Jordan entertained no thoughts of registering in Langford’s hotel. He would allow the deputy until nightfall to satisfy himself that all was honest and aboveboard and then, whether Sharpe liked it or not, he was returning to the Lazy A. If there were matters still to be cleared up, the lawman could come to him at Ashburn’s. He felt he had fulfilled his promise to Walt Woodward—at least he had done so to all practical purposes—and that ended it. He angled the sorrel into a hitch rack in front of a café, the only one in the settlement, it appeared, and dismounted. He had eaten no breakfast and now hunger was making itself known. The café was far from clean but he settled down at the counter and ordered himself a meal.
It was good to have the responsibility of Woodward’s money off his hands, and with it the knowledge that Bart Crawford and his men would not again be dogging his trail. Yet there was something about the whole affair that left him vaguely dissatisfied and disturbed. He was not feeling the tremendous relief that he had imagined would be his, once the chore was finished; instead, there was a gnawing discontent, a sense of having left a job partly undone. But there had been no other way. Sharpe was a lawman, a deputy marshal according to what he had said, as well as the badge he carried, and he had claimed to be a close friend of the Woodwards. The fact he knew the exact amount of money in the saddlebags further verified that statement. Still, he wished now he had insisted more forcefully on delivering the money himself to Olivia Woodward. Sharpe and his two helpers could have accompanied him, if there were doubts in their minds as to his intentions. Ben stirred restlessly; that was the way he should have handled it.
His food came and he dallied and toyed with it for a full half hour, taking no pleasure from it. When he had enough, he arose, paid his check, and returned to the street. On the opposite side, a few doors down, he saw the marshal’s office and jail. Leading the sorrel, he crossed over. The lawman’s headquarters were empty, the single cell vacant. Ben turned, walked back into the open. A man, standing in front of a saloon a short distance farther on, looked at him inquiringly.
“You hunting for Marshal Bardett?”
Jordan said: “Yes. Any idea where I can find him?”
“Nope. Sure don’t. But I reckon he’s around somewheres. Might be he’s out in the country.”
The dissatisfaction within Ben Jordan continued to grow. “What’s his deputy’s name?”
“Ain’t got no regular man. Once in a while appoints himself a special deputy when they’s something that’s got to be done like moving pris’ners.
“Know one called Sharpe?
The man thought for a moment, shrugged. “Don’t recollect the name, but could be. Like I said he hires on somebody now and then. What’s the trouble? You needing help?”
Jordan gave him no reply. After a time he said: “How about Missus Olivia Woodward … know where she lives?”
“Ollie? Sure.” The man grinned broadly. “Down to the end of the street, turn left. Green house setting off to itself.”
“Thanks,” Ben said, and swung onto the sorrel.
Jordan found the Woodward home with no difficulty. He tied the gelding to a fence post, made his way along a path to the door, and knocked. There was no immediate answer and after a time he repeated the summons.
The panel opened. A heavy-eyed woman, her face smeared with cosmetics she had not troubled to remove the previous night, straw-colored hair falling in disarray about her shoulders, and clad in a faded robe that she clutched at the neck, stared out at him. Once she had possessed beauty but it was gone now, replaced by that brassy hardness common to saloon women. “What do you want?” she demanded harshly.
“Are you Missus Woodward … Olivia Woodward?”
“That’s me,” she said. “Who are you?”
“I knew your husband,” Ben said. “Name is Jordan.
He watched Olivia Woodward’s haggard face for some reaction. If the deputy had been there, had delivered the money to her, she would recognize his name as that of the man who had brought it. Her features remained stolid. “Come on in,” she said, retreating into the shaded, over-furnished room. “Where is Walt?”
Jordan, pushed by his own fears, entered. “Have there been three men here to see you … one of them Sharpe, the deputy marshal?”
Olivia Woodward’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Sharpe, the deputy?” she repeated as though startled. “No. Why would he be coming here?”
“You know him?”
“Yes, I know him.”
Jordan took a deep breath. “He’s bringing you the money your husband sent you. Twenty thousand dollars.” Ben paused. “I’ve got bad news, Missus Woodward. Walt’s dead.”
The woman stared. “Dead? You sure?”
“I was with him when it happened. Outlaws shot him. I buried him myself. Before he died, he made me promise to deliver the money he got from the sale of your ranch to you. Twenty thousand dollars, he said it was.”
“You say Al Sharpe has it now?”
Jordan nodded. “They … Sharpe and a couple of men he called Frick and Rosen … stopped me at the edge of town. Thought I’d stolen your husband’s horse. When I explained what I was doing, Sharpe took over the money, said he was a personal friend of yours, and he’d take it to you. Told me I’d have to wait around until he cleared up things. He a friend of the family?”
“Yes, for a long time.”
“Said he’d bring the money straight to you. I’ve been dodging outlaws all the way across the territory to keep my promise to your husband. Wish now I hadn’t turned it over to Sharpe.”
Olivia Woodward smiled. “It will be all right,” she said. “I’ll get it. Al must have gotten sidetracked on the way. When did you say you gave it to him?”
“About an hour ago.”
She rose, moved to the door, and opened it for him. “I want to thank you for all the trouble you went through, Mister Jordan. And don’t worry about your promise to Walt. You’ve kept it.”
“I wish I could make myself feel that way,” Ben replied, moving into the open. “But if you’re satisfied, I guess I should be. What about the horse?”
“Horse?”
“The sorrel. Walt gave him to me, but I’ve got no papers to prove he’s mine. The deputy said I had better get a bill of sale from you.”
“Of course, and I want you to have him. Tell you what, the least I can do for you in return, is cook you a good supper before you leave. You get your bill of sale made up and be back here about dark. I’ll sign it, then we’ll eat.”
“Sounds fine, but you don’t need to go to all that trouble …”
“No trouble. You do what I say. Risking your life to bring that money … a good supper will be little enough pay.”
Jordan walked on into the yard. “See you at dark, then,” he said, smiling, and continued on to where the sorrel waited.
It was all finished now. He could stop stewing about it. Olivia Woodward, while seemingly not particularly saddened by her husband’s death, had exhibited no alarm when she had learned that Deputy Sharpe was in possession of her money and had failed so far to deliver it. But she was right, of course; he could have been delayed for some cause. And he guessed he was pressing things too hard. It had actually been little more than an hour since Sharpe had relieved him of the saddlebags. He was pleased that the sorrel was to become his legally. Now he need fear no subsequent problems in that matter. He would go to a livery stable, obtain a blank bill of sale, and fill in a description of the horse. With Olivia Woodward’s signature properly affixed, the transfer would be above question.
He mounted, turned back up the lane, heading for Langford’s one street. He had three or four hours to kill before dark and the hour at which he was to return to Olivia Woodward’s. The smart thing would be to go somewhere, get a little sleep, if he intended to spend the night riding back to the Lazy A. The livery stable where he planned to get a bill of sale—he could crawl into the loft and take a short nap in the hay.
He reached the corner, halted, his eyes searching for such an establishment. He stiffened suddenly. Five men, riding abreast, turned into the far end of the street and came slowly, purposefully onward. Crawford and his friends again—and with them was Oran Bishop.