Chapter Nineteen
The well-dressed man was anything but this morning, as he strolled down the wooden walk along 3rd Street; one of the main thoroughfares in town. His worn work pants, and faded plaid shirt were very different than the bespoke suits he normally wore. Instead of his grey calfskin gloves he had put on utilitarian black cowhide gloves. He didn't like how the attire felt against him, but it made it easy for him to blend into the populace of Georgetown.
The sky was a brilliant blue, with the sun beating down, highlighting the dust clouds being stirred up from the dirty street. The warmth of the sun's rays was a contrast to the cool air of the mountains. The breeze wafted through the few trees that grew in clumps with skinny white trunks. Their leaves were various shades of gold, which quaked and rustled with the wind.
The man didn't notice any of this though, as he cut over to Taos Street, where most of the commercial businesses were, to put his plan into place. If Heath had been killed in Denver, if Abner hadn't lost his edge – the man seethed inwardly – he wouldn't have to be trudging the dusty street in rough clothing. The instigator had wanted Heath killed in Denver, to keep him from going to Georgetown.
The well-dressed man had covered his tracks well, but had not counted on Heath, with expertise and experience in mining. Last night he had received, from one of his sources, the information that Heath had been out at the processing sites, examining the equipment. That piece of news had caused the well-dressed man to move up his plans, for killing Heath. It had to be done before Heath could get back to Denver and look in the files; then it would be all over.
There were several saloons on the street, but the instigator walked towards the end of Taos Street. The saloon there was rougher than the others, being further away from the more respectable businesses. He had seen the crush of horses and wagons around the inadequate tethering bar; the men were drawn by the cheapness of the beer. Smiling evilly, he walked to the edge of the street, pleased at the thought of the outcome of his endeavor.
Heath Barkley walked across 3rd Street, liking how he didn't need to rely so often on the cane he still carried; he turned his face up to the golden sun. His mood was good because Sarah had woken up this morning, feeling hungry, which indicated the altitude sickness had finally passed. He had brought up a tray with some plain toast and tea, and had sat with her while she ate. She had listened to him talking about the town, and asked to go out to lunch with him that day.
He turned left on Taos Street, hoping he would get through his errands quickly, to get back in time for lunch. His conscience bothered him, at how he'd neglected Sarah on the trip; and that was before she came down with altitude sickness. That was not the only matter weighing on his mind, as he walked up the street, even as he enjoyed the smell of the fresh mountain air.
The condition of the processing equipment he'd seen yesterday, in his mine travels, was nagging at him. Heath knew that it wasn't a safety issue, and was not affecting output of ore at the mines. What was bothering him was the hydraulic thrasher at the last mine; he could have sworn he'd seen a purchase receipt for a replacement. His mind was good at remembering things, even small details.
Heath though admitted to himself that he had read copious amounts of information in the files. It was possible it had been a purchase order, or maybe even the request from the mine foreman for the thrasher. If it had only been the thrasher, but with the other older equipment he'd seen, Heath wondered if there was something he was missing.
"Mr. Barkley, Mr. Barkley." His thoughts were interrupted by a voice hailing him, and Heath had to work hard to keep his expression neutral as he turned and saw Detective Jack Regan. The suspicions that the man harbored about him had soured his opinion of the police officer. Heath noted that the man was still wearing a city suit and bowler, as if he was in Denver. However, his gun, which in Denver had been discretely tucked away in a shoulder holster under the jacket, was now displayed prominently on his hip, in a gun belt.
"Detective." Heath inclined his head slightly, hoping the police officer went about his way. Unfortunately, it appeared that he wasn't going to get his wish. Jack Regan fell into step with Heath, talking brightly.
"Georgetown is quite the place – growing fast. As part of my assignment here; besides you" Jack paused and gave Heath an amused glance "my superiors in Denver want me to liaison with the sheriff up here, to bring them up to speed on new procedures." It was clear that the policeman was enjoying himself at Heath's expense.
"How is your wife? I haven't seen her around." Jack questioned, his expression turning thoughtful in Heath's opinion. "Of course you two don't seem to spend a lot of time together, or socialize, from what I've seen. It would be interesting to hear her account of your relationship with Logan Dawes." The comment was delivered with a disarming grin; Heath knew it was anything but casual.
Heath wasn't sure if the detective was being deliberately provoking, but he took it as such, and worked hard not to respond. The last thing he wanted was to give Jack Regan the excuse to talk to Sarah. His wife was temperamental at best and downright hysterical at worst, Heath had discovered to his chagrin. Yes, she'd been all pleasing since he'd been shot, but Heath knew her moods could change in a snap.
"My wife is suffering from altitude sickness, Detective Regan. Therefore we have not been going out socially. As if it is any of your business." Heath answered, keeping his voice calm and matter-of-fact. "Have you had any problems with the altitude?" He wanted to change the subject, off of Sarah, but the policeman didn't take the hint.
"No, I haven't. Maybe only women are prone to the problem, or at least some women. Now your sister-in-law is not having any problems, but then she lived in Denver several years ago?" Jack didn't wait for Heath to reply. "I ran into her and your brother in the hotel restaurant yesterday; what a charming woman. They kindly invited me to supper tonight, to talk about my experiences in New York City." The inflection in his voice made Heath think that New York wasn't what would be talked about.
He didn't miss the veiled criticism of him and Sarah, which stung him. Sarah had been subject to many unforeseen and unpleasant circumstances, which were hard for her. He also didn't care for the fact that Nick and Priscilla were willing to entertain the detective. Heath hoped that it was just Priscilla being kind, and Nick going along. It made him decide to that if Sarah wasn't well enough to leave the hotel for supper; they would eat in their room.
Heath would later admit that he was too preoccupied with his irritability at Jack Regan, Nick, and Priscilla that he didn't hear the thunder of hoofs headed in his direction. Instead it was the detective shouting, before grabbing his arm and yanking him in the direction of the wooden sidewalk. The motion caused both Heath and Jack to lose their balances and fall to the side.
As he was going down he finally saw the team of four horses, pulling a delivery cart, racing by him with no sign of a driver at the reins. Heath gulped hard, realized that if not for the police officer, he would have been trampled by the horses hooves. A shudder hit him, as he realized that the mayhem in Denver had followed him to Georgetown.
Rising up quickly – his wound sent an arc of pain up his leg that caused him to wince and stop in his tracks. He gritted his teeth and turned to help Jack Regan, only to realize the man was already up, and rocking back on his heels. The police officer looked none the worse for the wear, which made Heath narrow his eyes. Maybe the detective was used to life or death situations, or maybe – Heath didn't like the idea that came to his mind.
"Look, you've been regarding me as suspect in Logan's death, and I've tried to tell you that whoever murdered him thought they were killing me." Heath saw this as chance to get the detective off his back. "This is yet another attempt on my life, and you were here to witness it!" The accusatory statement was delivered loudly and with fury.
"Mr. Barkley, all I know is that you seem to attract trouble like flowers attract bees." The retort was delivered in a cold tone. It made Heath wonder if his diabolic idea could be correct. What Jack Regan said next did nothing to dispel Heath's thought. "You are a man who is always in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong person." The detective then turned quickly and walked away without another word. Heath brushed himself off, and wondered when – not if – the next attack would occur.
Jack Regan was in fact more shaken up then he'd let on, by the runaway freight wagon. Yes, he'd faced death before, but it never got easier or less frightening. He was also giving Heath's declaratory words more weight than the speaker had realized. Personally he didn't care for Heath Barkley; his evasiveness with his past had made Jack's work harder than it should have been. Jack had also been put off by Heath's behavior with his wife, that morning in the hotel room, which had shown what a cold fish the man was. Jack's job though was to protect the innocent, even if he didn't like them.
The fact that Jack was willing to consider Heath innocent was because of what Jack had noted half-an-hour earlier that morning. He had an excellent memory for facial features, which couldn't be changed by any amount of disguise. As part of his time in Georgetown he had been deputized by the sheriff's office, to help patrol the town. Jack had spent the previous hour, after his meeting with the sheriff, making the rounds of the known hotspots for trouble.
Over by the 'Dew Drop Inn' – a bad name in more ways than one, as well as a calling place of the deputies – Jack had taken note of the wagons, horses, and men around the saloon. One of the cowboys struck him as off kilter, because of his walk and bearing. The clothes were those of a working man, but the carriage and stride were those of a man of authority. Jack had seen a quick glimpse of the man's face, when he turned to look down the street.
He had been almost shocked at who he saw – or rather who he thought he saw? No, it hadn't made any sense at the time, and Jack knew that many men had similar facial features. Now though, with the near miss of Heath being trampled to death, Jack mentally went over what he'd seen at the saloon. He also recalled a conversation he'd had recently; the circumstances had raised one of his red flags in police cases.
It was with all that in mind that Jack headed to the sheriff's office, to make use of the private telegraph there. He wasn't going to go off half-cocked, especially if the man he suspected was indeed the killer. Jack also wanted to determine the man's motive, before he applied for an arrest warrant. The District Attorney would want to know exactly what and why the suspect was being arrested.