on the hill. With the right eyepiece he’d be able to see inside the windows of the house. When thoughts of Sara, of which room was hers, attempted to wheedle their way into his mind, he shifted his gaze to the hillside.
“Winston said you were dead.”
“Perhaps I was,” Crofton answered. “To him.” He walked to the window on the other wall. This one overlooked the train tracks leading up the hill and into a thick forest. The trees were tall, and went on for as far as he could see. Winston had certainly picked out the right spot for his lumber mill. The mountainside appeared to have a never-ending supply of timber.
“Did he know?”
Crofton turned. Bugsley appeared more nervous. The truth must be hitting him, and he wasn’t liking it. “Know that I was alive?” Crofton asked.
“Yes.”
Shrugging his shoulders, Crofton took a step to the desk and flipped through a few pages of one of the open ledgers, not really seeing what was written on the pages, but pretending to. He’d wondered if his father had always known that he was alive. His mother claimed Winston knew and didn’t want anything to do with him, but she’d say most anything, truth or lie, depending on what suited her best. He’d long ago learned to never lay much on her word.
“I guess we’ll never know, will we?” Crofton closed the book, letting the snap of the cover echo through the room. He knew. Winston had known.
Bugsley stiffened. “Well, you can’t just waltz in here—”
“Yes,” Crofton said. “I can.”
Squaring his shoulders, Bugsley shook his head. “Winston left me in charge, every time he went out of town he left me in charge.”
“He’s not merely out of town this time, is he?” Crofton had seen enough to know what he was up against when it came to Bugsley Morton. The man was afraid of losing and wasn’t about to go down easily. The black hat that hung on the hook near the door was the same one he’d been wearing at the funeral. Winston may have left Bugsley in charge when he went out of town, but he obviously didn’t let the man in on every detail of his business. Some things never changed. Crofton had been counting on that.
Holding back a grin, he walked to the open doorway. “My lawyer will arrive later this week. Until then, business should continue as usual.”
“Whoa up there. You can’t—”
“Yes, I can.” Pausing long enough to tip the brim of his hat, Crofton said, “Good day, Mr. Morton.” Just because the opportunity was there, he added, “I expect you to put everything back where you found it.”
On the ground floor he nodded at Walter, who was still standing behind the counter, board stiff and staring at him like he was a ghost. In a sense he was. He hadn’t been Winston’s son in a long time, but it was time to reenter that role.
The weight on his shoulders seemed to lessen a bit as he stepped outside. The crisp mountain air was filled with the sweet smell of freshly cut wood, and more memories returned. For the first time in a long time, they didn’t make his gut tighten. The past no longer mattered nearly as much as the future.
Considering December had arrived, he’d expected snow this high up, and had appreciated the weather’s cooperation during his trek here. He hoped the warmer temperatures held out a while longer as he mounted his horse.
His next stop was the livery. He’d paid a few extra coins the past couple of nights to bed down in the hayloft. The owner had been more than happy to oblige, just as Mel had said in his letter.
While climbing the ladder into the loft, Crofton once again questioned if his father could have been behind Mel’s death. He’d gone back and forth with the idea for some time, and after meeting Bugsley Morton face-to-face, was leaning toward the possibility. Or maybe he was thinking Bugsley could be behind it. That would mean his father had been, too. Winston had always called the shots and that wouldn’t have changed.
He, however, had changed. He was no longer a kid being dropped at one school after the other, wishing his father hadn’t died. He was no longer a young man wondering why his father had abandoned him and why his mother lied about it, either. He was older and wiser, and knew his path had little to do with either parent. Once this railroad fiasco was over that is.
Crofton gathered his bundle of dirty clothes. He hadn’t worried about leaving them here, figured if someone took them, they needed an old shirt and pair of pants more than he did. But, he’d never left messes for others to clean up, and wasn’t going to start now. Perhaps because he’d been a product of someone’s mess his entire life.
After thanking the livery owner for his hospitality, who stared at him as if seeing double now that his face wasn’t covered with scraggly whiskers, Crofton made his way up the main street to Buster’s Saloon. Mel’s letter had said he was meeting a man there and would write more afterward. Of course, more never came. Instead of a letter, a week after his last post, Mel’s horse had wandered into the yard, still saddled. Gun still in the scabbard. A day later, Crofton had found Mel’s body. Halfway between home and Royalton. Shot in the back.
After tethering his horse to the hitching post, Crofton entered the saloon. Someone had preceded him. The silence that fell upon the crowded room told him who even before he saw Bugsley Morton at a table with three men dressed in suits. They could have been at the funeral, but his gut said they were dressed in suits because they were railroad men not mourners. The fourth stranger at the table wasn’t a mourner, nor a railroad man. He was a gunslinger. A well-known one. If rumors were correct, Woody Wilson was on the Santa Fe Railroad payroll.
Here for only one thing at the moment, Crofton walked to the bar and ordered a shot of whiskey. Holes were burning in his back, but he paid them no mind as the man behind the bar took the money he’d laid down and poured amber-shaded whiskey into a shot glass until it sloshed over the rim. After downing the whiskey in one gulp, Crofton set the glass down. “I’d like to buy a round.”
The barkeep frowned. “For who?”
Crofton twirled a finger in the air.
Frowning so deep his forehead had crevices, the barkeep asked, “The entire room?”
Crofton nodded.
“Why?” the man asked over the mumbling that circled the room.
Crofton slapped several bills on the counter, and pointed to his glass. “Line them up,” he said. “Just like that one.”
The barkeep shrugged and started setting out glasses. Like horses smelling water, men gravitated toward the bar. Crofton took his glass and stepped aside, making more room as the bartender poured whiskey into glasses from bottles in both hands.
“Step up, gentlemen,” Crofton said loudly. “I’d like to make a toast.”
Bugsley and the men at his table hadn’t moved. Crofton hadn’t expected them to, and made no point in singling them out until every other man in the saloon had made their way to the bar and now held a shot of whiskey.
“I’d like to make a toast.” Crofton held up his glass and looked at Bugsley. “To Winston Parks, may he rest in peace.”
Men shouting, “Hear, hear!” held up their glasses.
“He
