trail. Or find somebody who saw him."
"Slim chance, Linc ."
"I know it. But it's a hell of a sight better than hanging fire in town, listening to Gladstone fulminate and watching Joe Perkins charge around like a bull in a china shop."
"I could come with you. Hell, we could organize a posse. . . ."
"No. Somebody with sense has got to tend to things here. And a posse would take too long, create too much fuss. Bodeen could be in San Francisco by the time we got one together."
Boze rubbed his bald spot, sniffing and blowing drip at the same time. "You want me to tell the mayor you're out hunting?"
"No point in not telling him."
"Anything else I should do?"
"Nose around, find out if anybody saw or heard anything." I took the presidential medal out of my pocket and showed it to him. "You ever see one of these before?"
He looked it over, shook his head. "Where'd you get it?"
"Right about where you're standing. I'd say whoever killed Pike dropped it during the struggle. It isn't the kind of thing Pike would have carried around."
"Don't seem like the kind of thing Bodeen would carry, either."
"No," I agreed. "No, it doesn't at that."
"You want me to show it around?"
"To everybody you talk to."
Doc had finished his preliminary examination of the body and was coming toward us. He said, "Killed the same way as Jeremy Bodeen, looks like. Beat up some first—bruises on his face, broken finger on one hand."
"Skin off his knuckles?" I asked.
"Some."
"So maybe he did some damage in return."
"Good chance of it, I'd say."
I showed Doc the medal; it was unfamiliar to him, too. Then I turned it over to Boze and went into the harness room, where I stripped out of my fire-ruined clothing and put on the shirt and trousers and cutaway coat Boze had brought. I checked the Bisley Colt, to make sure it was fully loaded, before I strapped it on.
My saddle and bridle were where they always were; I carried them out and asked Boze to outfit the chalk-eye. While he was doing that I made a quick search through Pike's clothing, on the chance that they contained something enlightening. But they didn't. Just a sack of Bull Durham, papers, matches, and three pennies.
I rode out through the rear doors, leaving Boze and Doc to their own unpleasant tasks. When I came around to the front, Verne Gladstone and Fred Horler and two other men were fifty yards away and closing fast on the livery. The mayor hailed me in his bullfrog voice; Horler yelled something.
Pretending not to hear, I kneed Rowdy and pounded away at a gallop.
Chapter 11
TULE BEND ROAD WAS DESERTED THIS TIME OF MORNING, and so was the country road that connected San Rafael and Petaluma. Oak-furred ridges and rolling, dry-brown pasture- land hemmed it on both sides, with the creek winding its tortuous way through the tule marshes over east. The sun was up now and already it had warmed the morning enough to melt some of the frost; steam rose off patches of grass, and thickly off the creek and its flanking mud flats.
Out here I had to ride at a fast trot, rather than a gallop, because last winter's heavy rains, constant wagon travel through the mud, and the baking heat of this past summer had combined to badly rut the road in places. Fatigue put a grittiness in my eyes, a dull ache in my temples. But there was more anger in me than anything else. If I had been feeding on gall and wormwood yesterday morning, this morning I was gorged with them.
It took me the better part of twenty minutes to reach the S.F. & N.P. swing bridge. There was a graveled wagon road that led in off the country road to the bridge, the Bridgeman’s shanty, and the old self-operated ferry. To the south, the right-of-way bulked up in a long gradual curve to the bridge; on the far side it made the same kind of curve northward, where it straightened out for the run past Tule Bend and on into Petaluma. The bridge itself was a bone of contention among some local citizens. They said it jutted too far into the
"Slim chance, Linc ."
"I know it. But it's a hell of a sight better than hanging fire in town, listening to Gladstone fulminate and watching Joe Perkins charge around like a bull in a china shop."
"I could come with you. Hell, we could organize a posse. . . ."
"No. Somebody with sense has got to tend to things here. And a posse would take too long, create too much fuss. Bodeen could be in San Francisco by the time we got one together."
Boze rubbed his bald spot, sniffing and blowing drip at the same time. "You want me to tell the mayor you're out hunting?"
"No point in not telling him."
"Anything else I should do?"
"Nose around, find out if anybody saw or heard anything." I took the presidential medal out of my pocket and showed it to him. "You ever see one of these before?"
He looked it over, shook his head. "Where'd you get it?"
"Right about where you're standing. I'd say whoever killed Pike dropped it during the struggle. It isn't the kind of thing Pike would have carried around."
"Don't seem like the kind of thing Bodeen would carry, either."
"No," I agreed. "No, it doesn't at that."
"You want me to show it around?"
"To everybody you talk to."
Doc had finished his preliminary examination of the body and was coming toward us. He said, "Killed the same way as Jeremy Bodeen, looks like. Beat up some first—bruises on his face, broken finger on one hand."
"Skin off his knuckles?" I asked.
"Some."
"So maybe he did some damage in return."
"Good chance of it, I'd say."
I showed Doc the medal; it was unfamiliar to him, too. Then I turned it over to Boze and went into the harness room, where I stripped out of my fire-ruined clothing and put on the shirt and trousers and cutaway coat Boze had brought. I checked the Bisley Colt, to make sure it was fully loaded, before I strapped it on.
My saddle and bridle were where they always were; I carried them out and asked Boze to outfit the chalk-eye. While he was doing that I made a quick search through Pike's clothing, on the chance that they contained something enlightening. But they didn't. Just a sack of Bull Durham, papers, matches, and three pennies.
I rode out through the rear doors, leaving Boze and Doc to their own unpleasant tasks. When I came around to the front, Verne Gladstone and Fred Horler and two other men were fifty yards away and closing fast on the livery. The mayor hailed me in his bullfrog voice; Horler yelled something.
Pretending not to hear, I kneed Rowdy and pounded away at a gallop.
Chapter 11
TULE BEND ROAD WAS DESERTED THIS TIME OF MORNING, and so was the country road that connected San Rafael and Petaluma. Oak-furred ridges and rolling, dry-brown pasture- land hemmed it on both sides, with the creek winding its tortuous way through the tule marshes over east. The sun was up now and already it had warmed the morning enough to melt some of the frost; steam rose off patches of grass, and thickly off the creek and its flanking mud flats.
Out here I had to ride at a fast trot, rather than a gallop, because last winter's heavy rains, constant wagon travel through the mud, and the baking heat of this past summer had combined to badly rut the road in places. Fatigue put a grittiness in my eyes, a dull ache in my temples. But there was more anger in me than anything else. If I had been feeding on gall and wormwood yesterday morning, this morning I was gorged with them.
It took me the better part of twenty minutes to reach the S.F. & N.P. swing bridge. There was a graveled wagon road that led in off the country road to the bridge, the Bridgeman’s shanty, and the old self-operated ferry. To the south, the right-of-way bulked up in a long gradual curve to the bridge; on the far side it made the same kind of curve northward, where it straightened out for the run past Tule Bend and on into Petaluma. The bridge itself was a bone of contention among some local citizens. They said it jutted too far into the
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