cole said, finding it hard to be reticent about such a substantial sum.

“Fifteen hundred,” Ames said anxiously after a long pause in the conversation.

“What's your price?” Waldron asked impatiently.

“How's two grand?” Cole asked. “As you were saying, this is worth a lot more to you than the cash value of the payroll.”

“Conditional on absolute discretion?” Ames asked. “Nobody knows about this? Nothing about the nature of the robbery or the men you seek would be divulged to anyone along the way?”

“My lips would be sealed.”

“I'll draw up the papers,” Ames said, obviously pleased for the opportunity to lower his considerable bulk back into his chair.

“Can you advance me two hundred to cover provisioning expenses?” Cole asked.

Waldron took out his wallet and handed the money to the bounty hunter.

“In the interest of utmost discretion,” Waldron said after shaking the hand of his contractor, “it would not disappoint us if the perpetrators of this crime did not survive. Just knowing that they had been apprehended would be good enough for us . . . if you know what I mean.”

Dead or alive, Cole thought to himself, with an emphasis on
dead
.

* * *

BY NOON, BLADEN COLE WAS ON THE TRAIL.

Ames had been right. A mile south of the siding where the robbery had taken place, three riders had been met by a fourth, who was leading two pack mules. The depth of the tracks made by the mules indicated that the loot contained a substantial amount of gold as well as currency.

They had a twelve-hour lead, but they were carrying a heavy load. Cole figured that he could cut their lead in half by midday tomorrow, and probably overtake them the following day.

Cole doubted that this climactic encounter would occur in infamous Lincoln County, but there were no signs on the county lines. Cole wagered the group would eventually turn west, get across the Rio Grande, and into the maze of mountains between the river and the Mogollon Rim.

As he rode, Cole thought about the irony of his being in New Mexico, and heading south, deeper into the territory with every mile he put behind him. He had left New Mexico ten years ago for a reason, and he had once vowed never to return.

Bladen Cole had come here with his brother Will, just two men at the threshold of their twenties looking for adventure and fortune, as young men often do. When they had left Virginia after the War Between the States, they had spent several seasons herding cattle from Texas up into Kansas, where they picked up a contract hunting buffalo to feed railroad work crews. Gradually, they worked their way farther west, following the promising trail toward the gold and silver strikes in New Mexico Territory.

One night they dropped into a saloon down in Silver City, one of those places where prospectors came down out of the Mogollon Mountains with too much gold dust and not enough sense.

The brothers from Virginia had been drinking far too long for their own good that night, as young men barely into their twenties occasionally do. So too had been another pair of young men barely into their twenties. As often happens in circumstances such as prevailed that night, neither pair of young men walked away, as they should have, from a quarrel that ensued.

Perhaps, if Bladen had tugged at Will's sleeve and insisted that they let the two men go, it never would have happened, but he had not, and it
did
.

What happened next, happened fast. It happened in such a fog that Bladen never really knew which man drew his gun first, but Bladen knew he was the
last
.

When the dust had settled, two men lay dead, and one was Will. The fourth man, the cowardly one with the narrow face of a rodent who had shot Will, had vanished into the night.

Bladen spent the next several months searching in vain for the rat-faced man who had taken his brother's life. At last, he realized that he was being eaten alive by circumstances that he could never change, so he headed north. He had no particular destination, he rode only to be someplace new, someplace that was not so packed with reminders of Will.

It had been about a year or so after Will's death that Bladen had found himself in a small mining town not far from the bustling metropolis of Cripple Creek, Colorado. Through a series of auspicious events, he played a role in foiling a bank robbery and was asked by the city fathers to consider becoming their sheriff.

It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, and perhaps it actually was. He had been starting to think that he should be thinking about his future, so he accepted, and decided to settle down.

It was then that he met Sally Lovelace, a young woman with whom there was a mutual attraction and a seriousness that had
almost
led to a wedding. Bladen Cole had always fancied himself as a man who was not meant to be too long in one place, but for a time it seemed that the effects of a steady job, and
mainly
the effects of Sally Lovelace, had changed him.

However, before that could happen, Sally took a fancy to a high roller who swept her off her feet. J. R. Hubbard was one of those men who attracted the attention of good women like a magnet attracts iron filings. Sally had swooned to his charms, and had allowed herself to be seduced by the honey of his sweet talk, and by starry promises that could never have been fulfilled by a man on a sheriff's salary.

Around the same time that Hubbard swept Sally away to San Francisco, Bladen unearthed a festering pool of corruption in the city's government, but he was thwarted politically in his attempts to bring the perpetrators in high places to justice.

Angrily tossing his badge on the mayor's desk, he climbed on his horse and, as he had done after Will had died, just rode away without looking back.

Not long thereafter, in a mining town up in Wyoming Territory, he began seeing wanted posters of a particular bank-robbing duo, and he decided that the reward money looked good. It also looked like his future.

Several wanted posters, and several successful pursuits later, his remarkable skill with a Colt .45 had found Bladen Cole with a new career—and one that agreed with his innate restlessness.

He drifted up into Wyoming and into Montana Territory, following the trails of malefactors and collecting bounties. Last winter, when the snows were beginning to blow down across the plains from the Arctic, he had chased three criminals north of the Marias River into Blackfeet country.

The farther he roamed, the more he thought he was putting New Mexico behind him.

Now, he was
back
.

Maybe it was the inevitability of fate.