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“Shaped like a duck.”
“You know what this is?” said Bell.
“You tell me.”
Bell had apprenticed under Wally and his ofttimes partner, Mack Fulton, years ago, and one of the many things he had learned from the veteran investigators was not to voice an opinion until a second brain had an opportunity to observe without being influenced by the first.
“It’s a knockdown target. A shooting gallery duck.”
Wally nodded. “That bracket attaches to the target rail. The duck hinges down when a bullet hits it.”
“Where’d you find it?”
“Thirty feet from the first tank that blew.”
“What do you think?”
“The racket you heard right before the explosion could have included a rifle shot, a bullet smashing into this duck, and a blasting cap.”
“So while I was chasing the sniper on the horse, another marksman detonated the explosive that ignited the fire.”
“That’s my read. He shot the duck, which jarred a blasting cap.”
“Or,” said Bell, “the man I chased led me on a wild-goose chase while the real assassin stayed put to set the fire.”
“High marks for a sense of humor,” said Wally Kisley. “Using a shooting gallery duck for a target.”
“I’m not laughing,” said Isaac Bell. “But I will give them high marks for the nerve it took to set up the duck, the cap, and the dynamite right under everyone’s noses. I wonder why nobody noticed.”
“Oil fever. Too busy getting rich.”
5
Midnight was warmed by a slight breeze as a crescent moon inched toward the west. The assassin sat on a large barrel that had been cut into a chair in front of the switching office of the railroad freight yard. The interior was dark and empty since no trains were due to leave or arrive until late the next morning.
The assassin lit a Ramón Allones Havana cigar and retrieved from a coat pocket a leather pouch that contained a gold medal, a fifty-dollar bill, and a letter on heavy stock. The touch of wind dissipated an attempt at blowing a self-satisfied smoke ring.
The medal was as heavy as a double eagle gold piece. And the center was fashioned like a target, with concentric rings and a single dot in the precise center of the bull’s-eye. It hung from a red ribbon that was attached to a gold bar pin engraved “Rifle Sharpshooter.”
The fifty-dollar treasury note would have been just another bill of paper money except when you turned it over you saw that the president had signed the back—as if, the assassin often thought, the busy president had suddenly shouted, “Wait! Bring that back. I’ll sign it for that fine young soldier.”
It had to be Roosevelt’s signature because it matched his signature on the commendation letter that the president had typed, as he was known to do with personal lette
rs, on White House letterhead. The assassin read it by the light of a globe above the switching office door for perhaps the hundredth time:
THE WHITE HOUSE
Washington
October 1, 1902
I have just been informed that you have won the President’s Match for the military championship of the United States of America. I wish to congratulate you in person . . .
The assassin skipped some folderol about honoring the regiment and the value of volunteer soldiers—as if their eyes had sighted the targets and their fingers caressed the trigger. Fat chance. Then came the best part.
I congratulate you and your possession of the qualities of perseverance and determination—
A sound of footsteps on gravel interrupted all thought. Quickly, everything went back into the leather pouch and was returned to the coat pocket.
