“You are incorrigible. And you’re obviously at loose ends. Why not go over to the Drinkwater and trip someone into falling down the stairs? Make sure you have your satchel in hand.”
Straightening, Gabriel posed with hand over heart in a flamboyant and aggrieved gesture. “Miss Burton, ma’am, you wound me. You truly wound me. To insinuate that I might deliberately—”
“I didn’t insinuate. I told you outright. I can’t help it; that’s my nature. Now go away.”
Shaking his leonine head with its mane of overlong hair, he made his next stop the Prairie Lot. Nothing much doing there, either. He partook of the saloon’s finest sampling of bourbon (only a few steps down in quality from what the hotel bar would offer) and waited hopefully for a fight to break out over who got to enjoy the favors of a certain soiled dove, or a gun battle to erupt over accusations of cheating from one of the poker players.
Alas and alack, no such luck. Only two regulars lounged in the dim corner, sipping their beer and mumbling desultorily, and nary a single soiled dove even showed up for duty. As for the gun battle during a card game, the tables were dusty and deserted, and sawdust lay on the floor, days old and barely trodden upon.
Business was abysmally slow, and the place was as dead as the proverbial doornail.
Gabe, realizing by now that someone could have shot a moose in the darkened interior without any patron turning a hair, decided it was time to move on.
The Mercantile, sparked with Ben’s convivial presence, might have provided some entertainment for a poor southern gentleman riddled by ennui and apathy. Except that Ben was still absent, setting up his second store and probably busier than a one-armed paper hanger. No point in paying a call there.
“Heard any word back yet?”
He might just as well pop in on his good friend Paul. With both deputies nowhere to be seen, he found the sheriff tilted comfortably back in his rolling chair, ankles propped atop his desk, hat slanted down over his face for shade and solitude. Obviously taking a nap. Or about to.
“Word?” Yawning, Paul attempted a swift return to consciousness by changing position: sitting up straight, with boots swung flat to the floor.
“Wake up, Lawman. What if I was a burglar, bent on robbin’ the place blind?”
“Then I’d say you were prob’ly pretty poor at your job, considerin’ this here’s a jail, without piles of money sittin’ around, and not a bank. Somethin’ I can do for you, Doc?”
“Would I be here otherwise? But, first, you got any coffee?”
Paul squinted at a small cast iron stove across the room. Cool enough for a fire to burn; warm enough that wood needn’t be replenished on a regular basis. He couldn’t remember the last time the coffeepot had been refilled. Or even cleaned. “Help yourself.”
Grunting, Gabe complied. Then, without so much as a by-your-leave, he pulled up a chair near the desk and settled himself in for the long haul. “Last we discussed, after that dinner at the Sarsaparilla with your ravishin’ betrothed a few days ago, you planned on checkin’ out this newest arrival to our little hamlet. Remember?”
“Yeah, Gabe, I remember. I don’t often forget important stuff like that.”
“All right, then.”
The sheriff leaned forward enough to pull a few papers into his grasp and briefly peruse the written notes before tossing the miniscule stack toward his visitor. “Have a look-see. More than I was able to dig up on Quinn Hennessey, anyway.”
Gabriel’s eager gaze scanned the report. “Subject: Reese Barclay.”
Residing most recently at 206 Fairway Lane in Denver, Colorado, for the past year. Occupation of last six months: purveyor for Flintlock Assay Office; prior employment, also of six months’ duration: sawyer at McEwen’s Lumber Mill. Physical description: blonde hair, green eyes, faded scar on cheek; 6 feet in height, 180 pounds; age 25. No criminal record.
“Ahuh. So far, so good. Got anything b’fore that?”
“Keep readin’.”
Residence for the preceding year: Birdsong, New Mexico Territory, in an adobe building with no designated number on an unnamed street. Employed for four months as manager of the Brittany Stagecoach Station. Earlier employment, no dates listed, at a gunsmith shop. Same basic physical description, but with less weight and heft to his frame.
Previously found as a resident of San Francisco, California; no address given. Employed for a time at one of the general stores; for a time at a telegraph office; for a time disappearing off the map, as did many a minor, to pan for gold.
“The last part is kinda sketchy,” complained Gabriel, rending his brows to read the scrawl. “The feller jumps around like a bug on a hot rock. So whatdya have that’s earlier?”
“Nothin’.”
“Nothin’? You mean this here Reese Barclay character just up and appeared outa nowhere in San Fran like a newborn babe?”
“Yup. That’s about it. Been sendin’ telegrams all over creation, tryin’ to track him down, and this was where he first showed his face.”
“Huh. Well, I’ll be hornswoggled.” Plainly, Gabe was being set back on his heels. “A man with a past, that he ain’t willin’ to share with nobody.”