turned back to the ledgers. He knew he’d worn the same dumb look as Ernie many times himself. What man hadn’t?
Mallory stayed only a moment longer, then leisurely left the express office, offering a goodbye from behind her fan. Ernie sank down in his chair, heaved a heavy sigh and wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve.
Another hour passed, while Clay examined the stage records, before Jack Morgan and Sheriff Bottom arrived.
“Do you always put the payroll on the stage?” Clay asked.
“No reason not to,” Morgan told him. “I’ve sent it that way for years, with never a problem. Why should I go to the expense of paying my own guards, when the stage line will do it for the freight cost? I’m not throwing money around like that.”
Otis Bean lifted a pocket watch from its pedestal on his desk. “Stage is due to arrive in six minutes.”
Clay led the way onto the boardwalk. One passenger, a man in a yellow plaid vest, waited outside.
Otis paced the boardwalk, studying his pocket watch. “Five minutes! Stage in five minutes!”
“Anybody else taking the stage today?” Clay asked.
Otis consulted his schedule, clutched in his. other hand. “No. Only whoever boarded in Whittakers Ferry.”
Clay gazed down the street. “Where’s that?”
“Ten or so miles east of here. Four minutes!”
“And the next stop is Harmonville?”
“That’s right.” Otis consulted his schedule once more. “After leaving here, the stage stops at the swing station for fresh horses—that’s where. the mine foreman picks up the payroll—then goes straight through.”
Thundering hooves pounding the soft dirt street preceded the stage.
“Stage arriving!” Otis clutched his pocket watch.
The driver atop the big coach braced his feet and pulled back on the reins, stopping the team in front of the express office. The horses pawed the ground and tossed their heads. Leather creaked and the stage groaned, settling in a cloud of brown dust. The shotgun rider stood and stretched.
Clay’s gaze swept the stage with a critical eye, the men up top, the baggage tied on, the sturdy horses out front. He stepped off the boardwalk and opened the coach door. Inside sat an elderly man with a white beard, dressed in a bright green suit—the perfect complement to the next passenger boarding. Neither man would be a help in a shoot-out, but neither would try to be a hero and get someone else shot
Clay gave only a cursory glance to the widow seated in the far corner. No one liked to look at a widow. A bonnet and a thick black veil shielded her face. Black gloves covered her hands and the heavy gown draped the rest of her. In her lap she clutched her reticule and a small Bible.
A heaviness rose in Clay’s chest. Rebecca…
Determinedly he pushed the thought from his mind and replaced it with preparation for the task at hand.
Otis consulted his pocket watch. “Three minutest Stage leaving in three minutest!”
Clay watched as the strongbox was hoisted up top, then took the rifle Sheriff Bottom had brought for him and climbed up beside the driver. He paid no attention to the anxious look on Jack Morgan’s face or the sher- iff’s attempt at advice.
Nor did he give any thought to the little widow in the coach beneath him. For all the memories the sight of her widow’s weeds caused, she meant nothing to him. Just a passenger on the stage. Nobody important
He was sure of it.
“Name’s Buck, Marshal. Better grab hold of something.”
The driver shouted to the team, and the stagecoach lurched forward. Clay closed one hand over the edge of the seat and kept the other on the Winchester resting on his lap.
“That back there is Mick.” Buck nodded toward the shotgun rider seated behind them with the baggage.
Clay turned and nodded, and Mick did the same. The man looked to be near thirty, Clay judged; he handled the rifle in his hand as if he knew what to do with it, and Clay was glad for that.
“Keep a sharp eye out behind for us,” Clay called. Mick nodded and turned to face the rear.
“Expecting trouble today?” Buck shouted above the noise of the horses’ hooves, the straining of the coach and the rushing wind.
“Always expecting it” Clay glanced at Buck seated to his right. He held the reins in powerful, callused hands, telegraphing his instructions to the team with expert care. A battered hat rode low on his forehead, and a gray-and-white beard covered his face.
“Morgan’s Crying it again? Just got robbed yesterday.”
Clay looked back at the strongbox. “He’s determined to send it out again today.”
“That’s Morgan.” Buck shook his head. “Gets what he wants.”
“Comes with having money,” Clay commented.
“Maybe so. But you don’t have to lie and cheat and walk over everybody in your path to get where you want to be.”
Clay hadn’t heard anyone speak out against the man before. “I take it you don’t think much of Jack Mor-gan.
“Nobody does,” Buck grumbled. “But nobody can afford to say it out loud.”
The man who owned most of the town carried a lot of weight, and after what he’d seen of Jack Morgan, nothing Buck said surprised him.
“Course after every one of them robberies, Morgan has to shut down the mine for a day while all his men come to town and get their pay in person. Morgan don’t like that” Buck grunted, “Serves him right, if you ask me.
The stagecoach pressed farther away from town, bobbing and swaying with the dirt road cut through the hills. Dense trees lined both sides of the route, then gave way to meadows, an occasional farmhouse, hills and valleys. The afternoon sun had reached its peak and was dipping toward the horizon. Clay kept a keen eye on the road, assessing likely spots for an ambush.
“Coming up on a bad spot.” Buck nodded ahead. “Benette’s Bottom. We got hit there a couple of weeks back.”
“By the Schoolyard Boys?”
“Yeah, that’s what people call them, I reckon.”
“Anybody hurt?”
“Shoot, no.” Buck chuckled. “Everybody’s making them boys out to be bad criminals, but they never even fired a shot. The way I hear it, they never once fired on anybody.”
Clay
