Chapter 14

• Townvill had transformed in the age of iron and steam. Once a humble crossing of the ways, it had blossomed_ if only seasonally_ into a bustling cattle shipping point. During the annual round-up, when golden coins and burning ambition mingled in the dusty air, its two main streets teemed with cattlemen whose pockets brimmed with wealth hot enough to singe the very breeze. But for most of the year, the town sank back into a leaden-eyed sleep, as if in quiet resignation to the relentless march of time.
• At the heart of this paradoxical town reigned Ted Hardy, the Wells Fargo agent, a man whose dignity was measured not by the weight of his “doggies” but by the singular swivel-chair he commanded. In these rugged lands, where office jobs were scarce and hard-fought, the owner of a sturdy chair was a lord in his own right. Hardy’s position was magnified by the steady stream of cash that flowed through Townvill, which in turn gave him the respect and influence far out of proportion with the village’s modest size. In his sanctum a snug rear office bedecked with two brilliant calendars and a striking photograph of a blond beauty promoting a toilet soap_ he reigned supreme, while in the sweltering heat of the day he would seek refuge in the cool shade of his small porch, exchanging pleasantries with passers-by. His signature white collar and permanent bow tie, coupled with his lean features, crooked neck, and a prominent Adam’s apple that danced with his every word, marked him as a man of Yankee descent refined by the harsh beauty of the mountain-desert.
• One crisp morning, as the soft light crept through the dusty windows of his office, a new figure stepped inside_ a man built in rectangles, with a square face, ponderous shoulders, and square-tipped fingers that spoke of a man fashioned by the unforgiving geometry of the West. In the hazy glow that seemed to warm Hardy’s aging features, the newcomer’s keen black eye shone like an electric lantern suddenly switched on in a dark room. Although he wore the traditional cowboy attire, there was an exactness in his every gesture_ a precision that betrayed neither the languor of the frontier nor the wild abandon of an outlaw. He had a habit, almost mechanical, of clicking his teeth as he finished a sentence, a quirk that rendered him both inscrutable and compelling.