Murder -- Fiction; Mystery fiction; Western stories; Women journalists -- Fiction
The eyes of the two men met, and they both smiled. "The very questions
I asked," replied Westcott instantly. "In the instructions left Valois
was a check for five thousand dollars made to my order, to be forwarded
at once. Fred's destination was Sonora, Mexico, where he had some
large copper interests. He intended to look after these and return
here to Haskell within a week, or ten days. But the war in Mexico made
this impossible--once across the border he couldn't get back. He wrote
me, but evidently the letter miscarried."
"And Beaton missed him entirely."
"By pure luck. Fred phoned the New York Central for a lower to
Chicago, and they were all gone. Enright must have learned, in some
way, of his calling that office, and so informed Beaton, who took that
train. Later, from his own rooms, Cavendish secured accommodations on
the Pennsylvania."
He paused, endeavouring to see out through the window, hearing the hoof
beats of an approaching team.
"What's that, Pete?" he asked of Timmons, who was hovering as closely
as he dared. "Pretty late, isn't it?"
"Guests, I reckon; the Overland was three hours late; sure, they're
stoppin' yere."
CHAPTER XXXIV: MISS DONOVAN DECIDES
Two men came in through the door together, each with a small grip in
his hand, which Timmons took from them, and deposited beside the stove.
The larger wrote both names in the register, and then straightened up,
and surveyed the landlord.
"Any chance to eat?" he asked. "We're both of us about starved."
Timmons scratched his head.
"I reckon there's plenty o' cold provender out thar," he said
doubtfully, "an' maybe I could hustle you up some hot coffee, but we
don't aim ter do no feedin' at this time o' night. What's the matter
with the diner?"
"Hot box, and had to cut her off; be a good fellow, and hustle us up
something."
"I'll see what there is," and Timmons started for the kitchen, "but I
wouldn't wake Ma Timmons up fer a thousand dollars. She'd never git
over it."
The large man, a rather heavy-footed fellow, with scraggly grey
moustache, turned to his companion.
"Better luck than I expected at that, Colgate," he said, restored to
good humour. "The old duffer seems to be quite human."
His eyes caught sight of Cavendish, and hardened, the grizzly moustache
seeming to stiffen. His mouth was close to the ear of his companion,
and he spoke without moving his lips.
"Our bird; stand ready."
The three were talking earnestly, and he was standing before them
before any of the group marked his approach. His eyes were on
Cavendish, who instantly arose to his feet, startled by the man's
sudden appearance.
"There is no use making a scene, Burke," the big man said sternly, "for
my partner there has you covered."
"My name is not Burke; it is Cavendish."
"So I heard in Denver," dryly. "We hardly expected to find you here,
for we were down on another matter So you are not Gentleman Tom Burke?"
"No."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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