Chapter Eleven

It was midafternoon when they laid Jacob Wilder to rest in the Sundance Cemetery, on the knoll southwest of town. Besides Ethan, there was Roy Manson, a couple of maintenance men with shovels standing well back from the service, and Claudia Carver, who had driven up in her buggy.

Had there been more time to get the word out, Ethan figured there would have been a larger crowd, but he had to wonder just how much larger. Ira Webb surely would have come if not for the unusual number of customers who seemed to have taken up residence in the Bullshead recently, but Ethan wasn’t as certain about men like Sam Davidson and Tim Palmer and their families. Would they have closed their shops for an hour or so to pay respects to a man whose generosity that first harsh winter had kept them alive? Or would they have shunned the funeral in favor of the current attitude, that the old-timers—the hunters and traders who had come West while the land was still raw and wild—were an embarrassment to the senses of a modern civilization spreading swiftly, irreversibly, across the continent?

The last few days had been eye-opening ones for Ethan, who’d gradually come to realize that the animosity he was receiving from the townspeople had actually been there for a long time, a festering wound finally scratched open by Joel’s alleged mistreatment of Suzie Merrick, and the charge that it had been Ben who’d killed Jacob. Standing at the foot of his father’s grave, listening to Roy Manson read from the Bible, Ethan felt an incredible sadness creep over him, a feeling of isolation and vulnerability. Then he heard his name spoken, and looked up to find Roy watching him, Bible closed.

“Would you like to toss in the first handful of earth, Ethan?”

Nodding dutifully, Ethan picked up a handful of soil that he tossed in on top of Jacob’s flat-topped coffin, the rattle of dirt on wood like shot peppering his soul.

Claudia Carver came over afterward to lay a hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry, Ethan. For your loss here, and for Victor and the troubles that plague Joel and Ben. Mister Carver would have come, if not for the need to stay at your brother’s side. He asked me to extend his condolences, and to invite you to supper tonight. You will come, won’t you?”

Ethan took a deep breath, expelled it shakily. “Yes, ma’am, I’d be honored.”

“We’ll eat at six, but come early. Victor is showing signs of improvement. I know he’d like to see you if he regains consciousness.”

“Is he getting better?” Ethan asked, then wished he hadn’t when he saw the look on her face.

“We can only pray that he does,” Claudia said. She gave his arm a friendly squeeze. “I’d best get back, but know that we’re keeping you in our prayers, Ethan. All of you.”

“Thank you. I reckon I could use all the help I can get.” He walked her to the buggy and helped her inside, then freed the tether weight from the horse’s bit and dropped it on the floorboard.

“I’ll see you at six, if not before,” he promised.

Ethan had ridden up Cemetery Hill on the hearse with Roy Manson, but he declined a lift back into town, preferring some time alone to sort through his thoughts. Everything had been happening so fast lately that he was beginning to feel like a drunk on a runaway horse, barely hanging onto his hat.

The road was dusty, the sun warm on his back. Meadowlarks skimmed along in the grass beside him, singing their warning of a stranger in their midst. Like the meadowlarks, Ethan’s mind flitted rapidly. What was going on, not just with his own family, but with the whole region? So many men missing or murdered in the breaks, yet hardly a mention of it up here. And what did they have, those woolly, unwashed sons of the frontier, that was worth killing for? Land might have been a common factor, and easy enough to understand with the Bar-Five’s homesteaded water holes, but old Emile Rodale and Ian McMillan had never filed a claim in their lives. And why would someone want to hang Ian’s woman, who couldn’t have claimed the land even if she’d wanted to, being Blackfoot.

What else made sense? Water? There was the whole of the Marias for that. Gold? Ethan had never heard of any precious metals being found this far out on the plains; gold was a mountain commodity, a lure of the high country. Grass? Except for the Bar-Five—which had never exercised its rights anyway—there was no impediment to running cattle on the open range anywhere along the Marias, and certainly none that would require the systematic extermination of a bunch of ex-hunters and their Indian and mixed-blood families.

It has to be something else, Ethan thought. It has to.

His gaze strayed to Palmer’s Livery, and his pace slowed. He knew there were people around town who rented out extra stable space to local residents who didn’t have their own facilities, but only Tim Palmer made a business of it. He owned the livery, ran a blacksmith shop, and bought and sold hay on the side. Seen from the rear as he hiked down from Cemetery Hill, Ethan was struck by the size of Palmer’s sprawling complex of barn, sheds, and corrals. He hadn’t realized it was so extensive, taking up several acres behind the red-painted, street-front entrance of his main stables. A man could board a horse overnight in that big barn if he wanted to have it fed and watered, even curried. But if he planned on staying long, or had several head to care for, most men would rent one of the corrals out back.

Abruptly Ethan veered off the road to follow a wagon lane into the heart of holding pens and corrals. As he made his way down the central aisle, he occasionally allowed the inside of his forearm to brush the butt of his revolver. There was no reason to expect trouble, yet he felt unaccountably nervous, his throat dry and scratchy.

Rough count, Ethan estimated sixty-plus head of livestock scattered throughout the pens. The largest corral was occupied by mules carrying the Diamond T Freight company’s brand, but he recognized several animals belonging to some of Sundance’s wealthier citizens—Sam Davidson’s tall bay and Ray Manson’s sorrel among them. Others carried local brands, including a trio of cow ponies sporting Kestler’s Lazy-K. It was in one of the smaller corrals close to the main stables that Ethan finally found what he was looking for—eight head of quality horses, all with unfamiliar and unmatching brands.

Ethan’s brows furrowed in thought. There had been six men sitting in back of the Bullshead that morning, including the one with a recently bloodied cheek. He was certain he’d killed one of the ambushers in the shallow creek behind the house yesterday, then wounded a second one minutes later, probably the man Doc Carver had treated. He was also pretty sure he’d drawn blood on a third man, too, judging from the shrill cursing from the barn after firing several rounds at the empty water barrel in the entryway. That brought him back to the Bullshead, and the man with the torn cheek.

Eight horses . . . eight men.

Ethan’s pulse quickened as he entered a side door to Palmer’s Livery. He came to a wide entryway, cool and dim. He saw no one, but heard movement in the office near the front door, and headed in that direction.

Tim Palmer looked up from his desk when Ethan entered the cramped room, an alarmed expression coming over his face. He pushed his chair back even as he yanked open a top drawer. Catching a glimpse of a nickel-plated pocket revolver inside, Ethan instinctively kicked the drawer closed, barely avoiding smashing Palmer’s fingers. The liveryman jumped to his feet, cursing, and tried to back away, but Ethan grabbed a fistful of shirt and jerked him close.

“What’s the matter, Timmy? Has something got you spooked?”

“Let go of me, Wilder.”

“Not until you tell me what happened to the missing man who rode in here yesterday?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do.” He pulled the drawer open and grabbed the revolver. “You wouldn’t think you needed this if you didn’t.” He tossed the small handgun behind the desk. “You’ve got eight horses out there with brands I’ve never seen before. Where are the men who ride them?” Palmer clamped his mouth shut, and Ethan gave him a quick but violent shake. “Don’t take that trail, Timmy. I don’t have the patience for it today.”

“All right!” Palmer cried, throwing his hands up in surrender. “I don’t know where they are . . .”

“I told you I don’t . . .”

“Wait, dammit, I’ll tell you.” He took a deep breath. “Let me go first.”

Ethan released his grip, giving the hostler a little backward shove to keep him off balance. “All right, talk.”

“Geez, Ethan, are you insane? You can’t just come in here . . .”

“I warned you about wasting my time.”

“You can’t come in here and treat me like this in my own business. I’ve got rights in this town.”

Ethan moved forward. Palmer tried to dodge out of reach, but he was too slow. Catching the liveryman’s collar and taking a firm hold on the seat of his trousers, Ethan threw him out the door.

Palmer slammed into the stall across the aisle, then stumbled back, blood smeared across his upper lip. There was a pitchfork leaning against the wall beside him and he grabbed it, but Ethan had already picked up a twitch—made from an axe handle, used to calm unruly horses during shoeing or doctoring—and batted the pitchfork out of Palmer’s hands. Palmer stumbled backward, tripped over his own feet, and fell with an explosive grunt. Ethan stood over him, the solid oak twitch ready to swing again.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said dangerously. “You tell me what I want to know, then you can run over and complain to Jeff Burke about what a mean son-of-a-bitch I am.”

“This isn’t right,” Palmer mumbled indignantly. “I would’ve told you what you wanted to know. All you had to do was ask.”

“You’re going to tell me this way, too, and I’ll get a straight answer without a lot of smug opinions.”

Palmer’s lips thinned at the injustice of his predicament, but he didn’t argue further. “I don’t know who they are. They pay their bill, I take care of their horses.”

“You know the name of the man who pays you?”

Palmer hesitated, then shrugged. “Fact is, Nolan Andrews pays their bill.”

No surprise there, Ethan thought grimly. “What’s Andrews’s connection to them?”

“You’d have to ask them that,” Palmer replied. “In case you haven’t noticed, they aren’t a talkative bunch.”

Ethan lowered the twitch. “There are eight horses out there. Where is Andrews’s mount?”

“Andrews keeps his horse stabled inside.”

“There were only six men in the Bullshead this morning. Where are the other two?”

“It isn’t my job to keep track of customers,” Palmer replied testily. After a pause, he added: “If you let me get up, I’ll show you something.”

Ethan stepped back, tossed the twitch into the office. “Show me.”

Palmer led him to the large tack room behind the office. “Andrews’s men have those saddle racks near the back,” he said, pointing. “Take a look at those two farthest saddles.”

Ethan gave Palmer a measured glance. “Don’t wander off, Timmy.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Ethan went over to the saddles. It didn’t take long to spot what had caught the hostler’s eyes. Both hulks were tracked with rust-colored stains over the horns and pommels, and Ethan’s eyes narrowed in recognition. “Blood,” he murmured, and turned just in time to see the heel of a scoop shovel descending from above.