Chapter 29
“Your tea, sir,” the waitress said, setting a steaming mug on the table.
Looking up from his newspaper, U.S. Marshal Clayton Mayfield gave a slight nod. “Thank you, miss.”
“You sure you don’t want any food, sir?”
“No, thank you.”
“All right, sir. Well, you enjoy that tea and let me know if you change your mind, and I’ll bring you some eggs and bacon.”
Mayfield just smiled at that and let her go.
He wasn’t much of an eater. That went double for when he was hunting someone.
You need to stay hungry on the trail. Food kills hunger, dulls your edge.
So he stuck to tea.
He returned his attention to the newspaper and finished the article he’d been reading. It told all about how Conn Sullivan and his two friends had ridden down the line and mixed it up with the Blake brothers.
Conn Sullivan was a problem.
Of course, maybe he’d get lucky. Maybe Sullivan would wipe out Toole’s gang and save Mayfield the trouble.
More likely, Sullivan would get himself killed.
And that would be a pity. Because Mayfield still had unfinished business with Sullivan, who had shot and killed his cousin that night on the Arizona borderlands.
They called it self-defense, and maybe it was, but Mayfield’s cousin had been a good man, and as far as he was concerned, birds of a feather flock together.
Sullivan might have acted in self-defense, but he’d been riding with an outlaw. The world would have been a better place if they’d wiped out the whole outfit.
Of course, the law wouldn’t allow that, so Sullivan lived on.
But Mayfield hadn’t forgotten the way Sullivan had stood his ground, refusing to put his weapon on the ground until one of the other men put a barrel to the back of his head.
Mayfield hadn’t lowered his weapon. If Sullivan had lifted his muzzle, Mayfield would have killed him.
And based on their recent exchange in the street outside, Sullivan was obviously still holding a grudge.
That was all right. They could sort that out anytime Sullivan wanted.
Mayfield had let Sullivan and Sheffield ride out, figuring they probably knew more than they were letting on. Today, he would follow them like a hunter following his hounds.
Hounds point the way. The hunter does the killing.
And if he ran into Sullivan on the trail, after forbidding him to pursue Toole, well, that would be just fine. He’d publicly warned the man. Everyone had seen Sullivan ignore that warning.
Maybe they’d sort their differences along the way.
The notion appealed to Mayfield.
He’d set out after Toole. The Tooles of the world never quit coming. You had to keep chasing them and killing them if the West was ever going to be a place where good folks could live in peace.
So Toole was just another job to him. One more murderer to eradicate.
Sullivan, on the other hand, was unfinished business. And Mayfield hated unfinished business.
The notion of settling that account appealed to him more, even, than killing Toole. Which he would do, of course. He would not shirk in his duty. But he did hope Sullivan crossed him.
Not just to settle the account, either. Sullivan was sneaky. He might’ve avoided official charges so far, but he was a bad apple and a dangerous man. Better to settle his hash now, before he put together a gang and started real trouble.
These were Mayfield’s thoughts as he sipped his tea and read the rest of the paper, taking his time.
Never hurry, never worry.
He was a hunter. And the deadliest weapon of the hunter is patience.
But he did not dawdle. After tea, he left the café on three errands.
The first took him to the Fairplay livery, where he explained he needed to rent a durable steed and rode out on a big, white horse, heading south out of town on the second errand, which took him to the homestead of the victim, Conn Sullivan’s brother, where the widow and her recently arrived brothers were apparently trying to rebuild a home.
That’s what Mayfield had learned talking with folks in town, and as soon as he rode out the lane, he saw those reports had been true.
The woman and her brothers were hard at work cutting and dragging trees with a team of mules. Seeing Mayfield, they stopped and waited.
The boys waved, looking awed.
He’d noticed them on the train.
Their sister, on the other hand, did not look impressed. What she looked was irritated by the interruption.
She’s a good-looking woman despite her messy hair, dirty face, and attire—dungarees and a man’s work shirt.
Mayfield was surprised to see she wore a gunbelt and had a double-barrel shotgun slung over one shoulder.
These Sullivans were a hard lot.
“Ma’am,” Mayfield said, stopping a short distance away. “Men.”
“You’re Marshal Mayfield,” the younger boy blurted.
His brother elbowed him.
“That’s right, son. I am U.S. Marshal Clayton Mayfield, and I’m here to investigate the recent tragedy.”
“We thank you for coming, sir,” Mary Sullivan said, not looking thankful. For some reason, she looked wary, maybe even antagonistic, though she tried to conceal these feelings with a thin smile. “What can we do for you?”
He spent the next ten minutes interviewing her, having her tell what had happened here.
He could tell it was painful for her, but she held herself together and gave him complete answers, seeming to hold nothing back.
And yet her irritation held.
They went over the ground, visited the husband’s grave, and studied the tracks around the burned home and rebuilt corral, which held a few mules and a lone milk cow.
“We tried rounding up the cow last night,” the younger boy explained. “No luck. Then she just showed up this morning.”
“Looking for grain,” Mayfield said. “Hunting’s like that. You chase something too hard, you come up empty. Trick is to know what you’re after and what they want. Often as not, they’ll end up coming to you.”
“Is that your plan with Toole?” Mary Sullivan asked, letting some of her irritation slip into her voice. “Just wait for him to come to you?”
“You believe I should already be riding through the mountains?”
“That’s where they went.”
“Do you know where, exactly, they were headed?”
She shook her head. “I have no idea.”
Mayfield believed her.
“But I know one thing,” she said, drilling him with a hard gaze. “They aren’t here.”
“An astute observation, Mrs. Sullivan,” Mayfield said.
“At least Conn is after them,” she said, glancing toward the south. “I have faith in him.”
“Few things are more destructive than misplaced faith,” Mayfield said.
Now her anger came to the surface. “Why would you say that? At least he’s doing something about it. He’s already killed a few of them.”
Mayfield nodded. “He’s a killer. I’ll give him that. But it’s dangerous, putting your faith in a man like Conn Sullivan. Do you know who killers associate with? Other killers.”
He let her chew on that for a second. The boys flanked her, looking dumbstruck.
“I hear you’re a killer, too,” Mary Sullivan said. “Do you associate with killers?”
Mayfield smiled. “I associate with no one.”
“I heard you had words with Conn in town,” Mary Sullivan said, and Mayfield finally understood the source of her irritation toward him. “I heard you tried to stop him from hunting the men who did this.”
“Yes,” Mayfield said. “Vigilantism is against the law, ma’am. This is my job, not his.”
“Well, you sure are taking your sweet time about it. You should have waited a little longer. We would’ve had the cabin built. I could have invited you in for coffee.”
“I don’t drink coffee,” he replied. “I drink tea. But I can see I’m not wanted here. That’s all right. Wherever I go, I’m rarely wanted… even where folks need me most.”
“I also hear you had trouble with Conn,” Mary Sullivan said. “A grudge?”
“The past is the past,” Mayfield said. “But speaking of the past, you folks might want to reconsider the trust you put in Conn Sullivan. Like I said, killers associate with other killers. Sometimes, they split up. Get hard feelings. Sometimes, killers end up going after men they used to ride with.”
“What’s your point?” Mary Sullivan demanded.
Mayfield climbed back on top of the big, white horse. He liked the animal. It felt sturdy. “I heard the Sullivans were twins. You ever wonder why those men came here and killed your husband? You ever wonder if maybe they thought he was Conn?”
He turned the horse and rode off, not waiting for her response.