THE NIGHT OF THE MURDEROUS MACHINATIONS

(a Wild Wild West / Have Gun—Will Travel crossover)

Special thanks to Michael Garrison for creating two such irresistible characters, and to Robert Conrad and Ross Martin for bringing them to exuberant life; if ever actors were born to play their parts, it was these two. The same to Herb Meadow and Sam Rolfe for creating one of the most complex and literate heroes the Western—certainly the television Western—has ever seen, and also to the formidable Richard Boone as Paladin, another prime example of genetically predetermined casting. And the usual heartfelt gratitude to my regular betas, Guy and BJ; any remaining errors of fact or style are mine.

Disclaimer: Copyright for everything related to The Wild Wild West and Have Gun—Will Travel is held by Paramount/CBS. This particular story is mine—written for fun, not for profit. Credits for episodes referred to directly can be found here.

For Guy, as always—

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[two]

“Just remember, James,” Gordon said as he and West climbed the wide front steps of J. Carroll Cauthen’s grandiose three-story mansion, “the President specifically ordered us to be discreet. Now I know you’re getting a little impatient and discretion isn’t your strong suit in general, but give it your best shot, will ya? You know—don’t bust up the butler the second he opens the door.”

“Oh, very funny,” West muttered with a glower. “Just ring the bell, Artie.” He paced with short, staccato steps along the colonnade as Gordon, with a grin and a flourish of wrist and hand, pulled the cord.

“Could this place be any more pretentious?” Gordon spoke softly so the two gardeners trimming the topiary in the huge marble urns wouldn’t overhear. He craned his neck to survey the rosy sandstone walls with their embellishments drawn from every known architectural school and some that hadn’t been invented yet. “I’ve seen nouveau riche in my time, but this takes the prize. Corinthian portico, balconies on every window, its own clock tower, and a terrace completely encircling the place— Of course from a certain point of view all the riche in Denver are nouveau, since the city itself isn’t even twenty years old. Pity Cauthen doesn’t have a better view—probably nicer out the back, though, looking toward the mountains—” He squinted into the morning sunshine illuminating the upstart city’s wide, flat streets with their handsome office buildings of red brick and their ceaseless dusty bustle of construction reaching inexorably out into the sprawling brown plain beyond. The day promised to be scorching hot, the mercury already chasing 90 and it wasn’t much past ten.

Knowing that Artie’s continual chatter was merely his partner’s way of slipping into character and primarily rhetorical, West did not reply, instead focusing his thoughts on the instructions they’d received from Colonel Richmond the week before, relaying orders from President Grant to investigate hesitant allegations by the Territorial Delegate to Congress against one of Denver’s leading citizens. Alert and reform-minded, the Honorable Horace Bird feared that Cauthen might be involved in some sort of political or financial conspiracy or coup, perhaps making use of his connections to banking magnates, or maybe to mining or railroad men; at any rate, there were troubling indications of possibly illicit activity—frequent hush-hush meetings and numerous purchases of controlling interests, imprecise explanations and employees of questionable virtue— Given that statehood loomed on Colorado’s horizon, strongly endorsed by President Grant, and that the Territorial treasury was in a somewhat precarious state, political and economic instability would be undesirable and anyone attempting to engineer and profit from such instability Must Be Stopped Forthwith—without, however, causing any embarrassment to a man who might well be innocent of any nefarious scheming and consequently inclined to retaliate against his accuser by redirecting his support to his accuser’s opponents.

Might be, perhaps, possibly. With no lead more definite than that, West and Gordon had been forced to watch and wait, West shadowing Cauthen as he trotted importantly to and fro in his gaudy brougham to meetings with bankers and lawyers and railroad tycoons, coming out of his skin with boredom; Gordon scrutinizing documents in the library, newspaper archives, and Assay Office at the Mint until his eyes glazed over. Their discoveries so far pointed to activity no more dubious than that of any wealthy, influential, and ambitious man in any boomtown in the West; Denver’s busy and boosterish city leaders shared in numberless financial endeavors. And so they had decided to push—just a little.

The door opened wide—and they were briefly nonplused to find themselves eyed up and down by an obvious thug pretending, with woeful lack of success, to be a butler. True, he wore a butler’s characteristic tailcoat and spats, and he did remember just in time to apply a concluding sibilant to his guttural grunt so that the word came out as “Yeah-es?”; but the piggish eyes over the oft-pummeled nose and the permanent curl of the lips did not look at all subservient, and the man’s free hand seemed to hover over his hip as if it expected to find a weapon there. An “employee of questionable virtue” indeed. Despite his valiant effort to appear mild and ineffectual, West felt a sudden visceral urge to bust up this particular butler just on general principles. The feeling, he sensed, was mutual.

Hastily Gordon strove to dispel the crackling tension, adopting his most ingratiating manner. “Good morning, good morning! My name is Artemus Gordon, and this is my cousin, Mr. James West. We have an appointment to see Mr. Cauthen about a financial matter. We were most gratified to receive his invitation this morning—” He waved said invitation under the butler’s somewhat mangled nose, thus breaking his fixed stare on Jim, who clearly wanted to mangle it some more. “—in response to a letter of introduction from the Honorable Mr. Horace Bird, with whose name I’m sure you are well acquainted.” He was pleased to see that Jim had finally managed to compose his shrewd features into a reasonable approximation of vapidity.

West was privately amused to see that the ostensible butler was casually dismissing Artemus as a babbling idiot, which was, of course, exactly Artemus’s intention and a mistake made by many of their foes, to their eventual chagrin. Making no effort to hide his disdain, the butler moved his considerable bulk away from the door and gestured them inside. “This way—gentlemen.” As they stepped past, West’s nose twitched at the odor of the man’s sour breath.

He showed them into a drawing room to the left of the foyer whose walls were papered with silk brocade and crowned with heavy carved-plaster molding. From the music room on the other side of the foyer came a buoyant melody nicely played on an ornate and perfectly tuned grand piano, and a boisterous male laugh interrupted by a suggestive feminine giggle when the pianist muffed a series of arpeggios. As he twirled around and around, all agog in false appreciation of the vulgar design and appointments of the mansion’s interior, Gordon took note of the largish, rough-hewn, but expensively dressed gentleman at the keys and the elegant lady seated next to him on the bench, who contrived to lean close as she turned the pages. The drawing room itself was also occupied, by a pair of lovely ladies who were probably mother and daughter standing prettily by the fireplace; this was unlit on such a warm summer morning but its carved oak mantel and gilt-edged mirror framed and reflected their gowns and coiffures to elegant advantage, in a charming, and no doubt charmingly deliberate, tableau.

“My goodness, this is a magnificent home,” he gushed. “I do like those fancy bay windows—so much light streaming in! I wonder if we could adapt the design for the train—”

The butler ignored him. “Mr. Cauthen will be with you shortly.” He exited without offering them a chair or a cigar or so much as a glass of sherry.

“Artie, I don’t like him,” West murmured beneath his bland smile.

“Now, now, Cousin James,” Gordon murmured back, “you mustn’t be so quick to judge a man just because he has beady eyes and bad teeth and an air of merciless contempt. Any butler who furnishes a room with such exquisite taste can’t be totally incompetent.” He steered West, who in truth did not require much steering, over to the elegant pair. “Good morning, ladies. As we seem to have lost our escort, I hope you won’t mind a spot of informality in the introductions. My name is Artemus Gordon and this is my cousin, James West.” West gave a bouncy bow, the picture of youthful exuberance. “Our host is a true aesthete, James, to welcome his guests on the threshold of a dry, dull financial meeting with such a diverting duo of—sisters, surely—?” West threw him a sidelong roll of the eyes that said can’t you do any better than THAT?; Gordon merely broadened his already dazzling smile.

“You won’t find a great deal of formality here in Denver, Mr. Gordon,” said the elder of the two with a knowing twinkle in her eyes, “but you will find a great deal of inconsequential flattery, so you will fit right in. I am Mrs. Marjorie Burgin and this is my daughter, Matilda.”

The agents exchanged a significant glance. In their brief meeting with him, Horace Bird had named his close friend Charles Burgin as one of his inadvertent informants, Bird having grown increasingly concerned about Cauthen’s zealous pursuit of capital and Burgin’s incautious acceptance of Cauthen’s every unsubstantiated claim. Burgin’s wife and daughter had just become equally inadvertent leads.

Matilda was about seventeen, brunette like her mother and pretty in a pouting sort of way. She bobbed a curtsey, but beyond politeness paid little attention to the new arrivals, instead casting an interested gaze over their shoulders toward the fellow at the piano. Gordon could see his partner gathering himself for the challenge.

“It’s a lovely day, isn’t it, ladies? Such a shame to be inside—one thinks of afternoon drives, picnics in the hills—” West tried to break Matilda’s line of sight by gazing directly into her eyes, but she repositioned herself under cover of brushing an imaginary speck of lint off her skirt.

Gordon pursed amused lips. Usually at this point they were melting into Jim’s arms, but Miss Matilda seemed refreshingly immune. Mrs. Burgin, however, was rather obviously considering him as a possible suitor as she shot barbed glances of maternal ire toward the pianist, who was in turn making amorous eyes at Matilda over the sheets of music. His sharp-eyed companion turned the next page with rather more force than was necessary. We’ve arrived in the middle of a melodrama, Gordon thought, his amusement growing.

“In fact we have an outing planned for this afternoon,” Mrs. Burgin was saying, “a concert at Mrs. Stevens’s garden party—if, that is, my husband ever finishes his meeting with Mr. Cauthen. He promised to be quick, but five minutes seem somehow to have stretched into thirty.”

“We must remember to convey our thanks to your husband and Mr. Cauthen for their long-windedness,” West remarked with another gallant bow. “We’d hate to have missed making your acquaintance, isn’t that right, Artemus?”

“Oh yes, absolutely!” Gordon enthused, but Matilda was hardly following the conversation. Mrs. Burgin emitted a small exasperated sigh. “Actually we seem to be enjoying our own private concert right here,” he added.

Matilda spoke up at last, having at last been presented with a subject worth speaking to. “Yes, that’s Mr. Paladin, a friend of Mr. Cauthen’s who arrived in town yesterday—we met him at dinner last night. Doesn’t he play beautifully?” Her final syllable faded on a sigh, and Gordon grinned at the rare can’t-win-’em-all expression on West’s face.

And then he found that the performer had caught his attention, too. “As a matter of fact, he does.” Big enough not to look the least bit dwarfed by a grand piano, with powerful arms and shoulders and large hands, the fellow played with surprising delicacy. “Paladin? A romantic moniker if ever I heard one.”

If Miss Matilda recognized the historical and literary references of the name, they were obviously not her chief concern. “Oh yes, he’s a fascinating man. He’s traveled just everywhere and read nearly everything. It’s too bad he’s only passing through.” Her mother just as obviously did not share her desolation.

“Oh? Has he known Mr. Cauthen long?”

“Years and years, I gather.”

“I wonder if he’s here for the same reason James and I are. Shall we go to listen?” Matilda seized his arm and tugged him away before her mother could object.

West offered his arm to Mrs. Burgin, whose displeasure was evident but who wasn’t about to ruin her own or her daughter’s dignity by making a scene. As the four of them strolled through the silks and brocades of the drawing room into the walnuts and mahoganies of the music room, he wondered why Artemus seemed to share Matilda’s fascination.

Apparently seeing the music for the first time, Mr. Paladin played with some hesitation but also real skill, and Gordon found himself smiling with genuine appreciation. When he had finished all his listeners applauded, Miss Matilda with particular zeal. Paladin rose and bowed, and introductions were made all around. His companion was a Mrs. Lisle, whose husband was likewise closeted with Mr. Cauthen and Mr. Burgin in Cauthen’s study; but Mrs. Lisle, having found alternate divertisement, clearly did not share Mrs. Burgin’s impatience with the length of the meeting.

“I intended to come over and introduce myself,” Paladin said, “and perhaps apologize for assaulting your ears. It can be very irritating to listen to someone learn a new piece.”

Gordon placed his age at about forty-five. A physically imposing man with a confident bearing and resonant voice, he wore his suit of fine cream linen very well; but his weathered face and hands suggested that he spent much of his time outdoors. He gave the impression of a man who lived life fully, perhaps even recklessly, the slight heaviness of his unhandsome but striking features suggesting that at one time he might have habitually drunk to excess. If so, he no longer indulged in the vice; the intelligent blue eyes beneath a high brow and waves of dark hair were bright and clear. A pencil-style mustache separating a fleshy nose and a sensual, amused mouth; a direct knowing gaze bestowed with unexpected gentleness upon the heedless and vulnerable Matilda—Gordon couldn’t quite decide whether he looked more knight or devil. Despite his earlier silent flirtation, his behavior toward Matilda was faultless; but in his eyes was unapologetic desire and a mature man’s enjoyment of his effect on a fresh young girl just out in the world. Gordon recognized that look, having on occasion himself experienced some of the thoughts that prompted it. Mama Burgin recognized it, too, and, wise shepherd that she was, positioned herself insurmountably between the two.

“And are you gentlemen staying in Denver for long?” the devil-knight was asking.

“We’ll have a better idea of that after we meet with Mr. Cauthen,” West replied with a convincing air of pampered young parvenu. “In general we travel around exploring this great country, looking for adventure and opportunity, investments and dividends— We try our best not to keep to any kind of schedule. Schedules are for working people.”

“My cousin and I believe that a little spontaneous self-indulgence never hurt anybody,” Gordon put in.

“Oh, so do I!” In her eagerness Matilda’s curls jounced around her head.

At this ingenuous exclamation Paladin burst into the same booming laugh Gordon had heard upon entering the house. It was layered this time with a casual fondness and empathy and perhaps a yearning for the lost enthusiasms of youth; but in the self-consciousness and sensitivity of youth Matilda could not hear the layers, heard only the laughter and read it as condescension, and Paladin toppled abruptly from the heroic pedestal on which she had placed him with an almost audible thud. Paladin knew his fall; Gordon saw the flicker of regret cross his face. Mama Burgin knew it, too, and did not regret it one bit, even though tears of imagined humiliation glimmered in her daughter’s eyes.

“What about you, Mr. Paladin?” he asked, only partly to pull attention away from Matilda’s distress—for at this point anyone associated with Cauthen was equally suspect in the millionaire’s hypothetical plot. “Are you traveling for business or for pleasure?”

“You might say I’m a consultant of sorts—”

—and now West’s own interest quickened, as he read beneath Paladin’s outward gentility more than a hint of danger. Whether Paladin would have volunteered more information, whether he would have responded to the questions West was formulating, they were not to know, for just then the door at the far end of the drawing room opened and Cauthen—whose ruddy face, stocky build, and thick red hair West and Gordon knew, after a week of close surveillance, almost as well as they knew their own features—emerged from his study. Just behind him came two other men; these were Mr. Burgin and Mr. Lisle, who after the usual introductions and pleasantries began to collect their neglected womenfolk and take their leave. Mrs. Lisle’s air was decidedly inviting as Paladin brushed her hand with his lips and thanked her for the music and her assistance with the pages; Mr. Lisle pretended not to notice. Mrs. Burgin took her husband’s arm with only the most perfunctory nod toward his host, while the disenchanted Matilda spared Paladin barely a glance as she followed in her parents’ wake, instead bestowing a winsome smile upon West, who told himself that his proud little smirk wouldn’t be at all out of character.

“And I see you’ve already met my guest,” Cauthen was saying as the butler shuffled the others out the door, “a friend from former days. I’m afraid I have to abandon you once again, Paladin, but this won’t take long.”

“Yes, we’re just here to pick up some papers—Mr. Cauthen’s investment proposal, you know,” Gordon prattled cheerfully. “We really need to give it serious thought before we dive in head first and weighted with moneybags, as it were— Oh dear, perhaps that was indiscreet of me—”

As Artemus tossed the bait West kept his gaze on Paladin, noting the flash of interest in the other man’s eyes. Paladin did not address the issue, however, saying only, “Think nothing of it—I really must attend to some correspondence. Gentlemen, a pleasure—” This to West and Gordon with a slight bow, and then he withdrew to a Chippendale desk by one of the grand bay windows, through which the wash of morning sunlight made intriguing planes and shadows of his rugged face.

Cauthen’s study was much more utilitarian in design than his drawing room, though the paneling and built-in shelves were of the finest cherry, the enormous desk of ornately carved walnut, and the Turkish carpet a thick and lustrous wool. As he ushered them toward the highly polished leather chairs placed before the desk, Gordon began to prattle again.

“I say, I do hope I didn’t give anything away out there, but surely an old friend—that is, the young lady did indicate—well, I naturally assumed that Mr. Paladin was one of your elite group of investors that we, Cousin James and I, hope to have the honor of joining—”

He could see from the corner of his eye that “Cousin James” was taking advantage of Cauthen’s impatient distraction to map the study in his mind, scanning the walls for likely places to conceal a safe and noting the placement of globes, coat rack, spittoons, and display cases of Cauthen’s collection of heroic statuary, in the event a clandestine visit under less-than-optimal lighting conditions should prove necessary.

“Whether or not Mr. Paladin has joined this group is not at present anyone else’s concern,” Cauthen was saying, an admonishment that only served to pique the agents’ curiosity further. “And now, gentlemen, here are the copies of the geologist’s report that Mr. Bird referred to. Needless to say, at this stage discretion is paramount—” —with a pointed look at Gordon, who stammered sheepishly and even managed a blush; had he been a sensitive sort he’d have felt like a reprimanded schoolboy. “We don’t want another group to scoot in ahead of us and snatch up this prime claim.”

“Oh no—no indeed. We don’t want any scooting!” Gordon punctuated this inane comment with an equally inane laugh and then subsided, fearing that if Cauthen thought him any more ridiculous he would throw them both out. “Oh, this is very promising—look here, James—” He made a show of pointing out columns of test data to West, who had come to stand beside him with an air of long-suffering forbearance.

“Where is this property, Mr. Cauthen?” West asked. “Of course I know that at this point you can’t tell me exactly, but just in general—”

“‘Just in general’ it isn’t far from here. You’ll be provided with all the particulars once you sign on to the investment group. At that point we’ll visit the site together, in company with a geologist.”

“Oh, I see, that’s just fine.” They wanted Cauthen to think them smart enough to ask relevant questions but still naïve enough to be taken in by doubletalk. Their thorough investigations had convinced them that if Cauthen was in fact involved in some criminal scheme, his base was almost certainly outside the city; thus their request to the Honorable Mr. Bird for an entrée into the “investment group” whose activities had prompted his suspicions in the first place. “When do you need to know our decision?”

“Tomorrow or the next day, if you please. On Wednesday I am to meet with agents for the current owners of the property, so I must know by then whether my available capital can be expected to increase. You may take the report with you, of course; it is a copy.” Chest thrust out a little with pride, he was clearly a man who needed to assert himself, who liked to be seen as being in charge.

Gordon played to that need with fawning gratitude. “Oh, may we? Thank you so much!” He gathered the pages back into their envelope. “We’ll let you know our decision as soon as possible. And whatever we decide, we certainly do appreciate the opportunity to be included.” Cauthen’s smile of acknowledgment was rather pinched.

As the study door opened they could hear the warm notes of the Steinway again; Paladin had evidently completed his correspondence and was softly practicing the segments that had earlier given him trouble. While West exchanged a few parting remarks with Cauthen in the foyer, Gordon wandered over to listen.

“You’re a quick study, Mr. Paladin,” he commented when the big hands had stilled. “Allow me to compliment you on a crisp technique that yet conveys real feeling.”

“Thank you. Such a fine instrument goes a long way toward disguising mediocrity—Cauthen does insist on the best. Do you play, Mr. Gordon?”

“Frequently—though I haven’t yet been able to figure out how to fit even an upright into our parlor car.”

“Yes, the piano is hardly a convenient instrument. It’s a lovely melody, isn’t it? A new work by an acquaintance of Mrs. Lisle. I’m glad I didn’t distort it too badly—these days I have very little time to practice.”

“Miss Burgin volunteered that you travel often.”

The worldly mouth quirked slightly at the mention of his erstwhile worshiper. “Yes, I do—and more than usual of late.”

He did not elaborate, and Gordon chose not to press the issue. “Perhaps you’ll have some leisure time during your stay here. I do hope to hear you play again.”

Paladin rose and offered a gracious bow, and the butler, who had been hovering impatiently at the entrance to the foyer, came forward to show them out. Just before he closed the door with an almost audible snarl in West’s direction, they heard Cauthen say to his guest, “Well now, what shall we have for lunch?”

“How do you do that?” Gordon demanded as he and West descended the steps and sauntered down the walk.

“How do I do what?”

“How, on the briefest acquaintance, do you make so many people want to smash your face in? It’s getting so’s I can’t take you anywhere! You must put a tremendous effort into conjuring some sort of offensive aura—”

West gave a nonchalant shrug. “No, no—it’s just a knack. You know, Artie, that’s a good question: what shall we have for lunch?” Gordon didn’t answer, and West, glancing sideways at him, saw that he was now looking back over his shoulder toward the house. “Artie? Your antennae are quivering.”

“Hmm? Oh—” Gordon walked a few more steps in thoughtful silence, then made a subtle jerk of his thumb rearward, shielded by his body from any eyes that might be trained on the sidewalk from the mansion windows. “You know I’m always curious about someone who surprises me. This Paladin fellow is the least likely musician I ever saw, yet he plays with real sensitivity.”

“He surprises me, too. That face has taken a few punches, and those hands have delivered a few.” Strong, scarred hands, but also limber and graceful enough to play a lyrical tune—or to draw and fire a pistol with the speed and accuracy of a viper. “And there’s something about his eyes—” The eyes of a man who cherished no illusions of his own, a man who would be difficult to fool or to sway or, if necessary, to defeat.

“Maybe a hired wolf in sheep’s clothing? Like that so-called ‘butler.’”

“Maybe. But maybe just a tough businessman who worked his way up in mining or logging—plenty of that type out here.”

“Sure. And either sort could be part of whatever Cauthen is planning. Well, if he’s still there tomorrow I’ll do a little digging on him along with the others, just in case. Hey, maybe I can find out the name of his tailor—did you see the cut of those lapels? Classic!”

West hailed a cab and they sprang inside. “You don’t have to do all that—I’ll check out Mr. Burgin.”

“Who just happens to have a lovely young daughter—Cousin James, you are so transparent. I hate to tell you, though, I get the impression she likes her men a little more—seasoned.”

“Now there you go again, making assumptions. In fact I propose to get to know Mrs. Burgin. I don’t think she likes Mr. Cauthen any more than she likes Mr. Paladin . . .”

As Paladin browsed a dozen local and regional newspapers that afternoon seeking likely prospects of employment—Hey Boy, the Chinese bellhop at the Hotel Carlton where he lived, who often acted as his valet and general factotum, had in his charmingly insolent way been advising him to work more and play less—he was peripherally aware of raised voices emanating from the study. He clipped an article about a range war in Laramie and another about an escaped prisoner near Tucson, and enclosed each with one of his business cards in a letter addressed to the responsible party naming his fee. He was just noticing with irritation that the butler hadn’t yet posted his morning correspondence when that individual stalked out of the study and through the drawing room, disregarding Paladin where he stood by the console table in the foyer and slamming the kitchen door.

“I do beg your pardon.” Cauthen was traversing the room in the butler’s wake. “Bullock sometimes forgets his place, and holds forth opinions on matters that shouldn’t concern him.”

Thinking of Hey Boy, Paladin laughed. “Employees always know when they’re indispensable.” Hey Boy, however, though like many immigrants always alert for a chance to make an extra dollar, was not only a very capable bellhop but also a likeable, good-hearted man. Paladin couldn’t say the same about Bullock, who must be indispensable indeed to get away with being such an offensive butler; in “former days” Cauthen had had higher standards. He gathered up his letters, intending to post them himself. “There’s a full-page ad in the News for a recital by Teresa Bertolani at the concert hall tonight. You were always fond of an aria—shall we go?”

“Most unfortunately I have a dinner engagement. I do apologize for being such a poor host. But you must go and use my box.” From a gold case Cauthen pulled an engraved card and wrote a note to the head usher on the back.

“I will happily accept the use of your box, but not your apology. You are not a poor host; on the contrary, I am a poor guest—I gave you no warning of my arrival. In my hope of renewing our friendship I’m afraid I forgot my manners. I assure you I’m perfectly capable of entertaining myself—I’ll dine out and see you for a nightcap afterward.”

“And a few hands of poker.” Cauthen’s big easy smile still brightened his face the way it always had, the effortless tool of the politician his family had intended him to be in order to bring respectability to their newly acquired wealth. “Are you still as good as you were?”

Paladin grinned. “Better.” He started up the stairs to fetch his hat and cane, but on the first landing stopped and turned. “Carroll, I don’t mean to pry, but do remember that I’m always looking for investment opportunities.” He knew that Cauthen, like many entrepreneurs who had converged upon Denver in the wake of the gold and other mineral strikes in the area, had made far more money selling goods to mining camps and building the railroads to transport them than most of the men who actually wrested the precious metals from the earth. Though Paladin preferred to earn his money in a more active way than by studying financial reports, his fee was substantial and willing employers were sometimes scarce. At times, too, he required a period of recuperation before he could work again, and thus a dependable income, even if a moderate one, was a necessity. Mr. McGinnis, general manager of the Carlton, was also very much in favor.

“Well, this project is still in the planning stages,” was Cauthen’s somewhat evasive reply. “Frankly I don’t know what made Bird think I’d want to deal with those two flibbertigibbets. They aren’t very bright—but they seem to be richer than Croesus, and I need more capital.” He laughed shortly. “Bullock didn’t like them at all, and I would say the feeling is mutual, at least with the younger one, West. He’ll find out soon enough that a cocky attitude will only get him into trouble.”

Paladin laughed. “As well we know! And his loquacious cousin might just talk himself into an early grave someday. But if their money’s good you can easily control their degree of input.”

“I tend to distrust their sort of boasting, but Bird has checked them out—they really do have their own train. At any rate, nothing is certain yet—still a lot of details to work out—but I’ll let you know if anything comes of it. I’d never keep you out of a sure thing.”

“There’s no such thing as a sure thing—but your previous successes give me confidence. I’ll look forward to hearing of your plans when you’re ready to share them. And I’m especially looking forward to finding out if I can still tell when you’re bluffing with only a pair!”

“I swear, Artie, if something in this case doesn’t break soon, I’m going to break!” West slammed the door so hard as he came in that Gordon was afraid he might set off some of the alarms. Fuming, he paced the length of the parlor car and back. “Cauthen didn’t leave his house all afternoon. Even the cabbie and his horse got tired of doing nothing.”

Gordon was stretching his hand, cramped from telegraphing their latest uninformative report to Colonel Richmond. “You’re just disappointed that you didn’t get to bust up the butler.” A sheepish guilty-as-charged expression flitted across his partner’s face. “And it’s no use complaining to me—I spent an equally thrilling afternoon in the land office comparing Cauthen’s report against mining commission surveys, and I can tell you with absolute certainty that he, or somebody, has produced a very thorough and well-organized load of utter hogwash. The data are legitimate but so general they could apply to half the land in the Rockies. That’s why Cauthen was willing to let us take it with us—no company secrets contained therein.” He began to doodle in the margin of the report, then realized what he was doing and scratched it out. “You know, I’m tempted to get into that study and have a look inside Cauthen’s safe.”

“May I point out that you’d be breaking and entering, which is illegal, which is a line we don’t yet have the justification to cross. Besides, if you got caught we’d lose whatever advantage we’ve gained by all our playacting.” For a moment he assumed his “Cousin James” persona, complete with vacuous grin.

“Since when have I ever gotten caught breaking into a safe?”

“Well—there was the time those kids came downstairs in their nightshirts—”

“Could I help it if they thought I was Santa Claus?”

“And then there was the time Lady Nan’s girls—”

“Most energetic cover story I ever came up with!” Gordon’s warm laugh was nostalgic and naughty. “All right, all right, never mind!” —as West was drawing breath to remind him of yet another instance. “I’m waiting to hear your brilliant idea for moving this along.”

West yanked off his hat and flung it onto the sofa, his brief good humor gone. “I don’t have one.” He stabbed a finger at the telegraph key. “Haven’t you heard from the Data Bureau yet?”

“It’s too soon, Jim, you know that. I requested a lot of information—background on Burgin and Lisle and also some clarification on what I learned this afternoon. Probably by tomorrow we’ll have something. Listen—” He dug beneath stacks of notes and maps and sketches until he found the afternoon News, folded back to a full-page ad. “Teresa Bertolani is singing tonight—haven’t seen her in years. What do you say to an evening out on Uncle Sam?”

West audibly exhaled his pent-up frustration. “No thanks—I’m not in a musical mood. I think I’ll look in on Cauthen one last time and then ride up into the hills to see if I can spot any odd nocturnal activity. Cauthen’s property, assuming he actually owns any, can’t be too far away.”

“A long ride through that terrain at night? You are desperate for something to do. Maybe I should come along.”

“Nah—why should you disrupt your evening? Besides, I don’t know what I’m looking for; I just need some fresh air after being trapped in a cab all afternoon. I sure wish they’d waited for a little more evidence before they sent us in.”

“Yeah, well, if wishes were dollars— Those were just about the vaguest orders they’ve ever issued to us, and I’m sending in the dullest reports I’ve ever written—such a waste of the talents of two of Uncle’s finest! Well, I’d better make myself resplendent. Curtain’s at eight if you change your mind.”

Signorina Bertolani was in superb voice, soaring through “The Jewel Song” and thundering through “The Queen of the Night,” even reaching the top F and holding the long B-flat without apparent effort. The applause and shouted bravas from the crowd transported Gordon back to a time when he, too, had received public accolades, if on a rather more modest scale. Well, perhaps even “modest” was too generous—he’d been overjoyed on any night he hadn’t been pelted with popcorn or oranges or worse. But ah, those unforgettable occasions when the ladies in the front row swooned in response to his on-stage lovemaking, when cowboys throbbing with drunken gallantry shot at him because they were truly convinced he was trying to have his way with the heroine—then he knew he’d swept them into the spell of a matchless performance. Such had been the gullible sensibility of his usual audience in showboats and second-rate variety saloons; but when such as they approved a soliloquy or a song, they shouted and whistled their appreciation just like this, and sometimes he missed that roaring acclaim.

Now he played solely for the private tributes of friends and the profound satisfaction of a dangerous job done with flair. It was acting without a net, death-defying improvisation with no script, no cues from the wings, no guidance but his own wits. No more bowing to the whims of know-nothing directors; indeed Jim often teased him that he’d joined the Service just so he’d never again have to memorize lines. Idly scanning faces and costumes between selections as was his habit—an ostrich plume and layers of face paint here, a plaid cap and elaborately waxed moustache there: any countenance or mode of dress, masculine or feminine, might find its way into his repertoire of colorful characters—he spied in the third box from the stage a familiar figure: Cauthen’s houseguest, the intriguing Mr. Paladin. He appeared to be alone, and Gordon immediately devised a plan to speak with him during the intermission, in an attempt to learn something more about Cauthen—and about Paladin as well. The latter, had he glanced in the right direction at the right moment, might have been somewhat taken aback by the keen gaze of the seeming dilettante as it rested upon him.

Paladin’s own attention, however, was riveted on Signorina Bertolani, and so he was startled at the intermission to be hailed across the lobby; the few Denverites with whom he was acquainted were rough customers not likely to be found at so genteel an entertainment. His first reaction upon seeing his talkative admirer of the morning bearing down upon him on a tide of renewed volubility was a mild dismay; but then, remembering Cauthen’s suspicions about the cousins, he resolved to take advantage of the encounter to do his friend the favor of finding out more about them.

“Good evening, Mr. Paladin. We met at Mr. Cauthen’s this morning. Artemus Gordon, at your service.” The demeanor Gordon adopted was hearty and a little too forward, but less gauche than the note he’d struck that morning so that Paladin wouldn’t flee from him in horror. “I say—Miss Burgin isn’t with you?” With overplayed innocence he craned his neck above the crowd as if expecting her to approach at any moment.

Paladin laughed his ready, infectious laugh. “The beautiful but fickle Matilda will certainly break someone’s heart in a year or two, but it won’t be mine. A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Gordon. Apparently we share similar tastes in music. May I buy you a drink?” He gestured toward the stream of patrons heading for the bar.

“Why, thank you—I’d be delighted.” Gordon was delighted as well with the ease of the encounter; perhaps it would turn out to be that break Jim was fretting for. They threaded their way through the chattering throng. “Yes, I adore opera, especially Italian opera—Donizetti, Rossini—and to be living in the same century as Verdi—” As if captivated by the muse of song, he broke into “Celeste Aida,” showing off in character but also, he could see, impressing Paladin with his genuine knowledge and ability. He stopped warbling and cleared his throat. “I do beg your pardon—sometimes I forget myself—and I certainly shouldn’t risk it when we’re enjoying true brilliance. Isn’t Bertolani an angel tonight?—especially in the Mozart. She may in fact sound even better than when I heard her sing with Theodore Jones in New York some years ago. Oh, they were exquisite!—their Tristan and Isolde made me weep! They also favored us with some lovely Mexican ballads not often heard in the concert hall. I sought out the music immediately.” Softly he sang a line or two of “Un corazón perdido al amor indigno.”

To his astonishment and delight Paladin sang the next line, and it was as they harmonized on the remainder of the stanza, their baritones well matched, that they came up to the bar. The bartender looked at them askance, obviously concluding that they were already lubricated past the point of coherence. Paladin asked, “Cognac?” and at Gordon’s gracious nod ordered two. “A lovely corrido indeed—I’ve heard it often along the mission trail. Your accent, however, is far superior to mine.”

Only for an instant did Gordon debate with himself whether Cousin Artemus would be quite so nosy as to inquire, even in this openly philosophical age, into a total stranger’s spiritual pursuits, then cheerfully plunged ahead. “Fascinating! Do you make regular pilgrimages to the missions?”

A flicker, but just a flicker, of annoyance crossed Paladin’s craggy features. “No—some of them are glad to make a little extra money by putting up travelers.”

Gordon allowed Cousin Artemus to be momentarily distracted from personal questions, but not, of course, to recognize his own faux pas. “I’d heard that! James and I must try one. And I understand some of them make wonderful wine.”

“They do indeed. In particular, San Juan Capistrano and San Gabriel are known for their angelicas. I order from them regularly.”

They carried their drinks over to a relatively quiet corner, out of the way of eyeball-imperiling hat plumage and bustles with the scope and grandeur of architecture. Gordon was perfectly capable of conversing all night with a fellow enthusiast upon matters musical and gastronomical, but that would hardly tell him anything new about J. Carroll Cauthen. “I can’t help but wonder about your host. Doesn’t Mr. Cauthen appreciate opera?”

“Very much; in fact, I’m using his box. Unfortunately he was otherwise engaged.”

“Oh, that is a shame. He certainly has a fine seat—I felt a distinct pang of envy when I spotted you. Have you known him long?”

“Since before the War, off and on. I was on my way back to San Francisco and knew he had recently settled here.”

“Only recently? My, he surely has made himself an influential man in a short time. Cousin James and I have heard his name often in both social and business circles.”

“Ambitious men rarely demonstrate much patience—and often guard their privacy.”

Gordon did not miss Paladin’s slight pause before he spoke, or the faint note of speculation and warning in his smooth reply that might indicate that he sensed Cousin Artemus’s probing. Time to back off again. “No, I suppose not. Do you reside in San Francisco, then?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Really! James and I visit there fairly regularly. I wonder—” He paused as if about to utter an indiscretion—not that Cousin Artemus would recognize an indiscretion if it chomped on his meddlesome muzzle. “Might I be able to persuade you to reveal the name of your tailor?” Like the suit he’d been wearing at Cauthen’s, Paladin’s tuxedo was impeccably styled.

Paladin, who had tensed a little as if expecting to be asked to gossip about prominent San Franciscans, relaxed and laughed again. “Of course. Gino de Marco makes all my dress clothing. I like him because he has confidence enough in his own fine work to accommodate the preferences of an opinionated client. And now that I know you frequent San Francisco I can hazard a guess that your wardrobe is made primarily by Havensworth. The close fit and the flare in the lapels are characteristic.” He had taken note of both cousins’ natty attire that morning.

With an admiring smile, Gordon bowed slightly from the waist and touched his forehead in salute. “Your eye for sartorial details eclipses even my own. I must pay a visit to Signor de Marco the next time I’m in the city. Oh, Mr. Paladin, what a life you must lead! The delights of San Francisco are inexhaustible. The playhouses, the gentlemen’s clubs, the theaters, the museums— The restaurants, the confectioners, the libations—! Do you know Dimitri Pappas’s shop in Market Street?—the finest wines and liqueurs from every part of Europe at one’s fingertips—every time I enter I’m afraid I won’t be able to make myself leave!”

Paladin did know that particular vendor, and several more in which Mr. Gordon expressed effusive interest that Paladin felt was unfeigned even if an ulterior motive might lurk beneath it. Mr. Gordon himself, in fact, seemed to Paladin more genuine than he had expected in light of Cauthen’s misgivings. And yet, interspersed among the rambling flood of words were those occasional pointed questions, so that Paladin found himself wondering just who was doing the investigating. The apparently shallow Mr. Gordon might in fact be a more cautious investor than he let on. Certainly in this setting he was displaying a refinement and confidence that Paladin had not expected given his behavior of the morning—much more the cosmopolitan than the bumpkin. Perhaps he was new to financial arrangements—for men who inherited wealth sometimes had little idea how to go about making more. Or perhaps he was simply unsure of himself in the presence of his overly confident relation.

My turn, he thought. “You are also having a solitary outing tonight, your—cousin, I believe you said—doesn’t care for opera?”

“Third cousin, actually—not much family resemblance, is there? In fact James enjoys opera very much, but he opted for a rather different sort of entertainment tonight.” Gordon’s wink was broad and shameless.

Paladin chuckled. “I see. Well, there are different sorts of ambition, aren’t there? You two are clearly well traveled yourselves—following business opportunities, I gather.”

The abrupt change in his status from questioner to questionee piqued Gordon’s curiosity—Jim would say his antennae were quivering again. Mr. Paladin grew more intriguing by the minute. “Yes, but also indulging our shared spirit of adventure. We hope to see quite a bit of the country before we obey Uncle’s urgings and settle down. I confess I’ve been surprised by the cultural offerings in places like Kansas City and Omaha and of course here in Denver. I had the silly notion that, with the notable exception of San Francisco, civilization had come to a halt at St. Louis—but it is in fact creeping steadily across the Plains.”

“It might have come rather sooner if not for the ‘late unpleasantness,’ as the South so euphemistically refers to it.”

And now Paladin was fishing for his political leanings, Gordon realized. He allowed Cousin Artemus a moment of laudable gravitas. “Perhaps we are stronger for it as a nation.”

“We must hope so. As Secretary Fish has said, ‘If our country is worth dying for in time of war let us resolve that it is truly worth living for in time of peace.’”

“Oh yes, well put, well put. —And the opportunities for investment are certainly numerous.” Lamentably, Cousin Artemus could not bear the weight of gravitas for long. “James and I always say that if someone is going to benefit anyway, it might as well be us!”

Paladin’s attempt to judge the degree of Mr. Gordon’s opportunism was interrupted by the five-minute bell. “And we are summoned. It’s been a pleasure conversing with you, Mr. Gordon.”

“Likewise, Mr. Paladin—a pleasure I hope to repeat. My treat next time. Do enjoy the remainder of the concert.”

The two men exchanged bows and returned to their seats, though their subsequent attention to Signorina Bertolani was markedly less acute than it had been before the intermission. Each had been surprised by the other, and each found himself considering the possibility that the other was not quite what he seemed to be.

“I couldn’t believe it,” West declared. It was after two but he was wide awake, toweling sweat from his chest and back in the parlor while Gordon, draped in tuxedoed elegance on the sofa, nursed a snifter of brandy. “Cauthen actually went out to dinner, at the home of one Hugh Tandy, who, according to an obliging neighbor out for a late walk with the biggest hound I’ve ever seen, made a fortune manufacturing guns and shells during the War. Unless it was in the middle of the night, Cauthen hasn’t met with him during this past week. We’ll have to check him out tomorrow—see where he’s put his money in recent years. I don’t like a suspected political schemer spending time with a munitions-maker. When Cauthen got back Paladin was already there, and the two of them settled into what looked like some pretty serious poker. By then the moon was up so I rode out into the hills; there are a lot of good vantage points but I didn’t see any unexplained lights or smoke against the sky. If there’s anything out that way it’s well hidden.” He shrugged. “It was a long shot anyway. I even asked questions in a few of the mining camps, but nobody admitted seeing anything unusual. Oh, and you’ll be pleased to know that I was very discreet—told them I was looking into buying some property hereabouts.” He draped the towel across his shoulders and poured himself some brandy. “Artie, are you listening?”

“Hmm? Oh sure, sure. We can send another query—” Gordon was equally alert, but his was an intensity of thought rather than of physical movement. Absently he swirled the snifter in his hand. “I don’t know, Jim—Mr. Paladin doesn’t strike me as the sort of man who would plot to—well, whatever Cauthen is plotting to do. I wish you’d had a chance to talk with him tonight. He was definitely doing some probing of his own, but it just didn’t feel sinister. It felt—protective, of the welfare and business concerns of a friend.”

West, well accustomed to his partner’s tendency to fixate on a train of thought to the exclusion of all else around him, gave up trying to astonish him with his industry. “Men aren’t always what they seem, Artie.”

“But that’s exactly my point.” Gordon’s expression was shrewd but his voice carried a note of sympathy. “Mr. Paladin might not know his ‘friend’ as well as he thinks he does.”

While he’d waited for Cauthen to return from his engagement, Paladin had practiced the tune that Mrs. Lisle had brought him, but found that his concentration was less than ideal; he seemed to have at least four thumbs and his fingers kept getting tangled up in the frequent grace notes, his mind occupied in replaying his thought-provoking conversation with Artemus Gordon. He couldn’t quite decide how to describe what lurked beneath the man’s surface culture. Gordon had been very inquisitive about Cauthen, though that could be merely a natural and eminently sensible curiosity about a man to whom one was considering entrusting a large sum of money. Paladin had done his share of that sort of research himself, often about his employers—though what he entrusted to his employers was often far more important than money. He wasn’t sure, however, whether such unexpected shrewdness should disturb him, and so rarely was he uncertain in his evaluation of a man’s character that he felt mildly unsettled, off-balance. He wondered if on further acquaintance Cousin James would prove equally interesting.

His musings were brought up short by the arrival of his host, who paused in the foyer for a somewhat sharp exchange with Bullock; Paladin couldn’t make out the words but the tone was unmistakable. He couldn’t honestly object to Cousin James’s possible inclination to violence with regard to Bullock, who really needed to be taken down a peg or two. Indeed Paladin, accustomed as he was to noticing men who were trying to assume roles for which they were very poorly suited—fugitives hoping to evade justice by starting new lives in new towns, gunmen trying not to draw trouble to themselves until they were ready for it—was quite certain the man was not a butler at all; but what the man might actually be was none of his business unless he should find that Cauthen, whose ability to judge character had never been as acute as he believed it was, was being taken in by unscrupulous or even criminal staff.

At last Bullock spun on his heel and strode off down the hall without benefit of formal dismissal. Loosening his cravat, Cauthen came into the music room and headed for the card cabinet and the whiskey decanter atop it. “How was the concert?”

“Stupendous. You’d have enjoyed it. I also ran into Mr. Gordon; we had a nice chat during the intermission.”

“Oh?” Cauthen turned from the cabinet with elaborate nonchalance. “Anything I should know about?”

Paladin wondered why he had phrased the question that way. “I don’t think so. Mostly we talked about opera and San Francisco. His chief objective seemed to be finding out the name of my tailor.”

Tension sloughed from Cauthen’s shoulders and back in a visible relief that seemed to Paladin out of proportion to the issue; but then the moment had passed and Cauthen was smiling his smooth, genial smile. “If he can afford your tailor he’ll be a welcome addition to my investors’ circle, if it actually comes together.” He held up a new deck. “Shall we play?”

He dealt with a practiced hand, and for Paladin it was like old times in smoke-filled suites when Cauthen had repeatedly courted more trouble than he could handle, fancying himself a family black sheep because he associated with the genuine article. Not quite like old times, however: Cauthen had grown bold in the intervening years, placing bets that would have had Hey Boy clucking in disapproval had he seen Paladin play so rashly. Though Paladin kept generally ahead, Cauthen won a few good pots, and as he watched a sizable stack of bills disappear into his host’s wallet Paladin commented ruefully, “It’s been a long time, but I’d swear you used to be more cautious.”

Something akin to pride shone in the high color of Cauthen’s face. “Cautious men never get anywhere in the world—you taught me that.”

Paladin laughed, not taking him seriously. “I didn’t know I was your role model.”

“One of them, anyway. I find Tandy’s advice sound, more often than not.”

Paladin sat a little straighter, frowning. “You still communicate with Tandy?”

“Yes.” Cauthen’s single syllable was clipped, his tone defensive. “He moved to town a few months ago.”

“To Denver?” Cauthen nodded. “You used to think he was a venal manipulator.”

“Oh, the misapprehensions of youth! You were guilty of a few yourself. But you’ve changed, Paladin—changed your name, your profession—and so have I. I’ve learned to appreciate Tandy’s abilities.”

Paladin remembered Hugh Tandy well, and without pleasure. A big man with a big ego, Tandy disdained the rules of accepted behavior even among black sheep and had enjoyed taking advantage of others’ weaknesses. Paladin had despised the man but had tolerated him as Cauthen had done because he too had often needed Tandy’s ready cash; had tolerated him until he’d discovered after one extended carouse that Tandy’s haughty character had a brutal side—but unfortunately the young woman, being of a certain profession, could hardly have hoped to receive justice even if she’d dared to press charges. After that sordid, bloody incident Paladin had accepted no more loans from Tandy, had paid back every cent he owed as soon as he could and hadn’t set eyes on him since. He found himself wondering now if Cauthen had ever paid Tandy back, and in what manner.

The thought shamed him even as it occurred and he tried to brush it away, but he was a man who played his hunches as he played his cards, and this one was telling him that an association between Cauthen and Tandy at this late date was not a healthy one. “Just remember that I had some pretty ugly experiences of my own making before I found my way. Try to learn from my mistakes as well as my successes.” Cauthen was gazing at him with the same exaggerated patience a youth will display to a mentor who is telling him something he doesn’t want to hear and hasn’t the maturity to comprehend. Paladin sighed. “Two cards, please.”

Later he reflected that he should have been more troubled by Cauthen’s dismissive smile.

West was escorted into the Burgins’ Louis XIV drawing room by a butler who really was a butler, a correct, soft-spoken Englishman who announced him and then softly and correctly withdrew.

“Do come in, Mr. West—it’s very kind of you to call.”

Dressed in refined but conservative pearl-gray silk so she would not upstage her daughter, Mrs. Burgin gestured gracefully toward the fashionable and expensive but very uncomfortable gilded chair placed conveniently next to where Matilda sat the picture of finishing-school perfection on hopeful display, her back ramrod straight and her small, slippered feet tucked demurely beneath her frilly skirts of summery yellow and white.

He lowered himself into the chair rather stiffly, as if nervous about making a good impression. “Well, I did want to further our acquaintance before you forgot who I was.” Mother and daughter gasped in harmonious dismay that such an awful thought might have crossed his mind even for an instant. “In fact, I was hoping I could escort both of you ladies to lunch at the Mountain View. I’m sorry it’s such short notice—it’s terribly gauche of me to drop in like this—but I find myself unexpectedly free this afternoon.”

He and Artemus had stopped by Cauthen’s house that morning with the financial information Cauthen had requested from his potential investors—false data that would be substantiated by various Secret Service agents posing as bankers and syndicate directors should Cauthen make inquiries—but had been informed by the loutish Bullock that his employer was out and would not return until late that night. They had watched the house for a time but had seen no sign of its owner; thus forced to conclude that Bullock had been telling the truth, they had set about following such leads as they had so far uncovered, Gordon doing his usual digging in the archives while West paid his planned visit to Mrs. Burgin.

“That is very generous of you, Mr. West—isn’t it, Matilda?” Matilda beamed dutifully at him. “When Mr. Burgin emerges from his study I’ll just see if he has committed us to any engagements this afternoon. He is meeting with an associate of Mr. Cauthen this morning, and such meetings usually inspire far less attractive invitations.”

“Oh? I wonder if this associate is connected with the investment my cousin and I are considering.”

The tightening of her facial muscles was very nearly imperceptible. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know. I’m not wholly ignorant of my husband’s financial dealings, but this scheme is not—” She stopped abruptly, her cheeks flushing pink, as if she had come too close for comfort to uttering an indiscretion to a stranger. He wondered if she had been about to say, not to my liking. “This is a pet project of my husband’s, and I confess I haven’t much interest in it.”

“And why should you?” he asked smoothly. “You have so many interests of your own. I understand you’re quite a patron of the arts, hosting gala evenings to benefit every theater company and orchestra in Denver—clearly they couldn’t survive without you.” Mrs. Burgin’s demurral was very pretty and very patently false. “And does Miss Matilda share your commitment to higher culture?” He leaned toward Matilda as if unable to control his impetuous nature.

Oh, but Matilda was a veritable prodigy in all the fine arts—a songbird to rival the robin and the lark, a painter reminiscent of da Vinci, a pianist worthy of Steinway Hall—and her intricate needlepoint creations put medieval Flemish tapestries to shame! West hung on her mother’s every superlative. He might have felt the slightest bit guilty about his charade if he had thought Matilda genuinely attracted to him. To be on the safe side, however, he deliberately made himself as unappealing as possible. Matilda loved theater and opera, so “Cousin James” demonstrated conclusively that he knew nothing about either and did not care to learn. Matilda loved painting and sculpture, so Cousin James proved that he couldn’t tell a Botticelli from a boxcar. Matilda hated horse racing and prizefights, so Cousin James gabbled on at length about both, making certain to gaze deeply into her eyes as he waxed eloquent about the difference between the uppercut and the jab. At the end of fifteen minutes it was clear to him, if not to Mrs. Burgin, that Matilda would never speak to him again. And Artemus declared that his partner wasn’t much of an actor!

At last, just as Matilda was beginning to look as though she might like to stab him with her tapestry needles, Mrs. Burgin stiffened with a rustle of silk and crinoline, and West followed her glance over his shoulder to see two men just coming through a door at the far end of the drawing room. One was Mr. Burgin; the other, he saw with a surge of interest, was Hugh Tandy, with whom Cauthen had dined the night before. Tandy stood two or three inches over six feet and was thickly built, but it was not merely his size that lent him a commanding air; gazing up at him, Burgin looked as subservient as his imported butler. They halted a moment, as if to exchange an afterthought or two before joining the ladies and their guest; West couldn’t make out any words but Burgin’s tone drifting across the room sounded shrill with tension, while Tandy’s in contrast was placid and reassuring.

Her hands held rigidly together at her waist, Mrs. Burgin stepped forward to meet them, and at her approach the two men broke off their discussion. “Charles,” she said, “you remember Mr. West, whom we met at Mr. Cauthen’s yesterday morning. He has offered to take Matilda and me to lunch.”

Tandy was first to turn, his movement causing drapery-filtered sunlight to flash off his gold vest buttons and stick pin and the mother-of-pearl inlay of his large gold watch. Burgin was a second slower, his attention still on Tandy. From his place a step behind her, West couldn’t see Mrs. Burgin’s face, but he could see in the line of her shoulders and neck how resolutely her torso was turned away from Tandy, how pointedly she did not so much as glance at him. He himself detested Tandy on sight, feeling at once repelled by the sleek, brilliantined hair and the pompous mutton-chop whiskers, the widely set half-closed eyes puffy with dissipation and jaded from the too-frequent indulgence of appetite. He disliked intensely how those hooded eyes devoured Matilda’s comely figure, evaluated and sampled with disgusting experience—though no overt comment was made, nor any untoward gesture from the hands clasped behind the well-tailored back. He disliked even more that Mr. Burgin, still preoccupied with whatever had been the subject under consideration, seemed not to notice.

“I’m very sorry, my dear,” Burgin said, “but I’ve committed us all to lunch with Mr. Tandy.” Mrs. Burgin did not try to conceal her own revulsion, which visible slight Tandy noted with a cool, unperturbed smile; Matilda, with an involuntary glance at West, looked as though she wasn’t sure which of the two men she would less like to look at over croquettes and lemonade. “Mr. Hugh Tandy, may I present Mr. James West, who with his cousin and business partner aspires to join our little group.” Burgin’s jovial air did not hide the anxiety in his eyes, his pathetic eagerness to please.

Tandy had unclasped and extended his hand; West had to make himself close his own around it. The big man’s grip was aggressively firm, the yank on West’s arm overly vigorous, a classic if somewhat childish test of masculinity. He refused to respond in kind, though he knew he wasn’t completely hiding his distaste behind his false cordiality; Artie would have had the better of him there, he knew, Artie who in the exhilaration of performance for the highest possible stakes could smile and joke with a cutthroat holding a razor to his partner’s jugular.

If Tandy recognized West’s name from reports by either Cauthen or Burgin, he’d had ample time to hide it. “And are you enjoying the various entertainments our young city offers, Mr. West?” The lewd eyes slid unpleasantly to Matilda. His voice rather thin for such a large man, Tandy also spoke with a slight impediment from a malformed jaw. Matilda shrank away from him without taking a step; too young to name what she sensed, nevertheless she sensed it and was afraid.

No wonder Mrs. Burgin didn’t like older men paying court to her daughter. West felt a distinct urge to insinuate himself into the luncheon party, but he couldn’t yet risk making an enemy of a man with whom he might have to associate much more closely than this. Tandy would not likely insult the girl in public in the presence of her parents, but luncheon would end, and West was glad to know that Mama Burgin was on her guard.

“Oh yes, my cousin and I are impressed with all the activity here. New establishments of all sorts open almost daily, it seems.”

“Yes, opportunities both business and social are endless. I regret having deranged your plans for the afternoon.” Tandy’s casual tone lacked the slightest note of apology.

“That’s quite all right—next time I’ll be first in line,” West replied with as much undaunted cheer as he could muster.

Mrs. Burgin had regained her composure, though still she did not let her gaze fall upon Tandy as she turned to offer her hand to West. “Matilda and I have enjoyed your visit, Mr. West. Do call again soon.”

“I’ll sure try, ma’am, especially if Miss Matilda will promise to demonstrate her artistic talents.”

He meant it as superficial flattery, but Tandy’s eyes flared hungrily and West had to fight the temptation to warn him off. Matilda’s pout had vanished and she looked like a trapped fawn; he almost couldn’t make himself ignore the pleading in her eyes as he took his leave over her hand, finding no amusement in her fickleness now. As he stepped past Tandy on his way to the door, he hoped he was imagining the challenge and speculation in those dark hooded eyes.

“So I followed him for hours,” he reported to Artemus when they met for dinner aboard the train, “but he didn’t do anything that didn’t have a perfectly innocent explanation: the bank, the newspaper, a couple of lawyers and developers. Then he went back to his home—which is larger than Cauthen’s but not as hideous—and stayed there, and didn’t have any visitors, not even Cauthen or his fake butler.”

“You think he could be pulling Cauthen’s strings?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that my antennae started quivering when I met him. But it’s nothing more than a hunch. Just because I don’t like a man—”

“Your hunches tend to be pretty good.”

“Unfortunately we can’t arrest a man on a hunch.”

Gordon refilled their wine glasses. “Just why is that, exactly?”

“Innocent until proven guilty—remember?”

“Oh yeah.” Gordon picked at the remains of his omelette aux champignons and pommes frites. “But I spent the whole afternoon checking out the Burgins and the Lisles, and didn’t come up with even a hunch. As far as I can tell they’re exactly what they seem to be: fine, upstanding members of Denver high society, always on the lookout for ways to increase their fortunes to such an extent their grandchildren’s grandchildren won’t be able to spend it all.”

“Which makes them the perfect easy marks for a confidence game or a political-military conspiracy—if that’s what Cauthen is up to. It’s what Mrs. Burgin is worried about, I’ll bet.” West flung his napkin down and got up to pace, grinding a fist into the other palm. “This is getting awfully old.”

“You said it, ‘Cousin.’ Well, I sent an inquiry to the Data Bureau about Tandy—maybe they’ll turn up something to support your hunch before we’re in our dotage. They’re awfully slow getting us information on Paladin, too.”

“Maybe they can’t find anything.”

“Or what they’re finding is classified and they need to get proper clearance to open the file—which might mean that we’ve stumbled onto something bigger than even Bird suspects. But in the meantime we’re just spinning our wheels.”

“We’ve got to get into Cauthen’s inner circle!” West flung himself onto the sofa, arms and legs sprawled every which way. “But after my meeting with Tandy today that circle might be closed to us for good. He didn’t like me any more than I liked him.”

“Must be your aura at work again.” Gordon rested his elbows on the table and propped his chin on his folded hands. “Why don’t we try getting close to somebody who might already be in it?”

When Paladin found himself accosted by Mr. Gordon in Monsieur Verdoux’s wine shop the following morning, he told himself that it wasn’t beyond the bounds of coincidence that two men with similar tastes should frequent similar establishments, especially after trading recommendations at the recital two nights before. At the same time he wondered why he should feel the need to reassure himself. Mr. Gordon, however, was his usual glib self, and presently Paladin was more inclined than otherwise to think that his suspicions, mild as they were, were groundless. He allowed himself to be drawn into a pleasant enological discussion with a man who shared many of his preferences and very nearly matched him in expertise, whereupon Monsieur Verdoux, who advertised himself as a scion of the vintner family of that name and was delighted to have two such knowledgeable patrons in his shop at the same time, set up an impromptu tasting to show off some new stock from his homeland. They were fine vintages indeed, but Monsieur Verdoux’s prejudice was obvious, and despite heroic effort on the part of the knowledgeable patrons, he was unwilling to be convinced of the potential for greatness of quite a few California wines.

“Non, non, messieurs, I will not have it. California wines are sometimes very fine, yes, but world-class? I think not, non non.”

“Oui, oui,” Paladin insisted genially. “I’ve judged quite a few contests in the Napa and Sonoma Valleys, and I look for California wines to gain world renown before very many more years have passed. In fact, Mr. Gordon, I must recommend to you the exemplary Riesling by my friend Renato Donatello—Pappas carries it regularly.”

“I’ll be sure to try it the next time we’re in the city, for I agree with you wholeheartedly about the future of California wines. In fact, I must recommend to you the superlative Bordeaux made by the brothers at Santa Paula Monastery near Jubilee—”

Monsieur Verdoux was saved from despair by the entrance of two well-dressed couples eager to take advantage of the tasting they had spied through the shop window, and under cover of the new hum of conversation Gordon resumed his probing. He still hadn’t received a report from the Data Bureau, but though it was certainly possible that Paladin was already under investigation for other criminal activity, he thought it unlikely. The man might have his secrets, but Gordon would have bet a barrel of Napoleon brandy that orchestrating political intrigue wasn’t one of them.

“Mr. Paladin, you are quite an authority. Perhaps with your newfound wealth you should purchase your own vineyard.”

Paladin cocked his head with a puzzled frown. “I beg your pardon—‘newfound wealth’?”

Gordon leaned in conspiratorially, unsubtly turning his back to the other customers. “I refer of course to Mr. Cauthen’s scheme.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know anything about Mr. Cauthen’s scheme.”

Gordon made a show of nearly tipping his glass in a spasm of nonexistent embarrassment. “Oh. Oh dear. Great-aunt Maude always told me I had a big mouth. Naturally I assumed that by now—that is, given my indiscretion the other day— Oh dear. You will think me a hopeless blunderer!”

Paladin laughed. “Not at all—think nothing of it—” —though privately he was congratulating Great-aunt Maude on her astute assessment of her nephew’s unfortunate tendencies. “It’s hardly an unreasonable assumption to make about a guest in a man’s home, but Cauthen and I actually haven’t seen each other or even corresponded regularly in some years.”

“Oh—I see.” Gordon struggled to sound merely chagrined rather than funereal, as their one good lead fizzled out right before his eyes. “Well, I do appreciate your forbearance. I hope you’ll accept a bottle of this marvelous pinot noir as a token of apology for my repeated missteps.”

“That isn’t necessary. I’m not in the least offended, I assure you—”

“Oh, won’t you please? I intend to purchase an entire case for James and me—I can certainly spare one bottle.”

Paladin gave in gracefully. “If it will make you feel better, I thank you.”

“And you must join us for dinner,” Gordon added, clinging to rapidly disintegrating straws. “No, I insist, it’s the least I can do, and it might actually yield similar results. We’re doing quite a bit of research on our tour of the West, you know, and we’d be happy to share with you what we’ve learned about other investment opportunities out here in the hinterlands.” As Paladin held up a hand in cordial refusal, Gordon went for broke. “Oh, please say you’ll come. James and I are getting awfully tired of each other’s company. And if you’re as interested in food as you are in wine—well, I do have some modest culinary talent, if I do say so myself.”

To Paladin he didn’t sound modest at all, which could portend either gastronomic bliss or generous doses of digestive bitters. “Well, this is turning out to be a very pleasant stopover indeed.” Gordon might be a dilettante but he had good taste and he was generous. “And maybe in return I can offer you some pointers for negotiating with land barons and so on—out here in the hinterlands,” he added drily.

“Oh, that would be fine, just fine! Are you by chance free tonight?” Mentally Gordon crossed his fingers.

“As a matter of fact I am.” Cauthen being again engaged for the evening, Paladin had planned to attend a debate on the upcoming constitutional convention; this outing, however, sounded much more appealing, not only on its own merits—the possibility of a fine meal was always an effective lure—but also because it offered him a chance to satisfy himself that Cauthen wasn’t about to be fleeced by a couple of polished con men. After all, he’d only barely met Cousin James.

“Capital! Shall we say eight o’clock? We’re on private siding number seven—just ask any of the porters to direct you. And bring a hearty appetite!”

********************

Hugh Tandy had been a busy man since his arrival in Denver a scant year before with his pockets still bulging from his wartime munitions profits. The more Paladin had thought about Cauthen’s renewed association with Tandy the less he’d liked it, and Cauthen’s vague reassurances had done nothing to ease his mind. As he skimmed article after article and listing after listing in the small, dusty room that housed the newspaper archives and the public records office, obtaining information and insight behind Cauthen’s back, he was conscious of a sense of self-reproach; but during their long-ago friendship Cauthen, dreaming of great heights without possessing the talent to scale them on his own, had sometimes needed strong guidance to steer him clear of undesirable associations, and for the sake of that friendship Paladin wanted to make certain before he left town that Cauthen wasn’t in need of such guidance again.

Tandy owned thousands of acres of land surrounding the burgeoning city, and he had purchased on speculation several mines that had been abandoned when the alluvial deposits played out. He held numerous mortgages through his bank and liens on as many properties through his construction firm, but no records so far suggested anything worse than greed. Perhaps a few too many connections between the building firm and the mortgage holdings, and between the railroad company and the land agency—possible evidence that Tandy had not cast aside that venality that Cauthen had once deplored—but nothing so blatant that federal or territorial officials ought to be informed. On the contrary, Paladin was pleased and relieved to see that Tandy was trying to develop land rather than saturate it with blood.

He turned a page, and froze—then sat back with a grim sigh, reflecting that a man flipping over rocks really shouldn’t be surprised when something ugly crawled out. All the unpleasant discoveries about human nature he made in the course of his work, however, never made any easier those about men he considered his friends. He read unhappily for some minutes, then gathered up his few pages of notes and started to close the volume.

Abruptly his elbow was jostled by an elderly gent who plopped a huge stack of back issues of the Rocky Mountain News partly on top of Paladin’s open volume so that he couldn’t at once close it. Clad in a musty wrinkled overcoat from the pockets of which he pulled folded papers covered with notes, the old man apologized in a hoarse voice that he clearly believed was a whisper, and then peered nosily over Paladin’s arm.

“Oh, financial papers. Paugh! Never could care much about that sort of thing myself. Me, I’m looking into ghosts.”

“Ghosts?” Paladin repeated, temporarily held in place because until the fellow moved his stack he couldn’t return the thick volume to the clerk.

“Ghosts,” the rumpled old character said firmly, his silver mustache twitching. “I’ve met the undying spirits of conquistadors in California and of emigrants along the Overland Trail, and now I’m talking to the ghosts of miners who took their gold fever with them when they crossed the eternal divide. They’re gettin’ real stirred up by all the new digging, you know.” He waggled a pen in Paladin’s general direction and dripped ink onto the table.

“Stirred up. Met them?” To his own ears Paladin was beginning to sound like a parrot. He shook his head in bemusement. “Sir, if you don’t mind—” He tugged gently on his volume, on which the old fellow was now leaning.

“That’s all right, my boy, you go on about your business. You can read my book when I’ve completed it. It’s going to revolutionize the field of spiritualism, mark my words! I’ll make sure you get a signed copy.”

With a murmured “Thank you,” Paladin gave up and left his volume for the clerk to put away. Distracted by what he’d learned, he didn’t see the old fellow shift his newspapers to one side so he could take notes from the pages Paladin had been reading.

In disguise, Gordon scribbled furiously in his usual shorthand, not yet sure what this information on Tandy’s investments had to do with Cauthen, knowing only that Paladin’s expression had grown more and more severe as he’d read it. Not only that, he’d looked sad, as if confronted inescapably with information he wished he hadn’t uncovered.

Gordon had been watching Paladin all day, having followed him to the wine shop in the first place and thence to the dining room of the Denver City Hotel, where he’d posed as a waiter and even received a handsome tip from two coquettes lunching alone, wondering all the while at the back of his mind whether he was going to get away with that case of wine on his expense report to Colonel Richmond. From the restaurant Paladin had headed with sudden sure purpose to the records office, where it soon became clear that he would be occupied for some time. Gordon had ducked into the men’s lavatory of the hotel next door for a quick change: a hairpiece and moustache, a few deft strokes with a makeup pencil, a disreputable overcoat that had been folded tightly and strapped to his back all along—surprisingly little modification would alter a man beyond glancing recognition if the modification was artfully enough applied. From the concealment of a cabinet of maps he’d watched Paladin’s face as he read and skimmed and turned pages; he’d had to bustle up quickly to catch the page number so he could turn back to it if Paladin had managed to extricate the volume from under the oblivious old gentleman’s securely planted elbow. He had the feeling that Paladin now knew more about Cauthen’s possibly unlawful activities than he and Jim did, and hoped, if that was in fact the case, that Paladin didn’t confront Cauthen just yet or he might not live long enough to become the ally Gordon hoped he would be.

At last he’d copied every listing that seemed to him remotely relevant to his own researches on Cauthen and to the sort of information he expected to receive from the Bureau, and returned both the newspapers and Paladin’s volume to the young clerk reading a dime novel behind the desk. He had already turned away, his mind on rooster and mushrooms and green vegetables, and perhaps a stop at a bakery, since he probably wouldn’t have time to make dessert—when a memory jumped into his mind with the force of a slap.

He spun around and pounced at the clerk, who was so startled he flung his novel sideways and very nearly reached for the ceiling as if Black Bart himself had suddenly begun shooting up the place. “Sonny boy,” Gordon said, never dropping his assumed character, “I wonder if you could help me locate an article—?”

West bounded up Cauthen’s front steps on the heels of Cauthen himself, having located him at Tandy’s bank and trailed him for an hour for the express purpose of pretending to catch him just as he arrived home. He was fresh from a meeting with Horace Bird at his office, during which he’d learned that Bird had met Hugh Tandy but didn’t know him or his business concerns well enough to suggest additional lines of inquiry.

Bullock stepped out the door in an attempt to head him off, but West pushed past him as Cousin James might push past a real butler; if Bullock wanted to play the part he would have to learn to take his servile lumps. “Mr. Cauthen, good afternoon!” Cauthen turned reluctantly, while Bullock fumed silently next to his boss. “I just thought I’d stop by again after the races in the park—where I won a thousand dollars, by the way—and here you are! My cousin and I were wondering if you’d had a chance to look over those papers we brought by this morning. We’re really eager to learn more about your operation, and of course we’re hoping to visit the mine very soon.”

Cauthen’s reception was distant but civil. “I’m afraid I’ve been out all day, and unfortunately I’m on my way out again for the evening, but I’ll certainly look over your papers first thing in the morning. Following a review of your information by my board of directors, which in light of Mr. Bird’s recommendation I’m certain will be a mere formality, I’ll plan a visit to the mine, very likely for two days hence—though of course I must consult with my foreman, as we wouldn’t want you to visit on a day when dangerous blasting and drilling are scheduled. But this week, certainly. I’ll let you know.”

Unable to decide whether he sensed a new reserve in Cauthen, West wondered if Tandy had expressed misgivings about him during their meeting. “Oh, that will be fine, just fine. Mr. Cauthen, I hope we don’t seem, well, pushy—it’s just that we’re so pleased to have an opportunity to support great projects in this great new city, as I’m sure you understand. We make money, you make money, the smelters will make money, the manufacturers who use the extracted metals will make money—everybody wins!” Cauthen just barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes at Bullock. Bullock didn’t make the effort. “We’ll look forward to hearing from you. Or I could come by again tomorrow—”

Bullock stepped forward until he nearly trod on West’s boots. “Mr. Cauthen said he’d contact you.”

West didn’t give an inch, instantly assuming the demeanor of a spoiled brat putting a servant in his place. “I was conversing with Mr. Cauthen. I don’t appreciate being interrupted by the help.” A butler would accept the rebuke; a henchman would not.

Bullock’s baleful eyes took on a nasty squint; his snarl wrinkled his misshapen nose. West knew that look well, the look of a man who really, really wanted to hit him. It was not a very butlerlike expression.

“Bullock—” Cauthen’s tone held a strong note of warning.

In the face of his boss’s direct reprimand, Bullock swallowed his pride; West could see that it went down like a mouthful of rotten tomato. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he sneered.

“As do I,” Cauthen added smoothly. “In these somewhat uncouth Western cities, Mr. West, the ‘help’ is often not as polished as you are probably accustomed to. A few lingering rough edges, you understand.”

West grinned in Bullock’s face. “Let me know if you need any help sanding them down. I’m always ready for a sporting match—I’m well acquainted with both the London and Marquess of Queensbury rules.” He clucked his tongue at the butler as he would at a horse. “’Bye now!” He could practically see the steam coming out of the man’s ears.

He was halfway to his waiting cab before he began to wonder ruefully just how far the boundaries of discretion could be made to stretch.

In the late twilight of summer the benches of the depot were filled with the usual bystanders seeking an evening’s entertainment in watching the trains come chugging in from faraway places and commenting on the passengers’ dress and hair and the quality of their luggage. Paladin strolled along the platform of siding number seven past the handsome steam locomotive, gleaming black with wheels, domes, headlight housing, and cowcatcher a bright, jaunty red; the utilitarian wood and freight cars, the latter as large, he guessed, as railroad regulations would allow; and last the well-proportioned parlor car, which had obviously been serviced while in Denver, sporting new paint here and there and a shine so bright on its trim he could have shaved by its reflection. As he mounted the rear stoop he heard a solitary violin, a sweet, romantic melody with an undercurrent of passion but also a lilt of humor. At his knock the music stopped, and in a moment Artemus Gordon opened the door, instrument in hand.

“Good evening, Mr. Paladin! You’re right on time. Do come in and make yourself comfortable.” A sweeping gesture with the bow beckoned Paladin inside.

“Good evening. That was a lovely melody—I didn’t recognize it.”

“Oh, just a little something of my own composition—inspired by Signorina Bertolani.”

Gordon’s cousin stepped forward to greet him and take his cloak and cane; from habit he noted where West placed them on the stand near the door. The sword concealed in the cane was not his only weapon, however; the cut of his coat disguised the derringer in his inside breast pocket, and he also carried a knife in a sheath strapped to his calf. “This is quite an establishment you have here,” he commented, taking in the brocade upholstery, the carved paneling and molding, and the fine china and crystal with which the table was set. “May I compliment your taste in decor?”

“You may.” Gordon traded a proud glance with his cousin. “The train belongs to our uncle, actually, but we furnish it to our satisfaction.”

“A secret compartment here, a hidden passageway there—” West chimed in, to the general merriment of all three.

“But no grand piano.”

Gordon’s expressive face became crestfallen. “Alas, as you see—”

“Glass of wine?” West asked. “And Artemus has prepared some hors d’oeuvres—”

Instantly Gordon’s usual high spirits returned. “Yes, I’m sure you’ll recognize paté de fois gras, escargot en croûte, mousse de saumon, tartelette de fromage bleu, and, last but not least, a bite or two of caviar for which I bribed the chef at the Cottonwood.”

Paladin gazed upon the array of dishes with something like awe. “Gentlemen, this is a truly mouth-watering spread, and it’s only the appetizer. I can see that this particular gamble is going to pay off splendidly.” With happy anticipation he began to fill a small Limoges plate, pausing only to accept the etched crystal goblet West handed him. “Ah, the pinot noir. It’s particularly excellent with the escargot.” He gestured toward Gordon’s violin, resting in its case on the sofa. “Please, I’d love to hear the rest.”

Gordon fairly dived for the instrument. “You don’t have to ask twice!” He shot a superior glance at his cousin, whose exaggeratedly pained look, Paladin could tell, was just to tease. At the moment not the least bit shy, Gordon began at the beginning and played from memory, eyes closed during the adagio, watching his fingering during the pizzicato, segueing to a few bars that hinted at a waltz, and ending with a long, slow portamento. As the last note died away Paladin set down his plate and glass so he could applaud, West joining him with a warm smile.

“Mr. Gordon, that is an exquisite tune, and that was fine playing—my compliments on both. Piano, violin— Do you play other instruments as well?”

“I know my way around most of the traditional orchestra.” Somehow he managed to deliver this astounding declaration without sounding boastful—as a mere statement of fact. “Musical clear down to our toenails, my family—Great-aunt Maude was a terror on the timpani. And now if you’ll excuse me, I need to whip up the hollandaise.”

Over coq au vin and haricots verts they jumped from topic to topic in lively conversation, reminiscing about cities they had visited and people they had met, comparing favorite books and music and other, less lofty recreation. In addition to his love of music, Gordon was partial to the Romantic poets, while West admitted a fondness for variety shows and dime novels (his cousin accusing him of always reading the last page first and his stout denials a clear admission of guilt). Paladin was more acquainted than they with the essayists and writers on jurisprudence, but all three agreed on the timeless perspicacity of Mr. Shakespeare. He was also more widely traveled, having explored much of Europe and the Orient before the War; both his hosts enjoyed his descriptions of exotic lands, although he was not surprised that Gordon was more curious about artistic and cultural conventions and West about sports and various methods of making war. Though the cousins had been to Europe themselves they did not know it well, but if even half their stories could be believed, they had enjoyed almost ceaseless adventure in their more domestic perambulations. Gordon, much the more colorful of the two, threw himself into his tall tales of capture by bloodthirsty Indians, lustful harem girls, Chinese tongs, and megalomaniacal dwarfs with expansive gestures and a voice bubbling with laughter. West was more laconic and considerably drier of wit, and prone to vehement denial of an obvious truth or steadfast clinging to an obvious lie in order to provoke his excitable cousin. Before the evening was very far advanced Paladin began to realize that he quite liked them, ingenuous though they might be. Tending to cynicism himself, he was often refreshed by an encounter with those young enough or unscathed enough still to be a little naïve, even though naïveté wasn’t necessarily the healthiest character trait to possess in this part of the country, especially when it was blended with a certain pugnacity. He’d heard about West’s little tiff with Bullock, in fact rather wished he had witnessed it—though if his own suspicions about Bullock were correct it would likely lead to trouble for the impetuous young man, trouble that could easily get him killed.

As they progressed through tomatoes and leeks en vinaigrette and marinated mushrooms, however, he found himself wondering whether the cousins were truly as naïve as they had at first seemed to be. They quizzed him about California politics and offered some surprising insights of their own regarding recent political oddities that hinted at knowledgeable sources within the state government; his own acquaintance with the governor did not extend to executive secrets. Their intelligent comments about President Grant’s administrative policies again spoke of some private information. Clearly they were, as Gordon had intimated, very shrewd investors indeed, and by the time Gordon served the salad, they did not seem naïve to him at all. He wondered later if perhaps the course of his ruminations had shown in his face, for it was only moments after this realization struck him, and before he had time to consider the possible ramifications for Cauthen’s dealings with them, that he noticed a sudden sharp glance pass between the two, and the unexpected thought popped into his head that they had come to some decision. Instinct made him ready himself, though he wasn’t yet certain what for.

“‘Paladin,’” Gordon mused with his fork full of watercress and radishes. “At first I thought the name simply bespoke a transplanted French or Italian ancestor—Palaisin or Paladino—or possibly a romantic fascination with the medieval chansons de geste.” As with his Spanish earlier, Gordon’s pronunciation of the Italian and French terms was flawless, and Paladin wondered in passing just how many languages he spoke. “After all, any number of people out here in the wild West don’t answer to the names they were christened with.” His glance at his guest was pointed and sly. “But then I remembered hearing about a man called Paladin who walloped the stuffing out of Bryan Sykes in what the papers called the ‘Bare-Knuckle Fight of the Century.’ Looked it up in the archives of the News this afternoon.” His tone and look were strangely expectant.

Paladin’s eyes narrowed. “I was in the archives most of the afternoon, doing some research of my own. I didn’t see you.” But why should Gordon risk such an obvious lie?

And then an amazing thing happened. Gordon set down his fork and began to hunch his shoulders and lean on the table in a posture that looked to Paladin oddly familiar. His face changed, sagging and wrinkling like an old hound’s, the jaw becoming underhung, the brow furrowing over a squint. “Beg to differ, son. They need bigger tables in that reading room, don’t they—two folks can hardly work side by side.” Paladin’s eyes flared wide, and Gordon resumed his normal appearance with a self-satisfied smile. “Dessert?” He bustled out without waiting for an answer.

Unsure whether or not to be entertained by this elaborate masquerade but very definitely perplexed, Paladin turned back to West, who had observed his cousin’s performance with a satisfied smirk of his own. Now West asked, “That was you, wasn’t it, in that bout?” His attitude was no longer the least bit bland; he was appraising his guest, judging reach and power, almost wishing for an opportunity to test himself. This was a man who enjoyed a fight.

“It was.” It had been a dirty victory in a rigged fight, and he’d had to downright steal the purse from crooked promoters, and his face had looked like badly branded cowhide for a week. “Though I must assert that I had no part in the subsequent riot.” In the galley a whisk raced around a mixing bowl—Gordon was evidently whipping cream.

“And then we learned from—another source,” West continued, “that this same Paladin had rendered crucial assistance in negotiations with Chief Gerada of the Maricopa Apache, and single-handedly prevented an uprising under the renegade Colonel Nuñez near Alamogordo.”

Paladin frowned. “That sort of information doesn’t usually make the papers. Some of it is even classified.”

How had a pair of gadabouts come into such knowledge? Until this moment he’d been mulling over the notion that West and Gordon might be cultivating Cauthen’s circle of investors with the eventual aim of blackmailing them—for such wealthy men always had a few closely guarded secrets, J. Carroll Cauthen’s being his possibly shady involvement with Hugh Tandy that Paladin had discovered that afternoon. Now, however, he began to wonder if the cousins—if they were cousins—might actually be scheming to gain control of the group’s combined capital, their goal nothing less than the manipulation of territorial politics. Perhaps they were working with Hugh Tandy, who appeared to be using Cauthen as the public face for at least some of their private dealings. It crossed his mind that he should have pondered more thoroughly why Artemus Gordon, a man who might not be entirely what he seemed to be, should be so curious about Cauthen; their repeated meetings seemed less like coincidence now. Abruptly realizing that it was no accident West had placed his cane as far as possible from the table, he raised his napkin to his mouth in order to conceal the movement of his hand a little nearer the derringer inside his coat, should it be needed.

“Don’t.”

In a flash West had performed a similar sleight of hand and now held his own cocked derringer steadily above the bread basket. Slowly Paladin first set down his napkin, revealing his empty right hand, then placed both hands in plain sight on the table. Just then Gordon, aproned and lightly perspiring, backed into the parlor through the swinging door of the galley, carrying a tray laden with a steaming skillet and a stack of dessert plates. With sudden breezy cheer West added, “You haven’t had your dessert.”

As Gordon turned he took instant measure of the scene before him. “Jim,” he chided, “put that down. Mr. Paladin is our guest.” To Paladin’s surprise, West obeyed, though he set the derringer within easy reach on the other side of the floral centerpiece. Paladin held very still, considering his options. “I will point out, Mr. Paladin,” Gordon continued as he set the tray on the table without the slightest rattle of the china, “that the reek of gunpowder has an unfortunate effect on the aroma of a fine amaretto. May I present—crêpes à la pêche Gordon.” With a showman’s flourish he struck a match and lit the topping in the skillet. Once the flames had died down he removed his apron and transferred the crêpes to individual plates, adding a generous dollop of whipped cream and a brandied cherry. “I thought I’d have to settle for bakery éclairs, but the peaches at the market were gorgeous.” He set a plate in front of Paladin and waited for judgment.

Surely, Paladin thought, the usual behavior of blackmailers and political connivers wasn’t quite this bizarre. His confoundment increasing, he looked up from the plate and met their gazes in turn. “Just who are you gentlemen?”

Another decisive glance passed between them. “We work for the United States Secret Service,” West replied.

Paladin digested this extraordinary declaration. “And you aren’t really cousins, and the name of your ‘uncle’ would be ‘Sam.’”

“That’s right.”

“Prove it.”

Carefully he examined the identification they presented, testing the thickness and texture of the paper, holding the pages over the lamp to judge the quality of the ink. That he knew something of what to look for caught their attention, he could see. He was hardly an expert, but in his work he’d had occasion to peruse a few government papers, and these appeared to be genuine. But when he spoke his tone was noncommittal. “Papers can be forged.”

Gordon drew himself up in a dudgeon. “Believe me, if I’d forged them they’d look better than that. Look at that smudged ink, that broken type—it’s a disgrace! I’ve told them and told them they should use another printer—” Harumphing unintelligibly, he finished dishing up the dessert, West observing his outburst in tolerant silence.

Paladin read them as either the best actors he’d ever seen or as genuine as their credentials—though he wasn’t sure whether to laugh out loud or send up a prayer for the security of his country. At last allowing himself to relax, he handed back their wallets. “What does the Secret Service want with me?”

Gordon turned a pleading eye upon them. “Please—after the dessert?”

West was content to yield, and the three spent the next few minutes in gustatory appreciation.

“This is masterful, Mr. Gordon, not too sweet, not too heavy—”

“He’s right, Artie—you’ve outdone yourself.”

“I think the ginger-mint infusion is an especially nice touch—”

Presently the dessert had vanished, and the brandy had been poured and the cigars lit. Paladin sat back with a snifter in one hand and a cigar in the other. “What,” he asked again, “does the Secret Service want with me?”

He listened without comment while they told him what they knew and conjectured about Cauthen’s business activities, concealing his shock that, far from working with Hugh Tandy to swindle Cauthen, they were investigating Cauthen himself; in fact they hadn’t known about Tandy at all until just two days before. Their speculations suggested a much darker view of Cauthen and Tandy’s mysterious transactions than he himself had yet arrived at—though for the moment he volunteered no information of his own in return, not even that he had once known Hugh Tandy far more intimately than he now took any pride in recalling.

“We received a report on Tandy this afternoon,” Gordon said. “He’s a munitions manufacturer suspected of supplying both sides during the War—but unfortunately nobody could find any proof of that.” Paladin hadn’t heard that particular rumor but he was inclined to think it held more than a grain of truth. “He’s also suspected of political machinations in New York, Virginia, and Pennsylvania—some very questionable deals with political overtones that ended in several bankruptcies and a suicide—but again, nothing was ever proven. He’s well placed in Denver society to indulge in blackmail, political or otherwise, and we know that Cauthen has been associating with him, but we aren’t yet sure if they’re consorting in the hypothetical plot we were sent here to investigate.”

“I met Tandy this morning at Charles Burgin’s house,” West put in. “I didn’t like him much. I especially didn’t like the way he was looking at Matilda.”

“Upon further association you would like him even less. He’s a vicious brute, particularly toward women.”

West’s eyebrows rose. “Another acquaintance from ‘former days,’ I see. That’s an interesting coincidence.” And then he made an impressive intuitive leap. “That catch in his jaw—did you do that?” The question was accompanied by a pointed glance toward Paladin’s hands.

“I did. A long time ago. We—differed as to our methods of seduction.”

Curiosity flared in the glance the agents exchanged, but neither indulged it with a query. “And if he were to meet up with you again,” West said, “he might still be a little bit put out.”

“Very probably. But you didn’t wine and dine me just to learn that.”

Gordon refilled the brandy snifters. “In the archives you were looking at records of incorporation. You didn’t seem very pleased with what you discovered, but I couldn’t draw any conclusions myself, even in light of what we now know about Tandy.”

Paladin decided to be somewhat forthcoming. “No, you couldn’t, unless you knew well the relationships and resentments among three undisciplined young men many years ago. Tandy and Cauthen have formed several companies that are blinds clear through to their last listed stockholder, but no one would recognize them as such except someone who had known them in a particular time and place. All the names were familiar to me—men and women who had bested or spurned them in one way or another. The first name on one company roster was mine. Another was one of the names Tandy used when he visited brothels, a third the president of a club that blackballed Cauthen—and so forth.” He puffed thoughtfully on the fine cigar. “I’ll concede, reluctantly, that this proves a business connection between the two that they want to keep hidden, but business connections can be Byzantine and even secretive while still being legal. Or Cauthen could be Tandy’s dupe; he was always easily led.” Even to himself he didn’t sound very convincing, or convinced.

“That wouldn’t make him any less guilty,” Gordon said quietly, with inarguable truth. “What are the names of the phony companies?”

“I’d prefer not to say just yet.”

West’s gaze sharpened dangerously. “That could be construed as withholding evidence.”

“Construe it however you like. I won’t reveal another man’s private business information without provocation or legal warrant.” West folded his arms across his chest and glowered at him, and even the good-natured Gordon was obviously annoyed by his stubborn reticence. “Why don’t you tell me what you think they’re doing?”

Still frowning but nonetheless pleased to be granted the opportunity to make their case, Gordon explained while West continued to scowl. “We’re reliably informed that the finances of the Territory are—ailing, thanks to the recent depression, rampant corruption, and so on. Right now it appears that Colorado is safely on the path to statehood after a lot of close misses. But if the proposed state government is seen to be fatally unstable, Congress might well be persuaded to vote against statehood yet again, and a lot of people will lose their political standing and quite possibly their shirts. If statehood goes forward and the treasury of the new state—which will no longer receive administrative funds from the federal government—is empty, ditto. Cauthen, with the possible collusion of Hugh Tandy, might be positioning himself for a takeover, or a generous rescue in exchange for political favors at the highest levels of territorial or state government, with who knows what ultimate aspiration—a Senate or Cabinet seat, and from there to the Presidency, perhaps. It’s an old story: ambitious men pooling their financial and social resources to attain political power.”

“‘Ambition destroys its possessor,’” Paladin murmured, quoting the Talmud. He had to admit their logic was sound, and it would be typical of Cauthen to agree to be a front man without realizing that the man in front is usually the first to fall.

He felt the heavy weight of disappointment settle about him. Bad enough to gull imprudent investors who should know that if an opportunity sounded too good to be true it probably was; but this level of betrayal, defrauding a government, all their neighbors and associates who were trying to build a great city and state in this bountiful but isolated region—for government was of the people, after all, not a separate autonomous entity— That base a scheme he would never have suspected of Cauthen, even under Tandy’s influence.

“It’s an interesting theory. At the moment, however, that’s all it is.” He certainly had no intention just yet of telling them how well the financial dabblings of the various false companies supported it. Boston and Providence; Eastern Gold, Inc.; and half a dozen other firms under the directorship of J. Carroll Cauthen held railroad and telegraph easements, water and mineral rights, and controlling shares in breweries, mills, grocery and department stores, shipping companies, and the smelters under construction that would soon make the mines staggeringly profitable again—clearly the probable conspirators wanted the lion’s share of as many of Denver’s financial pies as they could possibly acquire. And he had been concerned that Cauthen might have violated a few commerce regulations— “You haven’t any real proof, have you?”

“No.” West’s admission was tight-lipped, grudging. “Can we count on your help to find it? Or will you get in our way?”

He made them wait for an answer that wasn’t really an answer at all, and they knew it as well as he did. “I’ve known these men for fifteen years. I’d like to believe that there’s a less damning explanation—grasping men skirting the edges of the law and crossing lines without intending to.” But it was because he’d known these men for fifteen years that he’d been halfway to their same devastating assumptions before they’d even presented their evidence.

“By your own admission you haven’t been in close touch with either of them for a long time,” Gordon pointed out. “Men can change in fifteen years, Mr. Paladin. Rich and powerful men even more.”

Paladin finished his brandy and set down his glass. “A man can change in fifteen minutes, Mr. Gordon.” He had been known to transfer his own loyalties in an instant.

As he rose and moved toward the door he kept his hands in sight so West wouldn’t feel compelled to draw the derringer he had restored to his pocket. The two agents accompanied him but said nothing as he donned his hat and cloak and lifted his cane from the rack. “Gentlemen, I’m always grateful for enlightening conversation, and—” He bowed to Gordon. “—an exceptional meal.” Gordon’s return bow was low and gracious, but his expression was tinged with regret. “I’ll be in touch.”

He stepped from the warm yellow light of the parlor car into shadows as black as his mood, not very much liking what he planned to do next.

“So what do you think of our new acquaintance and possible ally?” Gordon asked as he began to clear the table. “You haven’t spent any time with him before tonight.” West didn’t answer at once, instead peeled off his dinner jacket and slung it over a chair. Gordon frowned. “Jim?”

West turned to face him, arms slightly spread. “What do you want me to say—that I think he’s the key to this whole case just because he liked your cooking?”

Bristling, Gordon planted a stack of dishes on the table with a clatter. “Of course not! It takes more than that to win me over, and you darn well know it!”

With an exhale of frustration, West yanked at his cravat. “Of course I know it. Sorry, Artie.”

“Apology accepted. Besides, everybody likes my cooking.” Gordon was as quickly mollified as he was incensed. “What is it, Jim—what’s bugging you?”

“It’s too easy. Somebody who might be able to put all the pieces together for us just drops into our laps?”

“Easy? Easy? I’ll have you know I worked like a dog to reel him in—he’s at least as suspicious as you are. I even had to serenade him—”

“You what?”

“Never mind.” When West said nothing else, Gordon finished clearing the table, placing the dishes in the sink for the maid and the linens in a basket for the launderers, services available through the depot. West had flung himself onto the sofa; Gordon turned a chair and faced him over its back. “Okay, I’ll bite. You think Paladin is working for Cauthen and Tandy? A plant to find out what we know? That would hardly gibe with what the Bureau found out about him.”

The afternoon had at last brought them information on Paladin as well. Eventually the reports from Army Intelligence and the Inspector General of Paladin’s unofficial involvement in the Apache matters had made their convoluted way to the Secret Service, where some anonymous but thorough section chief had thought it wise to order at least a cursory investigation into the background of a man who held such influence over several Indian tribes. The Data Bureau researchers had found no record of a man called Paladin before 1866, when he’d established himself in San Francisco’s gambling circles as the host of legendary days-long poker games in which very wealthy men played for stakes in the stratosphere. He had served in the Army but evidently under his real name, which the researchers had been unable to determine or had not bothered to try. A well-educated patron of the arts, he also possessed practical knowledge and experience; he was frequently consulted by businessmen and politicians, who frequently gained greater fortune and influence by acting upon his sound advice. Mr. Paladin appeared to be a thoroughgoing gentleman. Appeared to be—for he was also a gunfighter and general problem-solver for hire well known to the San Francisco police; but as he usually practiced his trade outside the city they had never had reason to arrest him. In fact he was, they reported, the occasional champion of the meek and the desperate, which interesting revelation West and even Gordon, despite his liking for the man, had read with a dubious air. In all his dealings about which the Bureau had gathered any information, Paladin had demonstrated a scrupulous—if sometimes lethal—integrity.

“I don’t know.” West spread his arms wide against the upholstery. “I don’t know. He said himself that men change. And I can’t shake the feeling that he knows something he isn’t telling us.”

“You just want an excuse to pick a fight with him.” West shot his partner another pained look, but knowing the barb was merely payment in full for his earlier slight he didn’t object. “Look,” Gordon went on, “would you spill everything you know to men you’ve just met? Put yourself in Paladin’s place for a minute. He came here to check us out and we turned the tables on him, destroying his perception of men he’s known for years and of what he thought they were doing. How would you feel if somebody did that?”

“About you?” Anticipating where Artemus was heading, West gave a disgruntled sigh. “I wouldn’t believe it.”

“Neither would I about you. Paladin doesn’t want to believe it either, and he isn’t very happy with us for making him. Is it any wonder he’s resisting our efforts to persuade him?”

West considered for a moment, then nodded. “All right. But what next? Go back to waiting while he makes up his mind—and I end up in an insane asylum?”

“Don’t worry—I’d bust you out.” West grinned and calmed down a little. “Maybe,” Gordon mused, “we should stick close so we’ll be on hand when he decides we really are the good guys—”

The glow of lamplight through the music room windows splashed over the intricate geometric parquetry of Cauthen’s terrace, but the young maples in the back yard, shipped west across the plains at extravagant expense, cast a deep gloom that West used to good advantage as he hauled himself over the stone balustrade after a shimmy up one of the fluted columns. He secured a rope around the balustrade and dropped it down to the lawn, and in a moment Gordon stood beside him fishing a small wooden box and a bundle of wires from his coat pocket. The rustle of their clothing, the faint creak of leather boots and gunbelts, and the crunch of grit under their boots against the stone tiles were masked by the sighing of the prairie breeze in the branches, the pulsing chirp of crickets, and the rhythmic booming of frogs in the nearby river bottom. Through the diamond-paned French doors they could see Paladin seated alone in the brighter circle of light cast by the tall gilded torchère next to his chair, but couldn’t hear the crackle of the newspaper he was reading—with very poor attention, judging by how often he glanced up toward the dimly lit foyer—or the clink of glassware when he finally rose to pour himself a brandy, or the sound of his footsteps across the polished oak floor as he paced the length of the room, the fingers of his free hand twiddling restlessly.

Gordon had affixed the suction cup of his amplifying device to a shadowed corner pane of the French door and was now testing the two earpieces, turning dials on the small box. Softly he grumbled, “I can’t tell if we’re going to be close enough until somebody says something. If we can’t hear what they say then we don’t know where we stand. He could blow this thing wide open with a word, you know.”

“He won’t give us away.” Of that much, if not yet of anything else about Mr. Paladin, West was confident.

“Huh.” Gordon jerked his head in Paladin’s direction. “He’s supposed to be the gambler. All those hours of watching and digging would be wasted. Cauthen would know who we are and why we’re here and we’d be back at square one or worse.”

“He won’t betray government agents,” West insisted, adding testily, “Besides, it’s a little late for you to be worrying about it, isn’t it?”

With a sour grunt Gordon turned his attention back to his dials. Presently a carriage pulled up in the street; Cauthen emerged and sauntered up the front walk, pausing to gaze proudly at the outline of his grand home, while the carriage continued around the block to the stable in the rear. The watching agents did not risk even a whisper while Cauthen made his casual way up the steps, his footsteps clearly audible in the quiet night. The front door opened and closed, and from the foyer came the murmur of voices—Cauthen conferring with Bullock, no doubt. Gordon, urgently adjusting dials, gave a grim shake of his head.

“Nothing. We’re too far away. Maybe I can strengthen the reception—” He pulled out wires and twisted them together, then reattached them to different knobs and turned the knobs as far as they would go.

Cauthen dismissed Bullock and strode into the music room. “Paladin! You’re back early—”

—and Gordon tore the earpiece from his ear with a gasp of pain and grabbed frantically for a knob. By the time West had stuck the other earpiece into his own ear Gordon had gotten the volume down to a level somewhat below deafening. “Clear as a bell,” West whispered as Cauthen was ribbing Paladin about getting so respectable that he’d soon be turning in before midnight. Gordon inserted his earpiece into the ear that wasn’t ringing, and they settled in for a spot of professional eavesdropping.

Cauthen held a decanter of whiskey aloft. “Drink?” He was cheerful, self-important, clearly pleased with his evening’s work, whatever it had been.

“No, thank you.” Paladin’s words were clipped, his tone brittle. His eyes followed Cauthen from the liquor cabinet to the piano, where Cauthen set his glass on a coaster next to the music shelf and began to play a lively, structureless tune. For no good reason Gordon was surprised that Cauthen was actually a competent pianist, that the fine instrument wasn’t just for show. Perhaps a shared affinity for music had sparked his earliest acquaintance with Paladin, just as it had sparked another acquaintance much more recently. It was fortunate that Cauthen was in the mood to play; if the two men had relocated to the study, their observers would have missed several minutes of possibly crucial conversation while making their way around the terrace to the study window.

“How was your dinner?” Cauthen asked. Gordon was relieved that the piano didn’t significantly interfere with the clarity of the voices through the amplifier.

“The meal was superb—” A quick immodest smile flashed across Gordon’s face. “—the conversation—revealing.” Gordon’s smile faded and his gaze locked with West’s. What would Paladin choose to reveal?

“I’m glad you’re finding pleasant ways to occupy your time. Next time you do me the honor of a visit I’ll be better able to be a gracious host.”

“Oh? You sound as though you might be expecting a change in your circumstances.” Paladin’s comment was edged with unpleasant speculation. To West he sounded much less skeptical than he had on the train—or was that just wishful thinking?

Cauthen sipped his whiskey with a smile, his left hand holding a chord until the right rejoined it on the keyboard. “Something like that.” The melody resumed.

“You’ll find it difficult to be a gracious host from a prison cell, which is where you’re going to end up if you continue on your present course.” Cauthen’s hands froze and lifted; the music died away. He did not speak. “Your association with Tandy troubled me,” Paladin continued, “so I did a little research. Public records can be very informative, if the right person looks in the right places. Investment patterns become clear, and implications begin to suggest themselves.”

Cauthen rose and walked over to the liquor cabinet, where he set down his drink. Paladin’s line of sight would not allow him to see Cauthen’s hands should he pull a weapon from the drawer. West loosened his pistol in its holster. “Such as?” Cauthen prompted smoothly.

“Such as you and Hugh Tandy planning to bankrupt Colorado. Such as you and Tandy defrauding countless investors with the creation of several sham companies complete with nonexistent but familiar-sounding shareholders. One company buys land while another buys water rights; one company buys a mine while another invests in a smelter—all the profits cleverly masked so no entity pays any taxes, thus further depriving the territory of its due.” West exhaled quietly; he’d been right that Paladin hadn’t told them all he knew—but in a moment it became evident that in the hour since he’d left the train he’d learned a great deal more. “Add to that the correspondence and maps I found in your safe.” West and Gordon exchanged a rueful glance; evidently Paladin worried rather less about breaking and entering than they did. Their amusement faded at once when Paladin added, “Carroll, I was an officer for years. I know a battle plan when I see one. An attack on Fort Selby, holding the Territory hostage—all that is foolish enough, but how can you possibly believe that you can implicate the president? It’s insane!”

On the balcony West went very still, while Gordon fiddled with his dials as if he couldn’t quite credit what he’d heard.

“Do you always ransack your host’s safe?” Cauthen spoke lightly, but West, actually nearer to him than Paladin was, could see even through the window the tightness around his eyes and mouth, the tremor of anger held in check.

“I decided that seeking the truth was worth the risk to our friendship should you turn out to be innocent. Of course seeking the truth always carries the risk that one might find it.”

Cauthen was silent for a full minute. Neither man moved. Then Cauthen said, “I suppose there’s no point in denying it.”

Paladin drew in a breath, let it out in a ragged sigh; clearly he had been hoping to hear that less damning explanation he had suggested earlier. Almost pleading, he said, “I can’t let you continue with this.”

“And what do you propose to do about it?”

Cauthen’s hand eased toward the drawer. West drew his pistol and cocked it with his hand over the hammer to muffle the sound. Paladin’s watchfulness aboard the train seemed to have deserted him now.

“Try to talk some sense into you!”

“The way you used to?” Cauthen snapped, momentarily distracted from temptation. “At one time you could influence me, Paladin, but no longer. I’m my own man now.”

“Your own man,” Paladin repeated with an ironic curl of his lip. “Tandy has no influence on you at all anymore, I see, and you’re so proud of what you’ve become without him, aren’t you? So proud of being a cheat and a traitor?” He spat out the words. “He’s still manipulating you, even after all these years. Your glamor, his drive; your social position, his plan. It’s your name on all those corporate papers, not his. Who do you think the authorities are going to arrest when all this comes to light?”

“Not much of a diplomat, is he?” Gordon murmured.

“Maybe not,” West murmured back, “but we’re finally learning where he stands.”

“Tandy is my partner, Paladin, not my overseer—we are equals.” Cauthen’s whole body suddenly tensed. “I was never good enough for you, was I? You with your old money, lording it over the rest of us—and I let you, because I was weak. But not anymore.” In his voice they could hear the self-pitying whine of the victim of schoolyard ridicule, always the loser in boys’ rough games or cruelly left out entirely.

Paladin was staring at Cauthen as if he’d never seen him before, as if stunned by Cauthen’s explosive condemnation. “It’s true that during our friendship years ago I enjoyed a certain amount of personal wealth, but those who spoiled me with it had earned it with their brains and their sweat and sometimes with their blood. They spoiled me and I squandered my portion, as you well know, and what I have now I earn with my brains and my sweat and very often with my blood. But even if I were still the parasite I once was, the solution is not to become what you hate! Carroll, don’t follow Tandy down a path that can only lead to his and your destruction!” He stepped forward for emphasis, and now West saw his eyes flick in the direction of the drawer and Cauthen’s hand only inches away from it. “So far the worst you’ve done personally is violate some financial regulations. Tandy hasn’t put his plan into action yet, and the evidence connecting you with it is merely circumstantial. Don’t provide me with incontrovertible proof. I promise you I’ll use it.”

Cauthen’s frown might have been one of regret. “Will you be looking for it?”

“I will.”

West shot a told-you-so glance at Gordon, who retorted in a whisper, “Doesn’t mean he’ll help us, though.”

“I always figured your propensity for butting in would get you killed one day,” Cauthen was saying. “I never figured I’d be involved. I don’t want to be. Go home, Paladin. Go back to your cards and your cigars and your women and your ill-advised knight errantry. Let this play out.”

Paladin’s heavy shoulders sagged in defeat. He shook his head and drew another deep breath, and when he let it out he had the look of a man resigned to letting something go. “I’ve enjoyed your hospitality, but I’ve clearly worn out my welcome. I’ll pack my things.”

He turned his back and started for the stairs.

Cauthen’s hand shot toward the drawer; the latch rattled.

Paladin’s shoulders moved; his stride broke very slightly; and West knew he was reaching for the derringer in his inside pocket, readying himself to spring to one side as he turned and fired—finally taking some care with his own safety now that he had thrown down a gauntlet.

Perhaps Cauthen read those subtle movements for the threat they were, or perhaps he simply couldn’t bring himself to shoot an old friend, even one he so deeply resented, in the back. Whatever the reason, the drawer didn’t open, and the latch rattled again as Cauthen released it, and Paladin’s steady stride carried him on up the stairs, arms swinging freely at his sides.

Bullock appeared at the arched opening of the music room, his gaze following Paladin. Lamplight shone briefly in the stairwell and then vanished with the opening and closing of a door. Bullock entered the music room and poured himself a whiskey.

“Is everything in order?” Cauthen asked, reseating himself at the piano.

“Yeah.” Bullock jerked his oafish head toward the stairs. “Except for him.”

There was a long pause. Cauthen appeared to be sincerely reluctant, but in the end self-preservation trumped the lingering echo of youthful good times. “Watch him tonight, and follow him tomorrow. If he gets too close, kill him and leave him for the buzzards—but only if he gets too close. After tomorrow it won’t matter what he knows. Understood?”

“Right.” Bullock lumbered off toward the back of the house. Cauthen segued neatly from his musical meanderings into a Bach minuet.

“That’s one question answered,” Gordon whispered. “Your friend Mr. Bullock is most definitely not a butler.”

West removed his earpiece. “But now we have another question. What’s going to happen tomorrow?”

“Sounds as though we’re just in time.” Gordon quickly gathered up his wires. “You know, just once I’d like to foil a dastardly plot with weeks to spare.”

“Where would be the fun in that?” Peering over the balustrade, West saw a door open and light spill out toward the stable; the door closed and a figure moved through the restored darkness. “Meet you later.”

“Right.” Gordon pocketed his amplifier and slid down the rope. West unfastened the rope and dropped it into Gordon’s waiting hands, then swung over the balustrade and dropped himself nearly soundlessly onto the grass.

He faded into the deeper shadows along the picket fence, past the doghouse where the neighbor’s hound was sleeping off the gentle sedative with which Gordon had laced a beefsteak, snuffling in canine dreams. Bats on the hunt swooped and chittered overhead; down the block a whistle flagged down a cab. He could still faintly hear the minuet, and on the third floor Paladin’s silhouette passed now and then across a softly lighted window.

A horseman emerged from the stables, his trailworn dungarees and muslin and gunbelt far more convincing attire than his butler’s uniform. He rode out of the yard and took a position at the corner of the block where he could see the front of Cauthen’s house. West, following him in the shadows of the shrubbery bordering the lawns of neighboring mansions, placed himself farther along the street, noting the stationary cab in the next block and the glowing cigar dangling from the open window.

Some minutes passed. Bullock lounged patiently on his horse, which took advantage of the opportunity to graze on a neighbor’s petunias.

Cauthen’s front door opened. A footman rubbing sleep from his eyes trudged self-pityingly down the steps and along the front walk, but perked up when he saw a cab so near. At his whistled summons, the cab started forward and pulled up just as Paladin stepped onto the colonnade. Cauthen halted in the doorway just behind him, but West couldn’t tell if either man spoke. Paladin continued on down the front walk, giving his destination to the cabbie as the footman, casting surreptitious puzzled glances between his employer and his departing guest, handed up his luggage.

Paladin’s only reaction to finding the cab already occupied was a slight lifting of his eyebrows. Gordon still wore the suit he had worn at dinner but had added a knowing air. “The Cottonwood is a fine hotel; Jim and I have had occasion to stay there. There’s a bathroom on every floor.” He stubbed out his cigar in the ash tray.

Paladin let this irrelevancy pass. “Where is Mr. West?”

“He’ll be joining us shortly.” Holding a mirror out the window, Gordon saw the butler-henchman fall in behind the cab. “You know, every vehicle should have one of these permanently attached—drivers need to know what’s going on behind them as well as in front.” He withdrew the mirror and unfastened the door latch, and as they made a turn the door fell open and West swung himself aboard. The cabbie, busy negotiating late-night theater and gambling traffic, didn’t notice, and Gordon, employing his mirror again, could see that Bullock was equally unaware.

Paladin said nothing, merely waited for an explanation of their subterfuge. “The butler has orders to follow you tonight and tomorrow,” West said, “and kill you if you get too close—to what or where we don’t know yet.”

“My guess is he’s a rather better henchman than he is a butler,” Gordon added.

Paladin seemed neither surprised nor unduly perturbed to learn that the two agents had listened in on his conversation with Cauthen and its aftermath. “He does have that look.”

There was an expectant silence, and a question in their eyes. Then Paladin—slowly, with finger and thumb so as not to alarm them—pulled his wallet from his breast pocket and held out a card.

Gordon thumbed the quality pasteboard, noted the embossed chess-knight emblem and terse wording. “‘Have Gun—Will Travel,’” he read aloud, and added sincerely, “That’s catchy. You should write advertising slogans.”

“I have done so, in fact, while on a job for a Wild West show. Gentlemen, I’m willing to offer you my services, if saddened by the necessity of doing so. My fee is one thousand dollars.”

Gordon gulped audibly. “A—thou-thousand . . . ! Ohhhh boy— First a whole case of wine, and now this—”

Paladin was not visibly moved by his distress. “I ceased to be on regular retainer for—your uncle—when I resigned my commission in the Army. Now I work for the government for hire just as I do for any other employer—with the same caveats.”

“Which are?” West asked.

“When I accept a job I work according to my own rules and judgment. Uncle Sam doesn’t usually want me on that basis.”

“We do.”

Gordon looked ill. “But Jim—”

“Artie, we’re out of time. We can’t have him sabotaging our investigation by pursuing his own leads, and we need to know what he knows. If he isn’t an ally he’s a wild card.” West fixed an intent gaze on Paladin. “What did you find in that safe? You mentioned a battle plan, and a plot to implicate the President—?”

Paladin slipped his wallet back into his pocket. Apparently he was duly hired. “Tandy has been shipping munitions from his factory into Denver, labeled as machine parts and tools for his various construction projects. He and Cauthen intend to attack Fort Selby and establish a false trail of correspondence through Territorial Delegate Bird back to President Grant, casting a sinister light on the close relationship the two have established while working for Colorado statehood. Evidently Grant was at least partly responsible for some of the investigations into Tandy’s alleged duplicity during the War; his name was on one of the fake stockholder lists. Probably they also want to create more opportunity for their own advancement by heaping further scandal on an already troubled administration; they can’t seriously think that anyone would believe that the Commander-in-Chief would launch an assault against his own troops. He’s hardly an ideal president but he was an honorable general and he certainly isn’t a lunatic.” A passing streetlamp showed him West’s suddenly stony face. “I’ve touched a nerve.” He sounded as though he had some idea what that nerve might be. “Forgive me.”

“I served with General Grant at Vicksburg,” West said. “It’s a different perspective.”

Paladin acknowledged his loyalty with a nod. “One I might very well share if he had commanded me at Gettysburg. And of course you work closely with him now.”

The cab rattled over a horsecar track, and Gordon broke in to the simmering tension. “But how can they cover up their involvement in a plot this elaborate? Henchmen have a tendency to talk.”

“Not if they’re paid enough,” Paladin suggested.

“Or if they’re dead,” West added flatly. “Cauthen and Tandy might be planning to make sure none of their gang survives the assault on the fort.”

“Even of Tandy I wouldn’t have suspected any intrigue of this magnitude—” Paladin shook his head. “But they’ll never get away with it. The whole plan is ludicrous!”

“These grandiose political schemes are usually ludicrous,” Gordon conceded, “but they can do a lot of damage on the way to their inevitable failure. If we can stop these men now we’ll eliminate the danger to an entire regiment and maybe a goodly portion of Colorado’s citizenry.” To West he said, “Well Jim, there’s our evidence.”

“Of a plan only,” Paladin countered. “But we might be able to prove more than that.”

“We’re listening,” said West.

“Several of the false companies own abandoned mines. The haulage records in Cauthen’s safe indicate a fair amount of traffic to one in particular about thirty miles west of here. We might find the transferred munitions there.” He sighed. “I’m afraid that with the years Cauthen has only grown more foolish, rather than wiser. I had no idea his resentment ran so deep. It’s pathetic, but there’s no denying it’s also dangerous.”

“It isn’t easy to find out a friend has gone wrong,” Gordon said with genuine sympathy.

Paladin’s gaze dropped and turned inward. “Carroll hasn’t been a close friend for many years. Perhaps he never was. Or perhaps that cheerful lazy young man died a long time ago, much as other younger selves have died.” West and Gordon exchanged a glance, sensing a sudden bleakness in the man sitting across from them. Illumination from passing street lamps revealed on that unlovely face an expression that made them think of blood and death, of bitter choices and bad dreams. It did not occur to either one of them to speak.

Presently Paladin stirred. “What do you mean, we’re out of time?”

They repeated what else they had overheard. “But even pooling our information we still don’t know exactly what their tactics are,” West finished.

“I intend to find out,” Paladin declared. “Shall we ride out at dawn?”

West gave a nod and Gordon pocketed Paladin’s card with a last rueful grimace as the cab pulled up in front of the Cottonwood. “You’re welcome to stay aboard the train. We have a small but comfortably appointed guest compartment, and considering your shadow out there—” He jerked his thumb in the direction of Bullock, who had halted his horse at the corner and was pretending to examine a hoof.

“I appreciate the offer and your concern, but that sounds a bit cramped for three, and if Bullock decides to violate his boss’s orders he’ll find out I’m a very light sleeper. I’ll stay here—though the fare will not be as fine.” Gordon bowed from his seat with a smile. A bellhop trotted out to accept the bags the cabbie tossed down and carried them into the lobby, which was bustling with bleary-eyed passengers from a late-arriving train. Along the street, boys were extinguishing the gas lamps in order to save fuel now that the moon was rising. “Gentlemen, I’d like to make it clear that my fee is for helping you to put a stop to Cauthen and Tandy’s absurd plot and rounding up their gang. I won’t take money for betraying a friend, and I am not an assassin.”

“Of course not,” Gordon hastened to reassure him.

West nodded agreement. “If at all possible Cauthen and Tandy should stand trial.”

“If at all possible,” Paladin repeated, though his demeanor conveyed his expectation of a very different outcome. “Until sunrise, then—at the Golden crossroads.”

He left the cab without a glance in either direction, but as he stepped through the hotel door they saw the turn of his head as he noted the position of the butler, who was now pretending to choose among the several not-very-soiled doves draped languorously in the windows of the high-class parlor house across the street.

Thirty minutes later West and Gordon were back at the train, making preparations for a long, grueling ride along a trail they didn’t know, under the guidance of a man whose skills they hadn’t measured and whose motives they weren’t entirely certain they could trust, toward a confrontation they couldn’t predict. West checked weapons and maps, while Gordon assembled his own unique assortment of supplies. Emptying his pockets he came across Paladin’s card once again.

“You know, I could have gotten into that safe for free.” West ignored him. “Jim—sunrise is a long way off. Maybe we ought to go back and stand watch after all.”

West was stuffing extra boxes of ammunition into his saddlebags. “I get the feeling Mr. Paladin can take care of himself.”

“Yeah, it sounds that way. I’m glad he’s on our side. At least I think he’s on our side.” Gordon rummaged through drawers and cabinets in his small laboratory, collecting explosive cigars and knockout pellets and any other doodad and thingamajig he thought might come in handy. “Actually he does have a point—it is a bit cramped in here. You think the president would let us have another car?”

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