Chapter 48
Mayfield never heard the gunshots.
He was in a crowded saloon down the street, trying to understand the words of a big Swede who seemed to think he’d just seen someone who fit the description of Jesse Turpin.
Mayfield had squinted and tilted his ear toward the man’s strange voice, struggling to understand what he was saying, especially with the shouting and laughter and stomping and the violin music, and in this way, he missed the gunfire.
But in a town like Leadville, news of a shootout traveled almost as fast as the bullets themselves, and a short time later, an excited man with enormous buck teeth burst through the doors and shouted, “Fight at the Dusty Nugget! It’s a shootout!”
That cleared the place.
Mayfield was one of the first out the door. He hit the street too late to see the winner of the fight riding off but in plenty of time to see onlookers standing there, pointing after him.
Mayfield followed the others across the street, moving with purpose and getting to the front of the pack.
When he pushed through the doors and saw the man lying dead on the floor, he realized he had, indeed, seen Conn Sullivan earlier.
It hadn’t seemed possible.
But it was.
Somehow, Conn Sullivan had survived the blast in the mine. Survived and dug out and learned Toole’s destination and gotten here already.
And he hadn’t just gotten here. He’d come all that way, tracked down Jesse Turpin, and killed him.
How?
Motivation, Mayfield assumed, pushing his way to the front of the men staring down at Jesse Turpin.
Conn Sullivan was motivated. He was a man on a mission of vengeance. And he was clearly every bit as deadly as folks said.
Which rankled Mayfield.
Because this was his job, not Sullivan’s. He’d warned him to stay out of it.
And now, there was a dead man lying on the floor. And not just any man. One of the men Mayfield was hunting.
One of the onlookers, a burly fellow a few inches taller than Mayfield, gave him a surly look and elbowed another man.
They started to back away from the scene.
“Wait,” Mayfield said, locking his gaze on the man who’d spoken. “You witnessed what happened here?”
“I didn’t see nothing,” the man said, surlier than ever, “lawdog.”
The way he spat the last word, it sounded like a challenge.
Mayfield stepped forward, grabbed a fistful of the man’s black hair, and slammed his face into the bar.
He felt the big man go loose in the knees and released him.
The man staggered but caught himself against the bar. When he looked up and blinked at Mayfield with an open mouth, a line of blood draining down between his eyes from the fresh gash in his forehead, all the fight had clearly gone out of him.
His buddy whined, “Hey now, mister. There’s no reason to get rough. Old Marlon, he just don’t like lawmen is all. That ain’t a crime, is it?”
“What happened here was a crime,” Mayfield said, gesturing toward the dead man on the floor. “A crime called murder.”
“It wasn’t no murder,” another man said. “They both wanted it. The one who killed him could have shot him straightaway, but he gave him a chance. Let him talk and everything. They both got off shots. It’s just the tall one hit the mark. More than once.”
Others nodded.
“Said this fella killed his brother,” another said, joining the retelling.
“Said he was gonna kill some other fellas that helped this one,” yet another said.
Mayfield nodded. He had them now. His eyes panned the men volunteering information, and he knew they would tell him everything they knew.
But Mayfield was a man of principle, so he wanted to hear from Marlon to make sure the man had learned his lesson.
“Where did he go?”
“West,” Marlon said, wiping blood from his face. “The fellas he’s hunting are holed up in Mercy Ridge.”
Mayfield glanced at the others, who verified this claim with nodding heads, talking over each other, telling him about the place and how to get there.
Mayfield thought about the big, white horse he’d left at the livery. It was a good animal. Sturdy, dependable. But he’d just ridden it sixty miles in two days.
“I need a horse,” he announced. “Now.”