One of the teamsters futilely dipped water from a trough and threw it on the fire a bucketful at a time. His efforts made no showing against the blaze. Rapidly losing ground, he gave up and stood back disconsolately to watch his wagon and its cargo go up in smoke.
Stable owner Scanlon ran excitedly back and forth, beseeching the onlookers to help save his property. Townsmen threw water on the wooden fence to prevent its loss. Others raked loose hay away from the blaze lest it catch fire and take the barn with it.
The teamster slapped at smoldering black spots on his shirt. Recognizing Andy, he said resentfully, “Kind of late showin’ up, ain’t you?”
“I wasn’t expectin’ this,” Andy admitted.
“There goes half of my rollin’ stock. Good freight wagons don’t come cheap.”
Daggett was slower getting to the scene. He still limped despite claiming that his injury had healed. He held silent. At this point there seemed to be nothing to say.
Unlike many others, Deputy Salty Willis was fully dressed. He had probably not bothered to take his clothes off when he went to sleep. He picked up a large metal container at the fence and brought it to the Rangers. He said, “Smells like coal oil.”
Andy took a whiff. “That tells us how they did it. It doesn’t tell us who they were.”
Daggett nodded grimly. “I smell the McIntoshes behind this.”
Andy asked, “Why the McIntoshes? There’s lots of free range people that wouldn’t be happy about Hawkins’s fence. And what about the Teals?”
“Just the same, I’d bet my money on the McIntoshes.”
“Don’t you think you’re makin’ too fast a judgment?”
“Experience has taught me to play my first hunch. It generally proves out.”
Sheriff Seymour came up in a trot, his shirt and trousers not yet buttoned. His boots were on the wrong feet. Breathing hard, he said, “They didn’t wait long.”
Andy asked, “Any suspicions?”
“I suspicion just about everybody but the old and infirm. And even some of them.”
Storekeeper Babcock was trailed by his daughter. He quickly sent her home when he saw that some of the men had run to the fire in their underwear. His first comment to the Rangers was defensive. “That’s Hawkins’s loss, not mine. The posts belonged to him.”
Andy was mildly irritated by the merchant’s quick evasion of responsibility. He said, “You hadn’t delivered them to him yet.”
The teamster demanded, “What about my wagon? Who’s responsible for that?”
Babcock was defensive. “Not me. You were paid to haul the goods, that’s all. The wagon is yours.”
“Was,” Andy said. It and its load slumped into a smoky, smoldering heap, sending up a massive shower of sparks. The wheels lay flat on the ground.
The teamster glared at Babcock. “Nobody’s paid me for the haul yet.”
Babcock said, “You didn’t complete it. You were supposed to deliver all the way out to the Hawkinses’ place.”
For a minute it appeared that the Rangers might have to break up a fight, but Babcock stopped the argument by briskly walking away.
Andy told the freighter, “Maybe you can sue whoever lit the fire. That’s if we’re ever able to find out who it was.”
Tracks would be of no help. Too many people had added their own, hurrying to the fire, trying to fight it. Nor was the oil can likely to yield any information, for most people kept coal oil to fill lamps and lanterns, and to light stoves and fireplaces.
Andy told Daggett, “Looks to me like we’re up a stump.”
Daggett shook his head. “We’ll keep an eye on the McIntoshes. Sooner or later one of them will make a wrong step.”
Andy frowned. “She sure took ahold of you, didn’t she?”
“She? Who you talkin’ about?”
“Forget I said it.”
“Carrie’s got nothin’ to do with it. I’ve suspicioned the McIntoshes all along.”
Andy said, “We’d better get to know more about the lay of the land before we make up our minds. The first guess is wrong, often as not.”
“Yours, maybe. Not mine.”
Newspaper editor Tolliver was talking to the teamsters and making notes on a pad lighted by the flames.
Daggett poked Andy with his elbow and jerked his head toward a man who stood alone, watching the fire with no evident emotion. Andy recognized Rodock. He said, “Do you reckon . . .”
Daggett said, “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
There was no question of going back to sleep. Andy studied faces, especially those of people who seemed pleased by the conflagration. As daylight came, he found that some of the wooden spools that contained the wire were scorched. Whoever burned the posts had made an attempt against the wire as well, but the flames had consumed the coal oil, then died out.
The freighter and his helper hitched a team to the remaining wagon. He said, “I’m gettin’ this load of wire off of my hands as quick as I can. Whichaway’s the Hawkinses’ place?”
Andy looked at Daggett. “Might be a good idea if we went with him. He could run into trouble.”
“He’s already had trouble,” Daggett replied. “You go. I’ll stay around town. If Rodock wiggles a finger, I want to see it.”
Andy had breakfast, then went to the wagon yard. The freighters had already left. It did not take long to catch up to them on the road, for the wagon and its load were too heavy to make much speed.
“You were in a hurry,” Andy said to the wagon’s owner.
“It don’t take me long to see when I’m not welcome. From now on I’m haulin’ nothin’ but dry goods and groceries.”
“Fences are comin’, like it or not.”
They met a couple of travelers along the way but no one who offered any overt threat. Late in the afternoon Andy saw the Hawkinses’ ranch house ahead. Starting and stopping, the wagon picked its way through a scattered band of sheep. A large wether grazed along out front. Around its neck a small bell clanged pleasantly with each step the animal took.
The teamster said, “That bell would drive me crazy, but I guess the sheep was crazy to start with. Most of them are.”
Andy expected him to add “along with the men who own them,” but he didn’t. That was a common attitude in much of Texas.
Hawkins had half a dozen sheep in a small pen, most freshly shorn of their wool. Under a shed and on a spread-out tarp, he was shearing one with a pair of hand clippers. The wool was dusty gray on the surface, but next to the skin it was creamy white. Looking up and wiping sweat from his face onto his sleeve, Hawkins acknowledged the wagon’s arrival with a nod. He finished the job and untied the sheep’s legs. The animal struggled to its feet and leaped over a shadow before running out to join the others. Hawkins rolled the fleece and pushed it down into a long burlap bag before coming out through a wooden gate.
“Hello, Ranger,” he greeted Andy. His extended hand felt slick from the greasy wool. He gave the wagon a moment’s attention. “There ought to be another, with the posts.”
Andy gave him the news. Hawkins took it solemnly. He said, “I should have expected something like that. I came out onto the porch this morning and found a message on the wall. It was not a love letter.”
Andy asked, “What did it say?”
“It said, ‘No fences.’ It was signed, ‘the Regulators.’ Had a noose drawn with it. Poor artist, but a clear message.”
Andy knew of groups elsewhere calling themselves regulators. Usually they were secretive about their membership, often masked or hooded and acting under cover of darkness, enforcing their version of law and proper behavior. They might begin as vigilantes, augmenting local peace officers, but power tended to corrupt them, leading them to support private grudges and vendettas, take on political aspirations, and drive away or even kill those who might oppose them.
Andy said, “Looks to me like you’ve run up against a mob.”
“A mob is just a gathering of people who don’t have the courage to act on their own.”
“But put them together, and they can hurt you.”
Hawkins stared at the wagon. “A load of wire isn’t worth much without posts to string it on.” He said to the teamster, “How long would it take you to bring me another wagonload?”
The teamster shook his head. “Mister, I ain’t haulin’ no more posts. Not for you, not for nobody. Show me where to dump this wire.”
Hawkins pointed. “Over there by the barn. And stack it, don’t dump it.” He turned back to Andy. “I’ll see if Babcock can find me some more posts.”
Skeptical, Andy said, “Are you sure? Might be smart to stand back a while and see how the wind blows.”
Hawkins frowned. “You were too young to go to the war, but I wasn’t. We fought for what we thought was right. Those on the other side were sure they were right. I don’t think we really proved anything, but we stood up for what we believed in. That’s what I’m doing now.”
“But you had a whole army on your side. This time you’re standin’ out here all by yourself.”
“I’m standing up for my rights.”
Andy felt pride in the man’s strong principles, but he also felt impatience. He remembered Bethel recounting a story from a book about a proud but foolish old warrior who rode into battle against a windmill, thinking it was a dragon.
The so-called regulators might indeed be a dragon.
Hawkins said, “As soon as I finish the shearing, I’ll take the dog and bring in my sheep. You’ll be staying the night, won’t you?”
Andy thought he should, for whoever burned the wagon and left the message might return. “It’s too late in the day to go back to town.”
“I’ll ride in with you tomorrow. I have to talk to Babcock about another load of posts.”
Hawkins stuffed the final fleece into the sack. The two teamsters were unloading the spooled wire. Andy had no wish to join them at it. He said, “I’ll help you bring in the sheep.” That might be useful experience. Someday, when he became a rancher instead of a Ranger, he might want to keep sheep as well as cattle. Lots of hill country people seemed to prosper by owning both.
He admired the way the dog handled the sheep with little coaching. Hawkins said, “They’ve bred his kind in Scotland for generations. The herding instinct is part of his nature. Take him away from sheep and he’ll herd hogs or chickens or whatever else he can find.”
It seemed to Andy that some people were born with that herding instinct, constantly trying to control others. These nameless regulators were a case in point. Logan Daggett was another.
He asked, “What happens if a sheep fights back?”
“They never do. That’s why they’re called sheep.” Hawkins’s brow furrowed. “I’m a sheepman, Ranger, but I’m not a sheep.”
After supper they sat a while on the porch, Hawkins smoking his pipe. They talked of weather and wool prices and other subjects but avoided what was uppermost in their minds.
Andy stretched and said, “I see the teamsters have bedded down out by the barn. I think I’ll take my blanket and join them.”
Hawkins pushed to his feet and tapped his pipe against a porch post. “Bring them to the house with you for breakfast. After I turn the sheep out to graze, we’ll start for town.”
So many things were running through Andy’s mind that he could not go to sleep. He relived the burning of the posts. He kept seeing in his mind’s eye the penciled warning from the regulators. He sensed that the threat was not idle. A lot of people had a stake in keeping the range open and free.
Hearing horses, he sat up and listened. He had remained in his clothes, except for his boots. He quickly put them on and strapped his gun belt around his waist. In the dim light of the moon he counted half a dozen men on horseback. As they neared, he realized that all wore hoods over their heads. One fired a pistol into the air and shouted, “Hawkins, come out here!”
The riders’ attention was focused on the front of the house. They did not see Andy standing in shadow. The man brandishing the pistol shouted again for Hawkins to come out.
Andy shouted, “Hawkins, you’d better stay where you’re at!”
The horsemen reacted with surprise. The one holding the pistol swung it toward Andy. Andy fired a shot that struck between the horse’s feet. The frightened horse jumped. Its rider fell from the saddle, losing his hood and the pistol. On his knees, he felt around desperately, trying to find the weapon.
Andy fired again, the bullet raising dust just in front of the fallen man. He shouted, “Everybody back off! I’m a Ranger!”
He stepped up close to the man on the ground and said, “Let me get a look at you.” The face was familiar. Andy had seen him hanging around a saloon in town. He had also been at the fire, watching but not joining others who attempted to snuff out the flames. He had seemed to enjoy the spectacle.
Andy held the muzzle of his pistol an inch from the man’s nose and said for all the riders to hear, “You-all drop your guns so I won’t be forced to kill this upstandin’ citizen.”
Several pistols and a rifle hit the ground. Andy knew that even if the men were unarmed, he could not long control so many still on horseback. He could not stop them if they turned and ran, so he gave them permission. “Now turn those horses around and git.”
“What about our guns?” one man asked.
Andy said, “You can pick them up at the sheriff’s office. I expect he’ll have a few questions to ask you.”
The fallen man started to arise. Andy tapped his chin gently with the pistol’s muzzle. “Not you. We’re goin’ to have a little talk about the majesty of the law.”
The riders began to pull away. The ostensible leader held back to say, “Ranger, we don’t see where you have any call to mix in this. It’s a community matter.”
The voice was muffled by the hood the speaker wore. Andy thought he might have heard it before, but he could not be certain. He said, “It’s a matter for the law when you burn up people’s property and threaten their lives.”
The man said, “Just the same, you tell Hawkins that if he strings any of that wire, he’s liable to get hung with it.”
Andy cringed at the grisly image of Hawkins strangling on a barbed wire noose. He motioned with the pistol. “Get away from here, or I’ll find out how many of you I can shoot before I run out of shells.”
One rider had not dropped his pistol, for he turned and fired a shot. It was not clear whether he was shooting at Andy or at the man on the ground. Andy put a bullet near the horse’s feet. The animal began to pitch. The rider dropped his pistol and grabbed at the horn. He managed to stay in the saddle and ride off after the others.
The two teamsters had stood back, avoiding entanglement. Now they edged closer but kept their distance from Andy’s kneeling prisoner. The wagon owner said, “I wouldn’t want to walk in your boots, Ranger. You won’t know those men if you meet them on the street. One of them could step up and blow your head off.”
Andy shook his head. “Every Ranger in Texas would be lookin’ to kill him. A man would have to be stupid to take that chance.”
“I’ve known a lot of stupid people in my time.” The teamster waited to be sure his point had soaked in. He added, “If it’s all the same to you, we’d sooner not have you ride back with us. We don’t want to be anywhere close when lightnin’ strikes you.”
Andy smiled in spite of himself. “Fine with me. Your wagon travels too slow anyway. I would appreciate it, though, if you’d haul these guns to the sheriff.”
Hawkins had come out onto the porch in his underwear. Andy asked him, “Is this man a neighbor of yours?”
Hawkins studied the face. “Bigelow, I didn’t think you had the stomach for a thing like this. I thought you were all bellow and no bite.”
Andy said, “It doesn’t take much guts when you cover your face and ride with a mob.”
Bigelow was trembling. In a breaking voice he said, “That last shot was aimed at me.”
Andy asked, “What makes you think so? I figured it was aimed at me.”
“They were afraid I might tell who the rest of them are. We’re not supposed to get ourselves captured.”
Andy said, “Then you ought to’ve stayed at home.” He retrieved a set of handcuffs from his saddlebag and fastened Bigelow’s wrist to a spoke in a wagon wheel. Bigelow complained, “Sittin’ here this way makes me an easy target. And it’s liable to throw a kink into my back.”
Andy said, “You’d have gotten a kink in your neck if you’d killed Hawkins.”
“We just figured to throw a scare into him, is all.”
Accompanied by Hawkins, Andy reached town with his prisoner. He found Daggett before he found the sheriff. Daggett’s eyes were grim as he stared at the prisoner. He said, “Why didn’t you shoot him when you had the chance? There’s nothin’ gets a mob’s attention like killin’ the foremost.”
“Killin’ is the last resort.”
“Sometimes it takes a strong dose of salts to flush the bowels.”
Andy delivered the frightened prisoner to Sheriff Seymour’s office in the jail. The lawman seemed not surprised. “Oscar Bigelow,” he said, “I’ve been waitin’ for you to stumble over your own feet. I always figured you for a member of Skeen’s outfit, but I couldn’t prove it.”
Bigelow mustered up a moment’s defiance. “You can’t prove it now, either.”
Andy said, “He won’t need to. I’ll file charges on you for attempted murder.”
Bigelow went slack-jawed. “Murder? We didn’t kill nobody.”
“You fired into the house. You could’ve killed Hawkins or his wife. Now, if you’d like to tell who else was with you last night, I might whittle the charge down a little.”
Bigelow looked at the floor. “I can’t. They’d kill me.”
“A few days on bread and water might change your outlook.”
“I can’t. I taken an oath. Anybody talks, he dies.” Bigelow’s voice tightened with desperation. “You won’t get nothin’ out of me, so you’d just as well turn me loose. I promise I’ll be gone from this country before sundown.”
Daggett said, “Let’s sit on him a while. If he doesn’t tell us what we want to know, we’ll give out the word that he spilled his guts, then turn him loose. I’d bet he never gets to the county line.”
Bigelow cried, “You wouldn’t do that.”
Daggett said, “We sure as hell would. You’re no good to us if you won’t talk.”
Andy suspected that Daggett meant it. The idea disturbed him, but he played along. “Sounds all right to me.”
Bigelow shook like a man in the throes of a bad hangover. “I just can’t. You know what happened to Callender.”
Seymour explained, “That’s the man who was murdered a few days before you got here. I was fixin’ to arrest him on suspicion when somebody shot him in the back. I figure he knew too much, and they were afraid I’d make him tell.”
Bigelow said, “They gave him a day to leave the county, but he didn’t want to go without his cattle. I wouldn’t be that foolish.”
Andy said, “You keep sayin’ they. Who is they?”
“If I was to tell you, I could kiss my ass good-bye.”
Daggett’s face was severe. “Pickard, bein’ raised with the Indians, I expect you know some ways to make him talk.”
“I do, but I don’t believe in usin’ them.”
“When you’ve handled as many criminals as I have, you’ll change your way of thinkin’.”
The teamsters brought the night riders’ weapons to town in their wagon, dumped them at the sheriff’s office, then left after a heated argument with storekeeper Babcock over who should stand the loss of the burned wagon. Babcock held firmly to his contention that he bore no responsibility for the fire, though he condescended to pay for the hauling. Thus all concerned gained some and lost some.
Babcock was reluctant to accept Hawkins’s order for another load of posts, citing the trouble the first shipment had caused. Hawkins said, “I’ll need several more loads of wire and posts before I can fence my place all the way around. Don’t you want the business?”
The promise of additional profit brought Babcock around to Hawkins’s way of thinking, though with reluctance. He insisted on payment in advance, one order at a time. He said, “You may not live to see the last load delivered.”
Andy watched the sheriff inventory the captured weapons in his office. Seymour said, “I doubt anybody’s goin’ to claim this artillery.”
Andy said, “It would be like writin’ a confession.”
They took Bigelow to the judge’s office, but the judge was not there. A clerk said he was at his ranch. Bigelow sat handcuffed in a chair. Andy could almost smell the man’s fear.
Seymour said, “Skeen’s rustler gang had three or four killin’s charged against them. I always suspicioned that Bigelow was one of the outfit, along with Callender, but I never had any proof. They—or somebody—has been back at it lately.”
Andy said, “Bigelow talked about takin’ an oath. When members have to swear an oath, it generally means the group is prepared to snuff out anybody who breaks the vow.”
“What if they was to break into my jail? I wouldn’t want Bigelow on my conscience, like Skeen.”
Bigelow protested, “The jail is a death trap. You’ve got to take me someplace else.”
The sheriff said, “Maybe we would, if you told us what we want to know.”
Bigelow hung his head. “They’d hunt me down like a dog.”
Seymour shrugged. “Then there’s nothin’ to do except lock you up.”
Bigelow trembled. “You’d just as well shoot me now.”
Daggett declared, “We’re thinkin’ about it.” He took a firm grip on Bigelow’s arm and lifted him from the chair. “I’ve got a sore leg, and I’m awful easy aggravated, so don’t aggravate me.”
Cradling a rifle across his left arm, Andy looked down the courthouse hall but saw no one. He led the way to the front door and down the steps, warily studying the light horse and wagon traffic on the dirt street. “Looks about as clear as it’ll ever be,” he said.
The jail and the sheriff’s office were in a separate stone building adjacent to the courthouse. It was a walk of only about thirty yards in the open. They were halfway across it when a bullet struck the jail wall and ricocheted, singing. Andy swung the rifle around in reflex, searching wildly for the shooter.
A second shot brought a yelp of pain from Bigelow. The sheriff and Daggett lifted the prisoner between them and hurried him into the jail. Andy walked backward, following them and watching for rifle smoke. The shots could have come from anywhere across the street. He quickly entered the jail and closed the door.
Seymour and Daggett supported Bigelow until they could get him into a chair. The prisoner’s ear was bleeding.
Seymour gave the wound a quick examination. “A couple of inches over and you’d be dead. As it is, you’ve just been earmarked.”
Daggett offered no sympathy. He said, “A swallowfork, I’d call it.”
Sobbing, Bigelow touched a hand to his ear and looked at the blood. “They want to kill me. They’ll do it yet.”
Fists hammered against the jail’s outside door. A voice called, “Pete, let me in. It’s Salty.”
Seymour nodded at Andy. “My deputy. Open the door.”
The lanky deputy rushed inside, carrying a rifle. Andy closed and bolted the door behind him. The deputy said, “I heard the shootin’. Anybody hurt?”
Daggett said, “Nobody that matters.”
Andy studied the trembling prisoner a moment, then looked about the jail. He had not noticed before that every cell was vulnerable to a gunshot from one of the windows. An assassin would not even have to break in.
The sheriff said, “I know what you’re thinkin’. That’s why I put curtains over all the windows. Nobody can see in from outside.”
Andy said, “Just the same, this jail would be like a shootin’ gallery if somebody pulled one of those curtains down. Kerrville has got a jail that would hold a bull elephant.”
Seymour put up no argument. “After dark. One of you Rangers ought to take him. The minute I cross a county line, I’m out of my jurisdiction. You know how these slick defense lawyers can use a thing like that.”
Daggett said, “Every last one of them ought to be taken out and hung.”
Andy said, “I’ll go.”
Seymour ordered his deputy to patrol the jail from outside, preventing anyone from approaching the windows.
Andy tried to sleep, but the big railroad clock seemed to try shaking itself from the wall. Each movement of the heavy pendulum sounded like the cocking of a gun. When the lamp’s faint glow showed one o’clock, he arose from the cot and fetched his rifle from a rack on the wall.
The sheriff was already up and moving about. “Salty’s got two horses for you out back,” he said. “Ready?”
Andy nodded and fetched the keys from the sheriff’s desk. He unlocked Bigelow’s cell. “Come on,” he said. “We got some travelin’ to do.”
Suspicious, Bigelow sat up on the edge of his bunk but did not move toward the door. “I want to know where we’re goin’.”
“Someplace where you’ll be safer. Roll your pillow up in your blanket. If anybody manages a look through the window, it’ll appear like you’re still sleepin’.”
Bigelow complied. He touched a hand to the bandage on his ear. “It burns like hell.”
That sounded like a call for sympathy, but Andy could not summon any.
Daggett was on his feet. He asked, “Sure you don’t want me to go with you?”
Andy said, “Three men would attract more attention than two. Besides, if somebody takes a shot at this jail, you’ll be here to help catch him.”
Andy handcuffed Bigelow and led him by the arm toward the back door. He said, “Somebody blow out the lamp.”
He gave his eyes time to become accustomed to the darkness, then opened the door and led Bigelow out. As Seymour had said, two horses were tied outside. He motioned for Bigelow to mount up. In barely more than a whisper he said, “If you try to run, I’ll shoot you myself.”
Bigelow whined, “You treat me like I’d killed somebody.”
“For all I know, you may have.”
The moon was but a sliver and cast little light. The shadows between the town’s buildings were dark as ink. Andy held to them as much as he could. Bigelow started another complaint, but Andy cut him off. “Why don’t you just holler out and tell everybody where you’re at?”
Bigelow said no more. The last building was just ahead. Soon after passing that they would be among live-oak trees and cedars. He would avoid the road a while, then cut back into it when he felt they were on safe ground.
Four horsemen pushed out from behind the last building. Though the light was poor, Andy saw that they wore hoods over their heads. He tried to bring his rifle into position, but one of the riders pushed his horse into Andy’s and almost jarred him out of the saddle. The man, little more than a dark shadow, shoved the muzzle of a pistol into Andy’s face.
He said, “Drop the rifle. The six-shooter, too. We don’t want to kill a Ranger, but we’ll do it if we have to. All we’re after is your prisoner.”
Andy said, “You can’t have him.” It was a hollow statement. Though he still held the rifle, he knew he would not live long enough to bring it into play.
The rider said, “Bigelow, we don’t like the company you’re in.”
Bigelow’s voice broke. “I ain’t told nobody nothin’. I ain’t goin’ to tell them nothin’. I swear.”
“That’s what Callender said, but we knew he’d break. He’d talk like an old widder woman.”
Bigelow begged, “I won’t. You know me.”
“Yes, we know you.” The horseman’s pistol flashed fire. Bigelow doubled over, clutching at his stomach. A second shot cut off his cry.
Andy tried to bring the rifle up. A gun barrel knocked his hat off. A second blow was like an explosion in his brain. He slid from the saddle.
Through a loud roaring in his ears he heard a voice say, “Bigelow’s still wigglin’.”
A third shot seemed to echo for minutes. Another voice said, “Not now, he ain’t.”
Dogs were barking all over town. Andy heard hoofbeats receding into the night. He tried to push himself up but had no strength for it. His last thought before he sank away into darkness was that he had failed. He had lost his prisoner.
Regaining consciousness, Andy realized he was lying on a cot in the jail. He raised a hand to the place where his head throbbed most and felt a thick bandage. Blinking, he recognized the doctor leaning over him.
“Don’t make any sudden moves,” the physician warned. “Your brain may be like scrambled eggs after the blows you took.”
Daggett’s coarse voice penetrated Andy’s pain. “I doubt that. There couldn’t be more than a spoonful.”
Andy struggled to remember what had happened. It came back to him in fragments. “They didn’t let us get very far.”
Daggett said, “They were layin’ for you.”
“But we didn’t tell anybody.”
“This is a tough town to keep a secret in.”
Andy knew but had to ask anyway. “What about Bigelow?”
“He’s about the deadest man you ever saw.”
Andy felt crushed by the heavy weight of failure.
Daggett said, “The minute you found out who he was, he was a danger to the others. They figured he’d break. What they did to him and to Callender is a warnin’ to anybody else who might know more than is good for him.”
Andy lamented, “It’ll be extra hard now to get people to talk to us.”
The sheriff and his deputy came along in a while. Seymour said, “Me and Salty went over every inch of the ground out there. Never found even a cartridge shell.”
Daggett asked, “What about horse tracks?”
“They’re all over the place, and they all look about the same.”
Daggett said, “Even if we could find the right ones, they’d probably lead us in a circle and scatter. Whoever shot Bigelow may never have left town.”
Andy said, “So we have to suspect everybody we see?”
Daggett nodded. “I’ve been doin’ that all along. As far as I know, Pickard, you’re the only honest man in town besides me, and I’ve even got some doubts about you.” A tentative smile flickered and was quickly gone.
Andy had difficulty in keeping his concentration. He said, “Soon as this headache lets up, I’m ridin’ out to see August Hawkins. I’ll try to talk him into waitin’ a while on his fence. The mob may not warn him anymore. They’re liable to just shoot him.”
Dubious, the sheriff said, “He’s a hardheaded man.”
“So am I, when I have to be.”
Daggett said, “Yeah, or they’d have busted your skull like a watermelon.”
Andy raised up a little, then dropped back onto the pillow. He felt as if a blacksmith were using his head for an anvil. “After I talk to Hawkins, I think I’ll pay a visit to the Teals and the McIntoshes. They might let somethin’ drop.”
Daggett said, “The Teal family came to town yesterday evenin’, all but the old man. They’re still here. I’ll go talk to them.”
Andy blinked. “They were here when Bigelow was shot?”
“You’re always tellin’ me not to jump to conclusions. Lots of folks were in town last night.”
Andy said dryly, “I suppose you’ll question Carrie.”
“I like to be thorough.”
“Maybe I ought to go help you.”
“I can handle this without help. You stay here and rest, or your brain is liable to go to clabber.”
Daggett cut off discussion by walking away. The sheriff’s gaze followed him out of sight. Seymour said, “Even if the Teal boys know somethin’, they won’t tell it.”
Andy said, “Daggett knows that. It’s not the boys he really wants to talk to, anyway.”
The sheriff caught on. “Carrie? I’m surprised. I thought there wasn’t nothin’ in his veins except ice.”
“There’s a side to him that he doesn’t show much. He’s surprised me, too, once in a while.”