29

The afternoon sun beat down, but a soft breeze drifted through the town, just enough to ruffle hair and cool the skin. As he walked back to his office, Caleb already missed the caressing evening breezes and fishing for his supper. The crowd cleared a path so he could walk up the steps to the boardwalk that fronted his office.

Pete O’Brien waited for him. “Ye got here fast, Sheriff. I ain’t said anything to ’em yet. People are still gatherin’.”

Caleb glanced at his chair, wondering how long it would be until he could once again sit and watch the town go by. He turned to face the group of about thirty men and women gathered before him. More people joined them. A multitude of conversations jabbered.

Caleb took off his hat, scratched his head, and ran his fingers through his hair. Pete stood next to him, thumbs hooked in his belt. Caleb expected Pete was surveying the crowd, deciding whom he would select for the posse if it were his responsibility.

Caleb held up his hands. When the crowd quieted, he spoke, slowing his cadence and raising his voice so all could hear. “Something has happened to Mr. Sam Carstairs. He was on the stage, and according to the driver, he was missin’ when they woke up at Hawkins Station this morning. I don’t think he would take off of his own free will this close to home, so I gotta suspect foul play. Now, we all know what Mr. Carstairs means to this town, and I’m sure all of y’all want to help. I’m planning on riding up to Hawkins Station and start looking for him. It may well be dangerous. I’ll need about ten to twelve men to ride with me. I don’t know how long this is going to take, but I figure a couple of weeks or more. I’d expect those of you that can’t ride with us to help out those who can by taking care of their families and their chores and suchlike.”

The crowd murmured its agreement. One of the women spoke up. “You can count on that, Sheriff. You know we take care of our own. People in town will adopt the families of the men who go so they won’t have to fret none while they’re gone.”

Charlie Atkins, the carpenter, added, “We’ll take care of ’em, Sheriff. Sam’s important to this town. You do everything you can to find him and bring him back.”

Intense conversations bubbled up to Caleb as husbands and wives discussed the situation. He waited, knowing from experience the wives needed to agree for their husbands to join the posse. Otherwise, the men would be distracted by what they’d left behind. Wives would worry anyway, but a heated parting would put a burden on the posse that he didn’t need. A few worried men would put the whole group at risk.

Two men rode up to the back of the crowd. Bill Barkston straddled a horse that seemed too small for him. To Caleb’s eye, every horse seemed small under Bill. Next to Bill rode Vernon Phelps, a rail-thin man that Caleb knew to be stronger, pound for pound, than any other rancher in the area. He sat his rangy buckskin mare with the ease and grace of a man who spent more time in a saddle than on the ground.

Bill spat a stream of tobacco juice. “Howdy, Caleb. Havin’ a party?” He crossed his hands on his saddle horn.

Caleb told him what he knew. Bill looked at Vernon, who kept his eyes on Caleb. A quiet man, he seemed to ponder each word before he spoke. His soft voice carried over the heads of the people. “We can’t have that. Count me in. My nephew, Alexander, will join us.”

“You sure the missus is gonna be okay with that?” Caleb said. “She’s raised that boy since he was a pup.”

Vernon nodded. “I know. But she knows he’s ready to step out as a man. She’ll fuss, but she’ll let him come.”

Caleb eyed the two men. Vernon was the first friend he’d made when he came to Riverbend. Over the years, the man had volunteered for every posse and proved himself capable of leading men in tough situations. The only man he trusted more than Vernon was Pete O’Brien.

Like Vernon and himself, Bill Barkston was a war veteran. Unlike the two of them, Bill was an experienced officer and a Yankee. He’d ended the war as a colonel under Sherman.

A Yankee, but a good man. Barkston’s large ranch north of town rivaled the Carstairs place as an example of efficiency, organization, and profitability. Another leader with wise counsel in any situation would be welcome on the posse. Caleb grinned at Bill. His greatest strength was that he was the best trail cook in town.

Then Caleb remembered that Jeffrey Barkston had broken his leg on Tuesday. “Bill, is the ranch gonna be all right if you leave it right now?”

Bill resettled himself on his horse. “Jeffrey can run it from the front porch just fine.”

Caleb addressed the crowd again. “Any more volunteers?”

About half the men in the crowd raised their hands. Caleb pointed at several of them, calling their names as he made his selections. “You men be back here in half an hour with your horses and weapons. The town will supply food and ammunition.”

He pointed at five other men. “I’m deputizing you men to help O’Brien and Rollins keep things under control here. O’Brien will give you your assignments after we leave.”

He pointed to one of the men in the crowd. “George, run up to the Ace of Clubs and tell Malachi I need him. Tell him to bring Old Thomas too.”

Caleb turned to Pete as George took off down the street. “Who would you have picked?”

Pete scratched his chin. “Well, sir, I think the only mistake ye made was leaving me off the list.” His eyes crinkled as a grin spread across his face. “I think ye picked the best. Why’re ye askin’ me?”

“Just makin’ sure you’re learnin’. This job will be yours someday. Maybe sooner than we think.”

As the crowd dispersed, Michael led Buddy and his now-loaded packhorse to the sheriff’s office and tied them to the hitching post.

He stepped onto the boardwalk. “Mr. McGuffy was very generous, Sheriff. He wrote everything down and said he’d send the bill to the mayor’s office. He also said he’d load up more packhorses if you needed them.”

The sheriff turned to his deputy. “Pete, will you take care of that? Get three or four good horses from Johnson at the livery and have him saddle Caesar for me.”

“Sure thing.” Pete broke into a trot as he headed for the stables, passing two characters who approached from the direction of the bar. Michael recognized Malachi, the old man who had been cleaning the sheriff’s office on Saturday. Beside him walked a short, powerfully built man of indeterminate age.

Michael studied the stranger. He could be fifty. He could be eighty. His iron-gray hair was tied in a braid that reached his waist, secured with a leather thong. A wide band of red cloth encircled his head just above his eyes, which gleamed black in a round brown face with distinctive cheekbones. Wrinkles etched his cheeks like deep gullies. He wore dungarees, a loose-fitting buckskin shirt, moccasins, and leggings that ran halfway up his calves.

“You wanted to see us, Sheriff?” Malachi said as the two men stepped onto the boardwalk. “I ain’t even had time to get drunk yet.”

“I ain’t arrestin’ you, Malachi. I need you and Old Thomas. You two are the best trackers I know, and we’ve got to find somebody who’s got a big head start.”

“Who we hafta find? Somebody rob the bank?”

“No. Mr. Carstairs has gone missing up at Hawkins Station. I’m askin’ you to be in the posse.”

Malachi exchanged glances with Old Thomas, who nodded once. “All right, we’re in. I’ll go get our horses.”

Old Thomas sat in Sheriff Davis’s chair as Malachi turned to leave. He hadn’t gone but a few steps when the sheriff called after him.

“Malachi, this is going to be a dry trip—just coffee and water. There’s no need for you to bring your own personal supply.”

Malachi looked past the sheriff to Old Thomas, who turned his palms upward and shrugged. “Have it yer own way,” Malachi said, “but a drop or two has always been good for my eyesight and Old Thomas’s hearin’.”

“Yeah,” the sheriff answered, “you see three of everything going in five directions, and Old Thomas hears his ancestors tell him to kill us white devils in our sleep. Just get going.”

“That only happened once,” Old Thomas said as Malachi left. His voice was deep and resonant. He gestured in Michael’s direction. “Who is this?”

The sheriff introduced Michael to Old Thomas. They shook hands, and the old man peered into Michael’s face for a long moment. Then he turned away and spoke to the sheriff. “This is a good man, Sheriff Caleb. The Great Spirit of your people favors him. You can trust him.”

Embarrassment crept up Michael’s neck. The sheriff studied Michael. “You ain’t gonna get a much better compliment than that. Old Thomas reads people as good as he reads signs.”

Michael swallowed. “Sheriff, do I have a few minutes to say good-bye to someone?”

“Yeah, but don’t take too long. I wanna get on the road as soon as everyone’s here. We need to make Hawkins Station before dark.”

Rachel pulled another bolt of fabric from its slot on the wall and held it out for her customer to feel.

“Ooh, this is nice and soft, just right for my new Sunday dress. Cut me enough for the dress and a bonnet.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Rachel rested the cloth on the counter and measured out the desired amount. Two other women sat at the little table, half-empty teacups before them. The conversation was more about Mr. Carstairs than dresses.

The bell on the door jangled and all conversation stopped as Michael walked in. He was dressed for the trail: dungarees, plain blue shirt, and riding boots. His mouth and chin looked determined, his eyes calm. An aura of resolute strength emanated from him.

“Rach—” His voice cracked. He removed his hat and took a step forward. “Rachel, you heard about Mr. Carstairs?”

“Yes,” she said. “I did.”

“I feel like I’m supposed to go with the posse to look for him.”

Her voice was a soft whisper. “As soon as I heard about it, I knew you were going to go.” And I don’t want you to.

The idea dropped into her mind without warning, leaving her openmouthed with surprise. If it had been Luke or Mr. Phelps or Mr. Barkston, she could understand. But this man had been a stranger five days ago, and she had already decided he was not for her. Why did she even care if he joined the posse?

But she did care. She cared deeply, and denying it did no good at all. Without realizing it, she had dropped her guard and let him into her heart—closer, she now realized, than any other man, even Pastor Luke. And she couldn’t bear the thought of his riding on a dangerous mission. She was afraid for him and, she discovered in this moment, afraid he wouldn’t come back.

Confusion reigned. Part of her wanted to open her arms to him. The other part said, Don’t let him any closer. He’ll only break your heart.

But maybe it was too late.

Rachel walked over to him, holding one hand in the other with a knuckle-squeezing grip to keep from reaching to touch his arm, his hand, his face. She glanced over her shoulder. The customers were watching, some with sympathy, some to see just how brazen she might get with a man in front of them. You’ll get no satisfaction today.

“Please excuse me for a moment, ladies. I’ll be right back.” She motioned for Michael to follow her out to the boardwalk. She knew the ladies could see them, but at least they wouldn’t be able to hear the conversation.

She kept her hands together. “Michael, I . . .”

She stopped, her tongue stuck. She stared at a place on his sleeve, unable to look him in the eye. She swallowed. “I . . . I . . . want you to be careful. And come back . . . so we can get to know each other better.” She bit her lower lip. Weak as it was, it was the strongest commitment she’d ever made to a man.

Now she met his eyes and put her hand on his arm. “Travel safe. And . . .”

She couldn’t finish. She didn’t know what to say. She just gazed at him as he covered her hand gently with his.

“Wait for me,” he said.

She watched him walk away. Lord, what have I done?