Mayfield cared about that.
Up and down the streets he went, visiting every saloon he encountered, but there was no sign of Toole or his men.
At less crowded saloons, he asked bartenders if they’d seen anyone fitting the description of Toole or the others, but he came up empty again and again.
That was all right.
He was nothing if not patient.
He would continue his survey. Then, if he uncovered nothing, he would find clean lodging, eat at one of Leadville’s fine restaurants, retire early, and begin again in the morning.
Never hurry, never worry.
Sooner or later, Toole would try something outrageous. And then Mayfield would have him.
It wasn’t a question of if. It was a question of when.
The marshal continued on his inexorable way.
He hesitated only once, while scanning a saloon. He felt someone looking at him and turned just as the man ducked out of the establishment and onto the street, which had grown crowded with merrymakers.
Mayfield’s intuition prickled.
He stepped in that direction, certain the man had recognized him and bolted to avoid contact.
He followed out of curiosity, knowing, even though he’d only seen the man from behind, that it couldn’t have been one of Toole’s gang. Whoever he was, he’d been far too tall for anyone in Toole’s gang.
He was likely just a miner, because he was hatless and filthy.
By the time Mayfield had pushed through the crowd and crossed the room and stepped out onto the street, there was no sign of the tall man.
Which was understandable, given the time it had taken and the big crowd out there.
Less understandable was the feeling that lingered, the sense that he’d missed something important, something significant.
Honestly, just for a second, the man had reminded him of Conn Sullivan.
Of course, that was impossible, because Conn Sullivan was dead and buried, sixty miles south of here in what had been the Sierra Perdida Mine.
44
Rafe couldn’t believe his eyes or his luck.
Then again, he’d always been lucky.
Not the way most folks talked about luck. Most folks, they said someone was lucky, they meant everything worked out for them.
With Rafe, sometimes that was true. Other times, like when the Toole deal went bad at the abandoned cabin, that was about as far from the truth as you could imagine.
But the thing was, luck was a powerful force in his life. Sometimes good, sometimes bad, but always there, as if he wasn’t even in charge of his life.
Oftentimes, it seemed to Rafe that he just sort of went from place to place and either got lucky or unlucky.
Either way, good or bad, it was luck. And often, whichever way it broke, Rafe got it in spades.
But this… this was about the best luck he’d ever had.
Because him and Toby hadn’t been holed up for even an hour on that hillside when the woman and the two young guys came riding in on the wagon.
