Free The Shopkeeper by James D. Best Page A

to the podium.”

    “Still, if the bank is upright, it speaks well of him. Do you think he’s honest?”

    Richard shrugged. “He’s a rich man, intent on getting richer.”

    “Scandals?”

    “None that I’m aware of, but I don’t pay attention to Carson City doings.”

    A thought occurred to me. “Does Jeff Sharp?”

    “Yep, now that ya mention it. He traipses up there a couple times a year and always seems to have a handle on things.”

    “Bradshaw?”

    “He must know him. Sharp mentions his name occasionally.”

    My wooden swivel chair had four horizontal legs that splayed out from a central stanchion. I liked to use the toe of my boot to push against one of these legs until I tilted back so far that gravity threatened to upend me. I leaned back into this position and thought through the possibilities.

    Finally, I asked, “Have you seen Jeff recently?”

    “He just stepped into Jeremiah’s store.”

    “Watch the bank for a few minutes.”

    “What if a customer comes in?”

    “Take their money.”

    “What if they want money?”

    I headed for the door. “Don’t give ’em any. I’ll be back soon.”

    I bolted through the inner door without a backward glance and nearly ran into the street. I stopped and then backed up till I was just inside the door. Not much protection, but I was not nearly as exposed as I would be in the open street. I thought about getting my rifle, but the news on Bolton’s murder was fresh, and Bolton’s ranch was a three-day ride. News by telegraph moved faster than a man on horseback, so with any luck, Sprague had not yet arrived in Pickhandle Gulch. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I could not win this battle by remaining indoors.

Chapter 16

     

    I stepped into the open street, hoping that I was right that Sprague had not had enough time to reset his bearings on me. The threat of being shot without warning scared me more than facing the Cutlers. Just as I started across the street, I spotted six black-clad men riding into town with a demeanor that said Do not mess with us . I withdrew back onto the boardwalk and wondered if these men were employed by the Pinkerton National Detective Agency. The riders pulled up their horses in the middle of the street and looked around. After surveying the various people wandering about town, one of the men reined his horse around and walked it in my direction.

    Casually resting both hands on the saddle horn, he asked, “Excuse me, sir, but could you direct me to Steve Dancy?”

    “You found him.”

    He tipped his hat. “I’m Captain McAllen, Pinkerton. I believe you engaged my team.”

    “You were supposed to be here two days ago.” My voice sounded harsher than I intended.

    “I apologize. We were delayed due to some trouble in Colorado.”

    “Your office could’ve sent a telegram. I might’ve already been killed due to your tardiness.”

    “Again, I apologize, but we were not in communication with our office. They thought we were on our way.”

    I considered pushing the matter but simply said, “Would you and your colleagues please follow me into my bank, where we can talk in private?”

    Without waiting for a reply, I turned and propped open the door with my back. The captain beckoned his men and swung down from his horse. Each Pinkerton wore a dusty black suit over a once-white shirt now stained with sweat and trail dirt. Their vests provided their only individual touch: one gold, a couple gray, and the rest in a matching black with gold or pearl buttons.

    As they dismounted, each man pulled a rifle from his saddle scabbard. The men looked serious, alert, and professional. Without being told, one of them leaned against the exterior wall of my bank and rested his rifle across his arm in an intimidating pose.

    After the other five had squeezed by me, I closed the door and led them beyond the wooden barricade. I could hear Richard leap to his feet at the sound of six sets of boots and five