“Might be rattlesnakes,” Steve Smith added. “Think about where the ricochet might go.”
“Will do.” Winston stepped down to the platform. The breeze was definitely warmer than it had been in Prescott. The steam locomotive was behind him. Ahead, all was quiet. As he approached the door, he could hear the clatter of a telegraph and the ring of a telephone. He paused and listened. Phone and telegraph stilled their voices. He pushed on a swinging screen door, which moved a few inches and stopped. The door was locked. With his pocket knife, he eased the hook up, releasing it from the eye holding the door shut, and stepped forward.
“Hello?” he called. There was no response.
A sparsely-furnished room was empty of people. Window screens were all latched in place. In one corner, a coal stove had been used to make coffee.
He took the staircase to the second floor. An odd smell, somewhat like an undermaintained outhouse, assailed his nostrils. As his head rose above the second floor, he saw the two station men, lying on the floor.
“Hello?” he called, not that he wasn’t sure what he was seeing.
Both men were dead, their bodies stiff with rigor mortis. Why did they die? Winston asked himself. It appeared they had both been facing out the window. Indeed, there were two cups of coffee, both as cold as the weather would allow, on the window sills. He checked the windows. Every window screen was latched in place. A table held the log. 1312 passed on time at 0114 was the final entry.
“Mister Gordon, Sir,” he shouted out the window. “Please come up here. The station men – they’re both dead. No blood spilled, but they’ve been dead since middle of the night.”
Gordon dashed up the stairs, the impact of his boots on the stair treads sounding sharp as gunshots.
“Dead?” he asked as he arrived. “You sure?”
Winston pointed at the bodies. “Loss of bowel control. Rigor mortis.”
Gordon pulled at the nearer man’s hand.
“Yep. Dead.”
“I need to notify Prescott. Will the telephone operator hear me?” Winston asked.
