33

Michael’s eyes popped open. Where was he? What were those noises?

He sniffed the air. Coffee. Bacon. Biscuits. Hunger rolled in his stomach. His heart slowed as the familiar aromas cleared the fog of sleep from his head.

Hawkins Station. Posse. Sam Carstairs. Rachel.

Soft gray light poked at the shutters on the window. Metal plates clattered in the main dining room. Voices murmured. He picked up his Bible and walked outside. In the east, the sun peered over the rim of the earth, turning the undersides of the few clouds delicate shades of pink and red.

Nate came out, yawning and scratching his stomach. The two men acknowledged each other; then Nate moved off toward the stable and corral. “Pedro, Enrique,” he called, “get your sorry selves up. There’s work to be done.”

Two men walked out of the stable, each leading two horses. The pair exchanged smiles and shook their heads. One of them spoke in a broken singsong accent. “Sí, Señor Nate. We started as soon as we knew you were awake. We wouldn’t leave it all for you.”

They led the horses over to the corral and tied them to the rails, then went back into the barn and reappeared a short time later with four more horses. Buddy snorted and nickered when he saw Michael.

“Breakfast is ready.” Sheriff Davis emerged from the station door. “Better get some before Malachi gets to it. When that man’s sober, he can put more food away than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

Michael turned to follow him back into the building. The sound of approaching hoofbeats stopped them. A single rider, shrouded in the dusky gloom, appeared down the road from the east. Next to Michael, Davis exhaled. He adjusted the holster strapped to his waist and rested his hand on the pistol grip. Nate walked over and stood on the other side of the sheriff, squinting up the road.

“Hello, the station,” the stranger called.

“’Lo, yerself,” Nate answered.

The rider stopped about a hundred feet from the station and dismounted. Holding his hands out from his sides, he drew near. Michael studied the man—lean build, neat mustache, pistol and holster tied down above the knee. Capable and confident? Yes. Dangerous? Not to them. Michael relaxed. Not a threat, but a possible ally.

“Is this Hawkins Station?” The man’s voice was friendly, and he smiled.

“Yep,” Nate replied.

“Name’s Jeremiah Turner. The agent in Culverton said I might be able to get a meal here on my way to Riverbend.”

Michael waited for the sheriff to relax, but he didn’t. Gideon Parsons always struck the same attitude with strangers. Calm on the outside. Tension coiled inside like a rattler ready to strike.

“Ya sure can,” Nate said to the stranger. “Have to charge you two bits, though, seein’ as you ain’t on a stage.”

“That’s fine.”

“Well, come on in, then.” Nate opened the door.

Turner wrapped his reins around the hitching post and walked past Nate. Michael and the sheriff followed.

Lanterns hanging from the ceiling cast a dim light throughout the room. The men of the posse sat spread among the tables, cups in front of them. Some were silent, while others held murmured conversation. Michael saw Vernon, Barkston, and Vernon’s nephew, Alexander, huddled together around an open Bible. Frank, Martin, and Shorty from the Carstairs ranch stood at the bar, heads bent, studying a pistol that lay in pieces before them. Old Thomas and Malachi sat at the back of the room like two statutes carved from different shades of wood. Harold Miller, Mitch Jones, and Dave Roberts, the other townsmen on the posse, sat at a table near the door talking quietly. Michael studied the group and wondered why Sheriff Davis had selected these men. What did he see in them that made them valuable on a posse?

A woman’s voice bellowed from the kitchen. “Nate, git those shutters open and let some daylight in here. Then come help me serve this breakfast.”

“Be right there, Maggie.”

Nate opened the shutters, allowing the strengthening sunlight to pour in. He disappeared into the kitchen and returned carrying a stack of plates, which he placed at the end of the bar.

Jeremiah Turner walked to the coffeepot standing on the bar. He nodded to the cowboys, picked up a worn and chipped cup, and poured from the pot. He blew across the top of the steaming liquid, then took a tentative sip.

The sheriff walked over and stood at the bar facing him. The stranger pointed at the pot and gestured in Davis’s direction. The sheriff held a cup while Turner poured. He poured a cup for Michael as well.

Turner motioned toward the badge on Davis’s shirt. “You the sheriff in Riverbend?”

“That’s right. Caleb Davis is the name.”

“Pleasure to meet you.” Turner extended his hand. The sheriff looked at it for a second before grasping it in a brief handshake. “You’ve got a reputation for being fair,” Turner continued, “and for being dogged determined to get your man, no matter what.”

The sheriff shrugged. “I’ve heard of you too. You’ve got a reputation for being a hired gun. What’s your business in Riverbend?”

Turner sighed, put his cup down, and rested his hands on the warped planking of the bar. He spoke in measured, well-educated tones. “Not exactly accurate, Sheriff. I am for hire, and I use my gun when I have to, but I don’t sell myself as a gunslinger. That’s the farthest thing from my mind. I help people and businesses with security problems, and I always make sure I work on the right side of the law.”

“Be that as it may, you didn’t answer my question.”

Turner put his hand to his chest. “My apologies. I’m on my way to meet Sam Carstairs. I met him on the stage between Lassiter and Culverton. He asked for my help with some trouble he was in. I had to stay in Culverton to finish some business, and I told him I’d get to Riverbend as soon as I could.”

The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a little late, my friend. Mr. Carstairs went missing from this station between Wednesday night and sunrise yesterday. I’m working under the assumption he was kidnapped by a couple of other passengers. I’ve brought a posse here to start looking for him.”

Turner stared at him. “Then we must pray in the name of Jesus that we find him soon before something happens to him.”

Michael choked on his coffee. He coughed to clear the liquid from his throat. Did this man just pray? A Christian gunslinger?

Sheriff Davis raised his head. “Did he say what the trouble was?”

“Nothing specific. Just talked about threats and wanted my help in dealing with them. If I had known the danger was this immediate, I would have stayed with him.”

The sheriff nodded. “You had no way of knowing.”

“Come an’ get it.” Nate’s wife, Maggie, emerged from the kitchen carrying several platters of food. She placed them on the bar near the stack of plates.

Malachi led the attack on the food like a well-coordinated cavalry charge. Michael selected some flapjacks and bacon and remained near Sheriff Davis at the bar. He noted the sheriff’s tension—spasms along the jaw muscle and twitching in the mustache as the sheriff chewed on the longer hairs.

Davis motioned Maggie to come near him. “Did Sam give any indication he was in trouble?”

Maggie folded her arms across her chest. “Like I told ya last night, Sheriff, he didn’t say nothin’. A little quieter than usual. Kept pretty much to himself. Drank a little more than I’ve seen him in the past. Acted like he had something on his mind. But he didn’t say what it was.”

“What about the other passengers?”

Maggie wiped the bar with a stained towel. “They seemed like a nice young couple. Said they was newlyweds. She was real pretty—long dark hair and beautiful green eyes. Her husband was kinda quiet.”

“Did they talk with Sam?”

Maggie frowned. “Not that I recall. Like I said, Sam wanted to be alone.”

“Notice anything unusual about them?”

Maggie rubbed her chin. She arched an eyebrow and waggled a finger toward the sheriff and Michael. “Ya know, there was somethin’ in the way the girl looked at Sam. Like she knew him and didn’t like him.”

Davis drummed his fingers on the bar. “Did you and Nate hear anything yesterday morning?”

“Not a sound, Sheriff. We was shocked to get up and find all the passengers gone.”

“How about your Mexican boys?”

“They weren’t here. They’d gone to visit their families and didn’t come back until about noontime yesterday.”

The sheriff turned to the room. “All right, men, eat up.” He grabbed a plate of food, topped off his coffee, and went to sit with Vernon and Barkston. Michael refilled his plate, drinking in the aroma of the bacon, and joined them. Turner stood facing the room, his elbows on the bar. The three cowboys from the Carstairs ranch had put the pistol back together and were piling second helpings on their plates. Forks scraped metal plates as the men gulped down the breakfast.

Barkston wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That new man gonna ride with us?”

The sheriff looked over his shoulder. “’Spect so. I’ve heard he’s real good with his gun. Don’t know how he’ll be at takin’ orders. I’ve heard he’s a bit of a loner, likes to be in charge.”

Barkston snorted. “We’ll keep an eye on him. He won’t cause you no trouble.”

Vernon glanced around the room. “I think you picked a good crew, Caleb.”

The sheriff swallowed a mouthful of eggs. “I picked the best I could, men I could rely on.” He eyed Michael. “I hope.”

Michael assured him, “I won’t let you down, Sheriff.”

Davis sniffed. “I’m countin’ on it, and so are these men.”

Michael clasped his hands under the table. What would he do if he had to fight? Would he run? Could he release that ugly brute inside? Could he control it once it was out? Father, be with me. Show me what to do.

The sheriff rapped the side of his cup with a fork, and the room fell silent. He stood. “Let’s get on the road. We’re gonna head south and try to pick up Sam’s trail. Malachi and Old Thomas will take the lead, and the rest of us will spread out on either side of the road behind them, searching for tracks.

“We don’t know what we’re riding into. Sam could be out there, out of his head, wandering around. I don’t think that’s likely. Or he could have been kidnapped. That’s my thinkin’ because the other two passengers are gone too. If it’s a kidnappin’, we don’t know how many there are, what they want, or where they’re goin’. And we don’t know how long it’s gonna take to find them.”

He paused and surveyed the group. “I’m expectin’ this to be a long, hard ride. And I ’spect there’ll be shooting before we’re done. So if any of you want to leave, now’s the time. Nobody’ll hold it against you.”

There was a silence. Then Vernon drained his coffee and slammed the cup back on the table. “Caleb, we appreciate the offer, but we’re sticking with you no matter what. I don’t like the idea of anyone coming in and thinking they can take one of our people and get away with it.”

“Okay. Mount up.”

Michael watched Jeremiah Turner approach the sheriff. “Thanks for letting me ride along, Sheriff.”

Davis cocked his head to one side and placed his hands on his hips. “Well, I still ain’t all that sure about it.” He jabbed a finger at Turner’s chest. “You do what you’re told, when you’re told. I see any sign of you going lone wolf on me, and I’ll shoot off your kneecap and tie you to your horse till we’re done. Are we clear?

“Yes, sir.”