Chapter 37
Two hours later, Marshal Mayfield climbed down off his horse and took a close look at the caved-in mine.
The sharp, acrid smell of dynamite hung in the air.
Fresh dirt had been blown from the side of the hill, along with cracked-open rocks showing their light interiors.
The mouth of the mine was half closed, one thick timber busted open to reveal raw wood inside.
Within that half-closed space, dust still hung in the air.
This had just happened.
Someone had blown the mine with dynamite.
He took his time going over the area, studying the tracks of men and horses who’d passed this way over recent days.
He found where the outlaws had hidden their horses and followed their tracks to another spot, where it looked like Conn Sullivan and Bill Sheffield, each trailing a spare mount, had stowed their horses.
He also found where their boot tracks had come downhill to the mine.
So they stashed their horses up yonder then snuck down here, planning to take Toole and the others by surprise.
A risky plan, that, the sort of thing a man might do if he was emotionally involved, like Conn Sullivan no doubt had been.
They had gone into the mine, but they hadn’t come back out, because they hadn’t counted on the other set of tracks that ran up to the door and then jumped off to one side. This would have been Toole or one of his men tossing dynamite into the mine after them.
Mayfield followed these tracks back out to where Toole and his friends had hidden behind a heap of tailings, waiting for Sullivan and Sheffield to enter the mine and fall into their deadly trap.
Mayfield looked back and forth from the tracks to the collapsed mine, and everything was so clear, it was almost like watching it happen.
So Toole had known they were coming.
Probably read the paper, reckoned Blake had sold him out, then waited for Sullivan and Sheffield to show up.
Fools.
He’d figured Sullivan would get himself killed.
From everything he’d heard, the man was good with a gun, but sometimes, that wasn’t enough. He had clearly been in over his head here.
With men like Toole, you had to be cautious. You had to bide your time, keep an eye, and wait for them to slip up.
Then strike and wipe them out.
Sullivan and Sheffield had rushed things and gotten themselves killed.
Well, Mayfield would be careful not to make the same mistake.
First thing he had to do was figure out where they’d gone.
Probably hopped the Rio Grande line, he figured.
From Salida, they could have caught the morning train. By now, they would be halfway to wherever they wanted to go next.
Bold move, traveling through Fairplay, but Toole would be riding high now.
Such a risk would likely amuse him.
After this victory, he was probably feeling unstoppable. And in a little burg like Fairplay with only Marshal Andrews to brace them, he probably was.
Mayfield just hoped Toole kept feeling that way, because he would be less likely to cover his tracks and might take chances that would get him killed. Next, he’d probably try robbing a bank or a train.
The Tooles of the world always ended up trying to rob a bank or a train.
Probably a bank.
Hopefully, they’d get gunned down in the process and save Mayfield having to track them all over God’s green earth.
Mayfield cast one more glance at the collapsed mine and shook his head.
Fools.
Then he rode to Salida, where he went straight to the Rio Grande train station.
He asked the station agent if he’d seen a crew of rough men, probably four of them, one burly with a scarred-up face.
“Sure,” the man said. “They loaded onto the train this morning. Had a bunch of horses with them. Did they do something, Marshal?”
“Yes, they are wanted for murder, arson, horse theft, and a whole slew of other crimes.”
The man’s eyes bulged. “I didn’t know none of that, Marshal. Am I in trouble here?”
“No,” Mayfield said.
The station agent sighed. “Good. Because I don’t want no trouble. I got a wife and little ones at home.”
Mayfield nodded and endured the man. He had never understood why some folks thought their lives mattered more just because they’d bred progeny.
Men like Toole certainly didn’t care.
And neither, truth be told, did Mayfield. What he cared about was the law.
“Where did they go?” Mayfield said.
“Like I said, they went on the train.”
“What I mean is, what’s their destination? Where did they want to go on the train?”
“Oh,” the station agent said, nodding. “North, Marshal. Those boys are heading for Leadville.”
“When does the next train leave for Leadville?” Mayfield asked, figuring he knew the answer.
“Tomorrow morning,” the man said, confirming Mayfield’s guess. “Would you like a ticket?”
Mayfield shook his head and left the window, finished with the man.
Leadville was a little shy of sixty miles from here on horseback.
If he stayed in Salida overnight and boarded a train, he might get there a little earlier than he would by riding the whole way, but he didn’t want to pay for the ticket.
Jobs like this, when he answered a local lawman’s call and helped reestablish regional order, never caused legal trouble, but sometimes, it was tricky getting paid, let alone full reimbursement.
And if Judge Dobish handled it, which he likely would, Mayfield would never see a penny for the ticket.
So he would ride the sixty miles.
Which was fine.
Because what was the point of rushing?
He would get these men.
They were loud and incautious. Now, having killed Sullivan and Sheffield, they would grow even more brazen.
They rushed back and forth, making tracks, like they, too, understood they must be put down.
Yes, he would get them.
Slow and steady, slow and steady.