CHAPTER 4

Ethan Chapman entered the jailhouse whistling. No prisoners, which meant he’d slept in his own bed and had a good breakfast with his two ranch hands, brothers Spin and Johnny McDade. The sun shone on Fergus, though a cool wind blew down from the mountain passes. The river ran high from snow melt on the summits. And Trudy was in her kitchen—he could smell her baking from next door. Gingerbread. With the wind out of the south, he was pretty sure he knew what he’d have for dessert at noontime.

The office, cell, and back room retained the same neat condition he’d left them in yesterday. Not much call to stick around this morning. When he wasn’t needed at the jailhouse, Ethan liked to walk about town to let himself be seen. His visits with the business owners reassured them that Fergus would remain peaceful. They hadn’t had a serious crime since last summer, when the Penny Man had kept them all on edge for a few weeks.

He turned northward first and strolled past the boardinghouse. Mr. Thistle, a one-armed Civil War veteran, worked at washing the windows fronting on Main Street.

“Morning, Sheriff.”

“Good morning, Mr. Thistle. How’s business?”

“Pretty good since the stage started running again. We expect some guests to come in today. Rilla’s fixing lamb stew for luncheon if you’re interested.”

“Thank you. We’ll see.” Ethan watched him adroitly wring out his rag with one hand, then ambled on past one of Cy Fennel’s vacant buildings left over from the town’s boom period and past the Nugget. The saloon was quiet now, but in twelve hours or so, things would heat up. Ethan would return then, with his damping influence on the party atmosphere. He could hear a rhythmic ringing from the smithy and crossed Main Street, since the Nugget was the last business on the west side of that end. As he stepped into the smithy, his friend Griffin Bane glanced up from his work and nodded.

“Ethan.”

“Howdy, Griff.”

The blacksmith hammered fussily at the edge of the hoe blade he was shaping, then plunged it into a tub of water. The sizzle and sharp-smelling cloud of steam comforted Ethan. Everything was right in Fergus.

“Livery busy these days?” he asked.

“Tolerable.” With his tongs, Griffin seized a new piece of bar stock and stuck it into the forge. “We’ve got two coach teams to switch out today.”

“So I’ve heard. That’s good.” When he went outside again, Ethan looked toward the livery stable, which Griffin also owned. The towering smith had bought it when the original owner moved on to a more prosperous town. For now, things looked quiet. The six-mule replacement teams for the stagecoaches were probably grazing out back.

Ethan wandered down the board sidewalk on the east side of Main. Beyond a vacant building was Charles Walker’s feed store. He stepped inside, hoping to see Walker, but an employee was there alone, counting bags of oats. Ethan said a quick ‘Good morning’ and went out again.

Next came the stagecoach line’s office. Cy Fennel was unlocking the door.

“Oh Sheriff, I was thinking of walking over to see you this morning.”

“You’re in town early, Mr. Fennel.”

“Yes, well, things are picking up now, and I have some book-work to go over. But I wanted to ask you something. Step in for a minute, won’t you?”

Ethan followed him into the small office where Cyrus sold stagecoach tickets. He avoided looking at the discoloration on the board floor near the stove, which marked the spot where a corpse had once lain. He didn’t like remembering that.

Cyrus sat down behind his desk and laid his keys and a ledger on the surface.

“What is it?” Ethan asked.

“I wondered if you know who owns the Peart place now.” Ethan raised his eyebrows, which made his hat ride up a little. “Frank and Milzie Peart’s land?”

“That’s right. Who’s the owner?”

“Well, I don’t rightly know.”

“Didn’t you have to contact the heirs when Milzie died?”

Ethan shook his head. “I reported it to the marshal and took an inventory, but I’m no lawyer.”

Cyrus stroked his chin. “Maybe I’ll take a look next time I’m in Boise. There must be an heir.”

“My understanding is that they had no will and no surviving children. When I went through Mrs. Peart’s belongings, I didn’t find any evidence that she had living relatives. No letters or anything like that.”

Cyrus shrugged. “Well, now that we’ve got us a preacher and a doctor, maybe we should try to entice a lawyer to come to Fergus.”

The idea startled Ethan. His pa had always said lawyers were more trouble than they were worth. And he wasn’t sure he wanted Cyrus poking into the Peart estate. Cyrus had already bought up more property in and around town than any one man ought to own. He cleared his throat. “I guess I could look into it a little more. Write some letters, maybe.”

Cyrus stood and hung up his hat. “Good. Let me know if you find out anything, Sheriff.”

Ethan was dismissed, no question. He turned and went out, but his complacency had wilted. Cyrus had that effect on people. And he usually got them to do what he wanted.

Across the street, smoke rose from the Dooleys’ chimney, reminding him of the gingerbread. Of course. Trudy. She and her friends would rise to the challenge. He would invite the Ladies’ Shooting Club to help him discover Milzie Peart’s heir.