CHAPTER FOURTEEN
RIDING DOWN FAIRVIEW, Montana’s Front Street started his heart pounding. This was the street Angie had been killed on. As Matt reached the bank, he reined in and stared at the ground, swearing he could still see her blood. Of course, that wasn’t the case. It had long since been absorbed by the earth or washed away by rain.
There were some people watching him ride into town, but he thought it was normal curiosity surrounding a stranger rather than the fact that they recognized him. He didn’t look the way he had eight years ago. He was gaunt, had more hair and a full beard—something he had been working on since leaving Bozeman. He didn’t want to be immediately recognized. He needed some time to himself before reacquainting himself with the citizenry of Fairview.
He hadn’t done the job he was hired to do. When he had left town to look for the bank robbers, he’d had no intention of returning with the money. He hadn’t been concerned about the bank, at all. He had only wanted vengeance for Angie. That was the reason he had left the badge behind—that and the fact that it would have done him no good once he rode out of the county.
So he wasn’t in a hurry to renew old acquaintances again—not yet, anyway. Not until he stopped to see Angie’s grave.
He rode through town all the way to the north end, where the town’s boot hill was. Reining his horse in, he dismounted, tied it off, and took two steps before stopping. He couldn’t continue. One more step would have taken him through the iron gateway and onto the cemetery grounds. Then he’d have to walk up the slope to find Angie’s grave, since he didn’t know exactly where it was.
But he couldn’t.
He hadn’t gone to her grave before leaving Fairview to find her killers, because he’d wanted to be able to come back and tell her that he’d caught them. But he hadn’t. He had killed only one of them and then been tossed into prison. There was still two parts of the job left to be done.
But was he the man to do it?
“Matt?”
He turned, saw a man standing there, wearing a badge and staring at him. He wore a six-gun in a hip holster. “Pete?”
Peter Brown nodded and approached him. “I wasn’t sure it was you,” he said. “You’re . . . thinner.”
“And older,” Matt said. “And look at you. You’ve filled out.” His sometime deputy had always been a very thin young man, but now he had shoulders, a mustache, and a few miles on him. He was also wearing a sheriff’s badge—the very badge Matt had left behind.
“I’m older, too,” Pete said.
“Yeah, like what . . . thirty?”
“Are you goin’ up to Angie’s grave?” he asked Matt.
“I was,” Matt said, “but I don’t think I can now.”
“Then how about a drink at the saloon?” Peter asked.
“That I can do,” Matt agreed.
THE SALOON PETE Brown took Matt to was new to him. There were also other new buildings he saw as they walked his horse over to the saloon. The town had grown while he was away.
The saloon was called the Cactus House Saloon. Matt tied his horse in front and they went inside. It was early, so there were only a few customers. Peter got two beers from the bartender, and they walked to a back table.
“How long have you been sheriff?” Matt asked.
“Right from the time they realized you really weren’t comin’ back.”
“I’ll bet you’re good at it,” Matt said.
“I learned from you.”
“The town looks like it’s growing,” Matt said, ignoring the compliment.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Pete said. “After you didn’t come back with the money, the bank manager was fired, and the bank closed. Then the Double-K changed hands.”
“Kaufman sold it?”
“He lost it,” Pete said. “He never recovered from that lost payroll. He had to sell out, and he did for a song. A little bit after that, a new bank opened. In fact, a lot of people have come and gone since you left, Matt. There might not even be anyone here who remembers you, except for me.”
He recalled that Pete had never called him Matt back then. Maybe now he was trying to establish their new boundaries.
“You’re not by any chance here to get your job back, are you?” Pete asked.
“What? Hell, no, Pete. The badge is all yours.”
“Then you really came back just to see Angie’s grave?”
“I did,” Matt said. “But now I realize I can’t do it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I haven’t kept my promise to her yet.”
“What promise?”
“To catch the men who killed her.”
“You got one, right?” Pete asked.
“Yeah, and then I got thrown into Yuma Prison,” Matt reminded him. “There are still two more out there, including Jason Pardee.”
“Pardee,” Pete said. “He was the bank guard, right?”
“Right. And he’s the one who shot Angie.”
“Oh,” Peter said, “I didn’t know which one did it. Do you have any idea where he is?”
“None.”
“Then how do you expect to find him?”
“Maybe I won’t ever find him,” Matt said. “I’m still not sure I’m going to keep looking now that I’m out.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing, I’m not the same man I was back then,” Matt said.
“You still have a gun in your belt.”
“And my hand shakes when I take it out,” Matt added.
“It looks pretty steady on that mug of beer,” Pete observed.
“Yeah, well, I’m in a little better condition than I was when I first got out,” Matt said, “but still nothing like I was eight years ago.”
“I can see you look older,” Peter said, “but maybe a shave and a haircut would take care of that.”
Matt ran his hand over his beard. “No,” he said, “believe me. I’d still look older. There’s nothing I can do about that.”
“Matt . . . I’ve got to ask,” Peter said. “How long do you intend to be in town?”
“I honestly don’t know, Pete,” Matt said. “I thought I was going to ride in, talk to Angie, and leave. But now . . .”
“Well . . .”
“Is it a problem, me being here?”
“Not for me.”
“Then for who?”
“Well . . . maybe the mayor.”
Back when Matt was sheriff the mayor’s name was Walt Hoffman. “Is it still Hoffman?”
“No,” Pete said, “he’s been gone a long time. The mayor’s name is Ben Pickett, and let’s say he’s very involved in everything that goes on in town.”
“Does he know I’m here?”
“Not yet.”
“But you’re going to tell him.”
“I have to, Matt,” Pete said almost apologetically.
“Is he really going to care?” Matt asked.
“I guess that’ll depend on what he knows about you,” Pete said.
“He’s going to know what you tell him, Pete,” Matt said. “Tell him I’m harmless.”
“Are you?”
When Matt had first walked out of Yuma Prison, he would have said yes, that he was a broken, harmless man. At the prospect of facing Angie’s grave site, he still felt “broken,” but perhaps “harmless” didn’t quite describe him anymore. What would he have done if he were face-to-face with Jason Pardee? He wasn’t sure, but it certainly wouldn’t be something “harmless.”
“I didn’t think so,” Pete said before Matt could answer.
“Well,” Matt said, “I’m not here to harm anybody.”
“And if you saw Pardee or the other man walkin’ down the street?”
“His name is Ed Corbin. I’d know him if I saw him,” Matt said with certainty. “After all, he shot me.”
Matt picked up his beer. Pete had noticed that his hand was steady. He had no idea how effective Matt would be with a gun, but he certainly looked deadly with a beer mug.