“Should be to the bridge camp by a little after noon, I figure.”

Virgil nodded, holding his hands around the warm tin cup as he sipped his coffee. Cox just stared at the fire.

“Unless it’s a damn sight clearer when we get there,” I said, “it’ll be hard to see much with this weather.”

Virgil looked up.

“It will,” Virgil said. “Weather’s made itself more than comfortable.”

“Damn sure has,” I said. “Imagine it’s just as bad at the bridge.”

“There is no bridge,” Cox said solemnly.

I looked to Cox. He was still staring at the fire.

“No,” I said.

Virgil nodded and sipped his coffee. Cox remained staring at the fire.

“River’s deep and wide,” Virgil said.

“That it is,” Cox said.

“Deep gorge,” Virgil said.

“That, too,” Cox said. “This was to be a major accomplishment. The bridge was over two hundred feet long.”

Virgil nodded a little and sipped on his coffee.

“This Swickey fella,” Virgil said. “You know anything about his spread? His operation on the other side of the river?”

Cox met Virgil’s eye.

“I don’t,” Cox said.

“It was shared with us,” Virgil said, “he owns damn near everything on the other side of the bridge.”

“I heard he was a cattleman,” Cox said. “At least I heard that is how he attained his wealth, but as I said, I know nothing of his life and how he leads it or where he leads it.”

Virgil just looked at Cox and didn’t say anything else.

It was real quiet out with the snow falling gently.

Our horses and the mule stood stock still with their heads down. Nothing was moving, no birds, no breeze.

The only sound was the quiet crackle of the fire burning under the grate the coffee pot was sitting on.

“How was it, Mr. Cox, you won the contract to build the bridge?” Virgil said.

“It’s what I do,” Cox said. “This is my business. I have the experience, the expertise.”

“And Swickey?” I said. “He didn’t?”

“That’s right,” Cox said. “Since I started in the contracting business I’ve built many projects, mostly bridges. I had the résumé and Swickey did not.”

“How did you hear about this one?” Virgil said. “On the Rio Blanco?”

“I have connections in Washington, with Congress, I know where the appropriations are,” Cox said. “I know when there are projects. I know where to go, and most importantly, I know how to bid. Most I don’t have to bid because there are no other contractors bidding against me.”

“Not a bad business,” Virgil said.

“It’s not,” Cox said. “It is also a rewarding business. Build something and there it is. There it will be to help shape the future of this great country.”

“And that’s what got you to Appaloosa?” Virgil said. “The Rio Blanco Bridge?”

“It is,” Cox said.

“You moved to Appaloosa?” Virgil said.

Cox nodded.

“Yes,” Cox said. “I live where the projects are and then move on. The jobs I contract take a lot of time, so I’ve done my share of relocating, I can tell you.”

“How long have you been in Appaloosa?” Virgil said.

“On and off for nearly two years,” Cox said. “The bridge was in its final stages.”

“How much?” Virgil said.

“How much what?” Cox said.

“How much was this contract for?”

“Roughly two hundred thousand dollars,” Cox said.

“Lot of money,” Virgil said.

“It is,” Cox said.

We sat quiet for a bit, thinking about that.

“It was a big bridge,” Cox said.

— 31 —

The snow kept falling and it was slow going for the rest of the journey to the bridge camp. When we arrived, it was two in the afternoon. The camp was a settlement of twenty-plus tents, small wooden shacks, and a few large beamed structures. Smoke and steam rose from the encampment and blended seamlessly with the falling snow.

When we entered the camp a large black dog ran out to meet us. He barked and spun and barked some more as we rode through the tents and sheds.

A large man emerged from one of the wooden structures. A sign above the door let us know the building was the bridge office. The man had long blond hair and a long beard. He was without a coat or hat and had only the top of his long johns covering his muscled torso.

“Come here, Gip,” he hollered to the dog. “Now.”

He put his arm around Gip’s neck as we neared. He held on to the dog as he looked to us riding in.

“That you, Mr. Cox?” he said.

Virgil, Cox, and I were covered white with sticky snow.

“It is, Gains, it’s me,” Cox said.

“Get, Gip,” Gains told the dog. “Go on, get.”

Gip lowered his head like he wanted to play.

“Get,” Gains said with a point. “Go.”

Gip looked at us. He turned a few excited turns, then obeyed Gains and moved on as he was asked.

We angled our horses to a hitch in front of the office and stopped.

Gains helped Cox off his horse.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, sir,” Gains said.

“No,” Cox said. “Neither did I, Gains.”

Gains looked to Virgil and me.

“You must be the marshals?” Gains said.

“They are, Gains,” Cox said. “This is Marshal Cole and Deputy Marshal Hitch. Gains’s my foreman on the site.”

Gains nodded.

“Come on in,” Gains said. “Warm up. I’ll get your animals looked after.”

Gains whistled to a young fella walking through the encampment.

“Daniel,” Gains said, “take these horses to the stock shed. Take care of them.”

“Yes, sir,” Daniel said.

Gip ran over to Daniel and lowered his head to play as we ridded ourselves of as much snow as we could, then stepped into the office.

The office had a hard-packed dirt floor and a stove in the corner made from a huge round steel cylinder. Next to it was a stack of dried wood. The room was cluttered with books and papers. Scattered on the tables and tacked on the walls were construction drawings, like those on the walls of Cox’s office in Appaloosa.

“Where is the wire office?” Virgil said.

“Just past us a piece,” Gains said. “Up the road here a half-mile on the way to Fletcher Flats. It’s a long loop off the Santa Fe.”

“We contacted them last night,” Virgil said. “Asked about Sheriff Driskill and his deputies. Wire back said as of last report, there was no sign of them.”

Gains shook his head.

“No, sir, we haven’t seen them,” he said. “They’ve not been here.”

Virgil said, “They came up here looking for a fella named Lonnie . . .”

Virgil looked to me.

“Carman.”

“Lonnie Carman?” Gains said.

“Yep,” I said. “His wife expected him home days ago and was afraid for him, demanded the sheriff find him.”

“He did his shift and left,” Gains said.

Virgil looked at me.

“Any idea where he might be?”

“No,” Gains said.

“Maybe Driskill found Lonnie and they’re back in Appaloosa by now?” I said.

“Not sure how we’d miss them,” Virgil said, then looked to Gains.

“Only one road between here and Appaloosa, ain’t there?”

Gains nodded.

“Only one road,” Gains said, “but if you know it, there is a shortcut, an alternate road that runs parallel. If you go that route, you’re on that road for a good four hours but it takes off about forty minutes to an hour’s travel time. That shortcut’s a little rougher going.”

“Where is that?” I said.

“Twenty-mile section toward the middle of the route,” Gains said.

“How do you locate it?” Virgil said.

“It’s not real clear, and kind of hard to find unless you have traveled the road a lot,” Gains said. “And for sure it might, and most likely would be, hard to find it in this weather.”

“Not impossible, though,” Virgil said.

“No,” Gains said. “Not impossible.”

Virgil and I just kept looking at Gains.

“You want to know?” Gains said.

“Do,” Virgil said.

“You think maybe Driskill and his deputies might have . . .”