AT GRANGER STATION, Quillan took leave of Carina and followed the Wells Fargo agent off the train to make a report. Carina and the others who had witnessed the incident would be questioned and shown posters, but railroad officials took Quillan into a small office with walls lined with charts and maps.
He waited there with the Wells Fargo agent until three other men joined them. One of these men, unremarkable but for the width between his eyes, motioned him to sit. There were only two chairs, so the other men remained standing. A certain unease settled on Quillan as he glanced about.
The wide-eyed man said, “I’m Detective Bittering. I understand you have some acquaintance with the outlaws who held up the Union Pacific?”
Quillan nodded. “I recognized one of the men.”
The detective spoke slowly and deliberately. “How could you recognize him if he was masked?”
Quillan sensed an antagonism he hadn’t expected. Hadn’t he just acted to save their interests at the risk of his own life? “I knew him.”
“When?”
“Fourteen or fifteen years ago.” Quillan’s throat felt tight.
The man jotted that down on a sheet of paper. “That’s a long time. Have you seen him since?”
“No.”
“Yet you knew him with only his eyes showing.”
“Eyes, forehead, voice.”
“You must have known him very well.”
Quillan shifted in his chair. “Several months.”
The detective stood and walked across the room. “You knew him for several months; you haven’t seen him in fifteen years; yet you knew who it was.”
Quillan stiffened. Was he on trial?
Bittering glanced over his shoulder. “Forgive me, Mr. Shepard, if I seem skeptical. Comes with the territory.”
Quillan nodded slightly.
“At what point did you know the leader of this gang was your friend?”
“He’s not my friend.”
“Must have made quite an impression.” Bittering tapped his pencil on the edge of the oak desk. “You knew him only a few months.”
“I have a keen memory.”
“Have you?” Bittering walked to the wall and studied a schedule chart.
There was a knock at the door, and Bittering motioned one of the other two men to open it.
Pierce stood outside. “Detective Bittering, I’m Roderick Pierce, Rocky Mountain News, Denver. I’d like to be present as you speak with Mr. Shepard here. I’m covering the story.”
Quillan tensed, certain Bittering saw his unease.
“Don’t mind if you listen,” Bittering said. “But don’t interrupt or ask questions of your own.” He fixed the man with his wide stare. Quillan suspected he did not ordinarily let pressmen in on his investigations. Did he do it now to intimidate? Mr. Pierce gave Quillan a smug smile. Quillan had been less than forthcoming on the train, and even less polite. Now there was no way to keep the man from knowing whatever the detective pried loose. He felt sweat on the back of his neck.
Bittering turned back to Quillan. “Mr. Shepard, how did you know this . . . What did you say your friend’s name was?”
Quillan’s jaw tensed. The detective was baiting him. “I didn’t say.” He didn’t argue the term friend again. He wouldn’t dignify the tactic. But he added, “His name is Shane Dennison. I knew him when I was a boy in Laramie.”
“A boy of eight, nine?”
“Fourteen.”
“Almost a man.”
“Almost.” Quillan’s hands tightened on the edge of his chair.
“Was this Shane Dennison your companion?”
Quillan thought back to those days when Dennison had taken a liking to Quillan, taken him under his wing and championed him to the other difficult boys. He nodded. “For several months.”
“Why did you part company?”
“I left town.”
“Your family moved?”
Quillan pictured himself walking out of Laramie without even a horse. He’d hitched a ride on one wagon or another until the dust of Laramie was covered by so many other layers it was no longer recognizable. “No. I did.”
“Mind telling me why?”
Yes, he minded. But he knew from that first clash with the law that it mattered little what he minded or didn’t. “Personal reasons.”
“Unhappy at home?”
“Sure.”
Bittering gave him a quick stare. “And you never saw Dennison since.”
“That’s what I said.” Quillan glanced at the agent. Why didn’t he speak up, tell the detective how it had been? Without Quillan’s interference both the Express box and the man’s life would have been lost.
Bittering laughed lightly. “Yet your keen memory recognized him at once.”
“That’s right.” They had covered this already. The detective was crossing back, trying to confuse him.
“Are you wondering why a detective is here in a small whistle-stop like Granger to take your report?”
Quillan hadn’t, but now he did.
“I’ll tell you. This is the third time in four weeks the train’s been hit in almost that same spot. We believe this gang could have an inside man, someone aboard who signals when there’s a ripe payload on the Express, relays any delays, that sort of thing.”
Quillan took that in without showing any emotion. Didn’t they realize a man like Dennison could stake out a track and learn its patterns as easily as he studied the flow of a bank? Then another thought occurred. They thought he was the inside man. “Then why would I rouse the others to fight off the outlaws?” His frank assessment startled the detective, but he recovered quickly.
“Jealousy? Struggle for command? Any number of reasons. I have many accounts from fellow passengers of your aloofness, unwillingness to mingle.” He raised his brows at Pierce, who nodded heartily.
“I don’t mingle by nature.” Quillan’s voice sounded tight to his own ears.
“Don’t you. Well. You seem to have mingled with Shane Dennison. You knew him, and from what I surmise, he knew you, too. Seemed surprised you’d stand against him.” This time he glanced at the agent.
“He was surprised I was there at all. It’s been so many years.”
The detective turned. “That’s right. Fifteen years, yet you knew Dennison by his eyes alone.”
Quillan didn’t repeat the other details that had clued him in. He looked at a short stack of books atop the oak file cabinet. “Will you hand me a book?”
Again raising his brows, which gave his wide forehead a singularly unpleasant appearance, Bittering reached for the top book and handed it over. It was a survey written longhand by a man named Eustace Washington. Quillan opened randomly and silently read the first two paragraphs of the page. He turned the book around and held it out to Bittering. Pierce leaned closer, pencil poised. Quillan recited word for word what he had just read.
Bittering followed the page, then looked up.
Quillan met his eyes. “I recall things well.”
Bittering stood a long moment. He’d felt certain he had it all figured out. Now Quillan saw disappointment take shape and soften the hard line of his mouth, the wide gaze of his eyes. Quillan stood up. “I’m not your man. Now if you’ll excuse me—”
“Mr. Shepard!” Pierce fairly leaped from his corner. “May we try another example, for the sake of authentication?”
Quillan looked at him. “Authentication?”
Pierce whisked a paper from the desk. It held a diagram of the spurs and lines running to and around Ogden, the next major hub. Quillan studied the diagram. “So what?”