Laurel swore under her breath and finally opened her eyes. Nothing had changed. That was still her handwriting on the paper, still the same message. Did Mr. Stonechurch blame her? Laurel felt selfish for asking the question, even if she didn’t say it aloud. The miners were out the money they’d earned, money they depended on to feed themselves and their families, to buy goods and services, to drink themselves unconscious if they had a mindto, and she was wondering if Ramsey Stonechurch held her responsible. Worse, did he suspect her? His message gave no indication of what he was thinking. The theft had happened, and it had happened at her station. The Pharaoh knew that much. Laurel reasoned that Brady must have been able to account for the contents of the box before that and had convinced Mr. Stonechurch that he was not the thief.
Could it be a mere coincidence that Mr. Pye chose to leave the very same night that the robbery was discovered? If he hadn’t absented himself from the station, she would have cast about for another suspect. It was true that Mr. Pye made her uneasy, but for all of that, it didn’t make him a thief. His disappearance pointed to guilt, but she still had to consider other possibilities before she sent a reply to Ramsey Stonechurch.
So whatwerethe other possibilities? First, there was Brady. He had the easiest access to the strongbox. He knew what he was carrying. How many other people actually knew that the mining payroll was on the stage? She certainly hadn’t. Brady hadn’t hinted at it, and it was not something she ever asked about. The fact that he had no one riding shotgun would seem to indicate that hewasn’tcarrying a strongbox. Perhaps that was why he had been reluctant to allow McCall Landry to join him on the box. Brady had wanted to maintain the deception that he had nothing on the stage worth stealing. That made sense to Laurel, and she dismissed Brady as a suspect. It would have broken her heart if she hadn’t come to that conclusion.
She considered Rooster and the boys and simply couldn’t see her way clear to considering them suspects. She could understand that Mr. Stonechurch might want to question them, but she’d never gone wrong by depending on them and she’d stake her reputation on their innocence. To continue the exercise, Laurel even considered Mrs. Lancaster for all of two seconds. Not only had the cook not had the opportunity, but her aching knees would have prevented her from hauling herself up to the box.
Laurel did not dismiss the passengers out of turn, but she couldn’t recall that any one of them had returned to the stagecoach alone, and the salesman was the only person with the means of hiding the money. His case would have served the purpose, but there was no evidence of discarded medicine bottles on the property. It just wasn’t practical.
How had Mr. Pye done it? How had he known that Brady’s stage was carrying the payroll? What opportunity had he found that no one had seen him in the commission of the robbery?
Laurel stood, returned to the telegraph machine, and composed the message in her mind before she tapped it out, then she went to the dining room to say farewell to the guests she had neglected since their arrival.
***
McCall Landry heard the tapping at the door but didn’t recognize it as a bid for his attention until someone shouted his name. He stirred, rolled over, and pulled a blanket over his head. It didn’t matter to him that sunlight was slipping through the cracks in the boards of the tack room. He was owed a full night’s sleep even if night for him ended at noon. “Go away!”
“Can’t!” came the voice. “Mr. Stonechurch is asking for you.”
“Yeah? What’s he asking?”
“Not my business, but he wants you straightaway at the mining office.”
Hoping the voice would leave, Call didn’t respond. There was a long pause and then the voice came again, this time with an edge of pleading.
“You gotta get up. I’m expected to wait until you do.”
“I’m up.” Call buried his shoulder into the bunk’s thin mattress.
“No you’re not. You’re lying.”
“Jesus.” Groaning, he flopped onto his back and lowered the blanket. He was thirty and his bones felt as ifthey were on the wrong side of sixty. Riding on the box had taken a toll after so long an absence from that work. He was surprised he didn’t rattle on his way to the door. Opening it, he pointed to himself and said, “I’m up.” He closed the door in the kid’s face—he couldn’t have been more than twelve—and then sat down on the bunk to pull on his boots. He tucked in his shirt, buttoned his vest, and fastened his gun belt. After he put on his jacket and hat, Call slung his duster over his shoulder, picked up his shotgun and valise, and walked out of the tack room. It wasn’t a complete surprise to find the kid still standing at his post. He’d known soldiers with less commitment to duty. “I’m not going anywhere until I wash up,” Call said. “Show me.”
Call followed the boy to the pump and privy and relieved himself before he washed his face and hands. Afterward, he ran damp fingers through his hair and reset his hat at the angle he preferred. The kid lingered nearby. Call ignored him, taking his time to comb out his mustache and beard. He was particular about some things, not so much about others.
“Can I get some breakfast?” he asked, repacking his bag and tossing it to the kid.
“Don’t you think you should get yourself over to the mining office?”
“I do and I will. After I’ve had something to eat. I’ll be human after I’m fed.” His stomach growled loudly enough for the kid to hear it, supporting Call’s claim. “See?”
“Yes, sir. Follow me. The cook will rustle you up something. We’re between stages so it’ll be potluck.”
“Suits me fine.”
As it turned out, it was better than leftovers from the previous meal, and after a short stack of flapjacks dripping in maple syrup, a couple of crisp strips of bacon, half a can of peaches, and two cups of black coffee, Call was ready to answer the Pharaoh’s summons. He left his shotgun, bag, and duster in the safekeeping of the station owner with the understanding that he’d collect hisbelongings if he stayed in Stonechurch. Whether or not he remained in town was still a question in his mind even if Ramsey Stonechurch offered him a job.
It was going on noon when Call arrived at the mining office. A man sitting behind a desk covered in open ledgers greeted Call and introduced himself as Frank Fordham, the bookkeeper for Stonechurch Mining. Frank had a pencil behind his ear and one in his hand, which he hastily dropped to greet Call. His spectacles rested against his forehead, but he patted down the desktop looking for them before he returned to his seat. Call touched his own forehead to give Frank a hint, which the bookkeeper accepted sheepishly.
“You go on in,” said Frank. He took the pencil from behind his ear and used it to point to the door to an adjoining room. “Mr. Stonechurch has been expecting you.”
Call was already opening the door when he realized he hadn’t actually given Mr. Fordham his name. He looked back over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised in question, but the bookkeeper waved him on.
“Close the door,” Stonechurch said and pointed to a spindly straight back on the opposite side of his desk.
Call looked suspiciously at the chair he was offered, wondering if it was sturdy enough to hold him. He chose the green-painted companion chair instead because it had thicker, more substantial legs. He sat and the chair wobbled on those sturdy but uneven legs.
Stonechurch chuckled, enjoying himself. “There’s a lesson there, Mr. Landry. If you’re going to work for me, it’s better if you trust me.”
