A RADIANT-EYED IF troubled Melissa explained to Montana the next day. That the sparkle might stem as much from tears as other emotions did not escape the sharpness of his own glance, but he was at pains to hide such awareness.
“My husband—Mr. Edwards—was not willingly a silent fugitive all these years. When the killing with which he was charged took place, he was also hurt, so gravely that it numbed his mind and clouded his memory. His mind is clear now, but it was a long, drawn-out process. But knowing that he was sought by the law, for a crime which he could not disprove and for which he would hang if caught, he fled.”
She passed over the lack of any word to her, across that span of empty years. Presumably he had been as unsure on that as on other matters, or else fearful of any disclosure.
“There was only one thing that he was sure of, that he had to find the real killer, to bring him to justice, to obtain evidence which would clear his own name.”
Spurred by that quest, he had drifted west. Known as Achilles, he had prospected, drifting.
There were many unfilled blanks, along with known details. The climactic part had been his recognition of the man he hunted, as well as of his wife as he had seen her across the room. A recognition matched in her own mind as her attention had been attracted to him.
It had not occurred to him that James Ashley might be the intended target for Lefty Hoag’s gun. He had assumed that Hoag was about to shoot Melissa.
Gradually he had put together bits and pieces of evidence, making sure that Lefty Hoag was the man who had killed years before, foisting the blame upon him. Even without that, Edwards could have counted on a pardon from a grateful Governor, but in his somewhat blundering fashion he seemed to have solved the mystery.
Montana was saddling a horse as Melissa found him and explained. She was suddenly dry-eyed, and that her emotions twisted as did his own he did not doubt.
“You’re leaving?” It was little more than a whisper.
“Got to get back and look after my ranch,” he returned with a lightness which in its turn did not deceive. “I’ve been away too long already. And snow might close the pass if I waited much longer.”
“What about your position in the legislature?”
“Seems Jim Brown is better, able to take his place. He’s more than welcome. I’ve decided I’m not cut out for a politician.”
“You’re much better qualified than most,” she assured him. “I—you’ve a lot of friends who will hate to have you go.”
“Not much choice,” he returned, and understanding, she refrained from argument. Mountains to cross. Barriers. “God keep you, my dear,” he said, and was gone.