Chapter 23

The preeminent livery stables in Shepherds Crossing, Waypoint, and Dorado Springs were all owned by the same man, Arthur Coates. Even though he charged a one dollar transfer fee, he actually had very little need to relocate animals or tack between the stables, as customer use tended to balance out the stock and equipment. Once or twice a year, Coates might have to arrange for a stock car or a wrangler to move an excess from one or the other of the locations, but then years could pass without any such need. The so-called transfer fee was nearly pure profit for Coates.

Valerian Malik had owned the lots where Coates’ Waypoint livery was now located. Valerian had provided the lots and financed the infrastructure necessary for Coates’ expansion into Waypoint. In return, he received a seven and a half percent share in Coates’ business. The Malik brothers inherited that share, which Emil now managed in majority, as it was a non-ranch holding.

Coates made Waypoint his headquarters and he had a house there, up on Sunset Avenue, at the west edge of town, where some of the more well-to-do businessmen and county fathers were establishing larger homes on the oversized lots. Valerian had purchased a baker’s dozen of those large lots, now among his son’s properties. Coates’ own lot, while larger than a standard lot, was among the smaller of such properties. The largest of the lots, twenty-five in total, were on the east side of Sunset Avenue; the Maliks owned nine of them.

Coates, thinking himself a wily entrepreneur, was always looking for any financial or political advantage that could increase his wealth and status. With the livery stables, he had businesses in the county seats of three adjoining counties. These businesses communicated with him every day, via railroad messenger service. Besides the expected reports on operational and financial activity, he had also instructed his location managers to include any other information of interest that they heard. Arthur Coates was in the unique position of having a regional, if limited, intelligence network and he was arguably better informed than anyone else in Franklin, Jackson, or Sonora Counties.

Thus it was that Arthur Coates learned about the potential sale of the Jackson County Courthouse, though the information originated not in Waypoint, but arrived with the daily report from Dorado Springs, the seat of Sonora County. Coates had also been made aware of the visiting lawyer who had been seen lunching with a local carpenter and discussing the courthouse building. Finally, he knew that the same attorney had asked for directions to the Malik ranch when he had hired a horse at Coates’ Waypoint stable, and that the lawyer had turned that horse in at the Shepherds Crossing stable two days later.

On Monday, Arthur Coates saw George Miller at Molly’s having lunch and he asked if he could share the table with him.

Miller, as county clerk, was, in effect, the administrator of county business, the senior elected official who came to work on a daily basis and who acted as executive secretary to the three-member County Board of Judges. The county judges were the elected officials who were the county’s governing board, much like county commissioners in other states. One key difference was that their senior member, the Chief Judge, also acted in a judicial role at the county level, presiding in court over minor criminal and civil matters. Nonetheless, the judges’ positions were not considered full-time. They were paid a monthly stipend to see to county business. In Arenoso, the county clerks were the officials who carried out that business.

Even before consuming a spoonful of the lamb stew that was a staple of Molly’s lunch menu, Coates, speaking in a quiet voice, asked, “So, how’s the sale of the courthouse comin’?”

Miller raised his eyes but continued chewing on the bean burrito he’d just bitten into. He swallowed and took a sip of lemonade. “You’ve heard, huh? Who opened their big yap?”

“Wasn’t like that. The information came from the Springs.”

“For truth?”

Coates nodded. “A railroad man who’d been held in our jail heard Sheriff Banks scoldin’ ol’ man Williams to get the jail clean so the courthouse would sell. That man was released and was in the Springs when he complained to another railroad man at a lunch counter there. My manager happened to be eating lunch there, too.”

“I see.”

“Did that lawyer make an offer?”

Miller again looked up from his burrito while finishing another bite. “What lawyer is that?”

“The one who was walkin’ all ‘round the courthouse on Thursday. Had that carpenter, Kozlov, with him and had breakfast and lunch with Kozlov. Ah, what was his name? Oh, yeah, Castillo, a high-toned Mex from Fort Birney.”

Miller chewed slowly, swallowed, then looked at Coates, “Will you hold what I say in confidence?”

“Sure. I’m just passin’ information. I got no iron in this fire.”

Miller leaned in and said, “We are discussing such a sale with Mister Castillo, but nothing has been concluded.”

“That why he went out to the Malik ranch for a couple days?”

Miller didn’t make eye contact this time, but was contemplating his food as he ate. “Possibly. Apparently, he is a business associate of Emil Malik. The company he represents is looking for a local attorney. Mister Castillo said he’d intended to speak with Mister Malik while he was in town. After he heard of the accident, he said he would likely visit the ranch, before returning to Fort Birney: pay his respects, talk a little business, visit the sick, like in the Bible.”

“You ask me, them two lawyers gettin’ together could spell trouble for somebody else.”

“I studied to be a lawyer,” Miller observed.

“Oh. Well. You ain’t one, are you?”

“No, I never took the state bar examination. I was offered a county job, instead. Been here in one position or another ever since.”

“Well, still, Emil Malik, though?”

“Emil Malik, though, what? Are you implying something?”

“Just seems like he’s always up to one thing or another.”

“Indeed. Reminds me a lot of his father.”

“Yeah, that old man was another one.”

“Helped you get set up here in Waypoint, didn’t he?”

“Oh. Uh, well, yeah, sort ‘a. He threw in some money for a piece of my business.”

“Way I heard it, he funded a third of your business and took less than ten percent in return.”