“Status of workers and damage?” I said.

Virgil nodded to Charlie.

Charlie rubbed his hands together, pounded out the note on the key, then got to his feet.

“Be right back,” Charlie said. “Kind of on the cold side. Get my robe.”

Charlie ducked into the back room and came out a second later, tying the belt of the robe around his waist and carrying a pair of slippers. He dropped the slippers on the floor, slid his feet into them, then sat back at the telegraph desk and faced the key and sounder.

We all focused on the sounder and within a minute it went off and Charlie wrote the note.

“Cleanup has been under way . . . Bridge completely gone.”

Virgil looked at me.

“Respond, Has Sheriff Driskill been seen at the bridge camp?” Virgil said.

I nodded.

Charlie keyed the note. Waited and then replied, when the sounder replied.

Charlie relayed the code.

“No report of Sheriff Driskill of recent,” Charlie said. “Can check with camp and let you know right away.”

Charlie looked up to Virgil and me.

“The way station is about thirty minutes from the bridge, so some of what will be in response may not be immediate.”

Virgil nodded.

“How many dead, injured?” Virgil said.

Charlie keyed out the note and the sounder immediately sounded back.

“Three dead,” Charlie said. “No injuries.”

“Who were the raiders?” Virgil said.

Charlie tapped out Virgil’s request and then spoke out the words as he wrote the sounder’s reply.

“It is uncertain who they were or how many . . . Dynamite placed on the bridge in the night . . . Bombers blew up bridge in the a.m. . . . Three men, early workers, were on the bridge . . . They were casualties of the explosion.”

“Is G. W. Cox on location?”

Virgil looked at me.

“Curtis Whittlesey said Cox is the contractor,” I said. “Was an attorney, been here for a while in Appaloosa and won the bid to build the bridge.”

Virgil nodded.

Charlie keyed the note.

The sounder sounded back and Charlie shook his head.

“As of an hour ago, last report, Mr. Cox was not at the bridge,” Charlie said.

— 27 —

It was close to midnight by the time Virgil and I left the Western Union office.

“Why would somebody do this?” I said.

“Got to be some reason,” Virgil said.

We stayed on the porch and watched it snow for a moment, thinking.

“Cox lives in the big house on the corner of Fourth Street,” I said. “Maybe we let him know about this?”

Virgil nodded.

“Maybe he knows something,” I said. “Something we need to know.”

Virgil nodded.

“Maybe,” he said, and we stepped off the porch.

We walked to Cox’s place. It was a three-story structure toward the north end of town. We climbed the dark steps and I knocked on the door.

It took a while before a light appeared at the top of the steps. Slowly a man descended and came to the door.

“Territorial marshals,” I said. “Mr. Cox?”

We heard the door handle twist. It cracked open a little and a small black man peered out at us.

“No, sir,” he said. “I’m Mr. Cox’s butler, Jessup. Mr. Cox is asleep.”

“We need to talk to him,” Virgil said.

“Now?” Jessup said.

“Now,” Virgil said.

“Let him know it’s important,” I said.

Jessup looked to me, then to Virgil, and opened the door.

“Come in,” he said. “This way, please.”

Jessup led us. We walked through a set of doors leading into a stately office with books from floor to ceiling. Jessup set the lamp down and lit two lamps that were sitting on the corners of a huge desk.

“I’ll get Mr. Cox,” Jessup said.

Cox’s office was a shrine to his accomplishments. We walked around the room, looking at all the books.

“Goddamn library,” I said.

“Is,” Virgil said.

Behind the desk were gilded framed placards. I moved closer to read them.

“Graduate of Harvard University,” I said. “Certificate of excellence from Philadelphia Law. He’s no slouch.”

“Look here,” Virgil said.

I walked over to where Virgil was standing near the front window. Tacked on the wall were drawings of the Rio Blanco Bridge and sitting on a table in front of the window was an impressive wooden model of the bridge.

“Damn,” I said. “Something.”

“Was,” Virgil said.

“Yep.”

“No more,” Virgil said.

“Goddamn shame,” I said.

“Lot of work,” Virgil said.

We heard footsteps coming down the stairs, and in a moment G. W. Cox walked into the office, followed by Jessup.

Cox was very tall and thin, with broad shoulders. He was wearing a proper English robe with velvet lapels over a dark-colored silk sleeping gown. He looked to be in his mid-sixties. His hair was silver but his eyebrows, sideburns, and mustache were dark. His nose was long and pointed, with a high ridge in the middle. He had an instant, distinguished air of sophistication about him.

“Gentlemen?” Cox said in a deep southern baritone. “Jessup here said you men need to see me.”

“We do,” Virgil said.

Virgil stayed near the window next to the bridge model, and I moved toward Cox.

“We’re territorial marshals out of Appaloosa,” I said. “I’m Deputy Marshal Everett Hitch and this is Marshal Virgil Cole.”

“G. W. Cox,” he said.

I shook his hand.

“What is it? What’s happened?”

I looked to Virgil.

“We got word,” Virgil said. “A telegram from the Rio Blanco Bridge way station. Two days ago, the bridge was destroyed. Three men dead.”

Cox didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at us with a blank expression on his face.

“I’m sorry?” Cox said with his slow long drawl. “Could you repeat that? Two days ago, whhhuuut?”

— 28 —

Virgil nodded to the model in front of the window.

“This bridge was blown up,” Virgil said. “Three men died, they were killed.”

Cox shook his head.

“This can’t be,” Cox said.

Virgil nodded.

“’Fraid so,” Virgil said.

“Two days ago?” Cox said.

Virgil nodded.

“Any idea who would do this?” Virgil said.

Cox looked to the floor for a long moment. He shook his head slightly, then walked to the big desk and dropped into his chair.

“Leave us, Jessup,” Cox said.

Jessup just looked at Cox for a moment.

“Now,” Cox said. “I don’t need you standing there looking like you are looking. Just leave.”

“Certainly, Mr. Cox, sir,” Jessup said, and closed the doors behind him.

“You know this to be a fact?” Cox said.

“Not seen it firsthand,” Virgil said, “but that was the telegram.”

Cox placed both of his hands squarely on the desk in front of him.

“Why am I just receiving this information?” Cox said.

“The lines were down,” I said.

“Just recently fixed,” Virgil said.

“When the communication connection was reestablished,” I said, “we were contacted.”

Cox stared at me blankly.

“To confirm, we made contact with the way station just a while ago,” I said. “The bridge being blown up and deaths were confirmed.”

“Got any idea why somebody’d do this?” Virgil said.

Cox looked away, then leveled a look at Virgil but didn’t respond to Virgil’s question.

“You got enemies?” Virgil said.

“I’ve spent most my life putting people in jail, Marshal,” Cox said. “I have plenty of enemies.”

Cox stood. He put his hands in the pockets of his Englishman’s robe and walked slowly over to the bridge model. He looked at the model with a sad expression on his face as he shook his head slightly from side to side.

“Walton Wayne Swickey,” Cox said.

“Who’s Walton Wayne Swickey?” Virgil said.

Cox stared at the bridge model, not saying anything.