by Tinnean
“I never thought of that,” the sheriff said, “but yeah, must have been. Anyways, Doc says Weatherford bled to death.”
Gainforth stooped to examine the body. After a few minutes, he shook his head. “You’re right, Wain. It’s very strange.” He met the sheriff’s gaze. “Will Jacob be arrested for murder?”
“Not on your tintype. He was saving my life. The rest was Weatherford’s doing.”
“Judge Hardy’s going to want it looked into.”
The line of the sheriff’s mouth tightened. “It was accidental—Marriott’s ricochet theory’ll go a ways to back that up—and I’ll swear to it. Everyone at the Garter will.”
“Glad to hear it. Jacob’s well-liked.” The undertaker turned to his sons. “Boys, get the deceased on the board, would you, please? And take him to the parlor.”
“Yes, Papa.” They wrestled the body onto the board, hoisted it up with surprising ease, and left. Their father lingered, however.
“Let me know what you want us to do with the body.”
“I reckon we’ll wait for that partner of his to show up.”
“In that case, we’d better go ahead and embalm him. Just keep in mind we don’t want to wait too long before we bury him.”
“No, I know. What say we give it till the end of the week before we go ahead and bury him? Can we do that?”
“We can. I’ll let you know how things go.”
“Thanks, Clarence.” They shook hands, and the undertaker hurried after his sons, muttering about having too much work that needed to get done that night. Cottyn glanced down at the floor and shook his head. “All this blood—what a mess. I’ll have to get someone in here to clean it up.” He continued to study the blood pool, then shook his head again and turned to Steve. “What can I do for you?” Fortunately he said nothing about the way they were dressed. Steve hoped their friends would ignore it also.
“I can see you’ve got a lot on your plate, Sheriff, so I won’t keep you. We’re heading back to Hummingbird Valley and just came to collect our guns.”
“Hummingbird Valley? Is that what you folks are calling the Pettigrew spread?”
“Yes.” Steve tried to appear relaxed, hoping the sheriff wouldn’t suspect anything. He was prepared to tell Cottyn that Hummingbird was a pet name Bart had given his wife and she’d decided it would be a nice name for the valley.
“It is a pretty name.” Apparently Cottyn had too much on his mind to pay much heed to them. “Sure, I’ll get your guns. I appreciate you leaving them with me without making a fuss.” He opened the lower drawer of his desk and took out both holsters. “Nice piece,” he said as he handed Sharps his Remington. “See you don’t go notching up the handle. A smart man doesn’t do a damn fool thing like that.”
Sharps’s eyes widened. “No, sir! I won’t, I promise.” He looked no older than the young boy who’d drummed Steve’s men into battle.
“Good boy.” He patted Sharps on the shoulder, then held out Steve’s guns.
“Thanks. ‘Night, Sheriff.”
“Good night.”
Steve followed Sharps out of the jail, fastening the holster around his waist as he went. Once he was out in the night, he tied down his guns. Sharps had already done so and mounted Sorrowful.
He stepped into his mare’s saddle and gathered up the reins. It looked like he’d worried for nothing.
* * * *
Then again…
Sharps had been quiet the entire ride back, saying little in spite of Steve trying to strike up a conversation. Sharps broke his silence only after they’d returned to the valley.
Georgie, Bart, and Frank waited by the fire, and he and Sharps had to fill them in as to what had happened in town. Even then, Steve did most of the talking.
“So both Weatherford and McCloud are dead?” Georgie asked, obviously relieved. “Thank goodness the people of Woody Draw were smart enough to see through him.”
“Yeah.” Steve had no intention of telling her Sharps had been responsible for this death, too.
“Well, that’s two less bastards we need to worry about.” She ran a hand through her hair, dislodging hairpins, and her dark curls tumbled down around her shoulders.
After they’d finally retired to their corner of the camp for the night, Steve decided it was time for Sharps to talk to him.
They spread their bedrolls, and Steve was relieved when Sharps placed his bedroll beside Steve’s. To tell the truth, he’d half expected his boy to use the excuse of taking the last watch to turn in some distance away from him.
“What’s bothering you?” he asked as he removed his boots and settled himself in his bedroll.
Sharps sat to remove his own boots, and he was silent for a long moment.
Steve felt an ache deep in his chest, and he realized it was because he wasn’t breathing. He made himself draw in a breath. “Sweet boy?”
“Don’t call me that.” The words were more sad than curt. “I’m anything but sweet.” Sharps met his gaze. “When I rode into town, the last thing I expected was for you to turn up at the Diamond Garter.”
“Where else would I be?”
“I’d hoped you’d stay here in the valley.”
“Why?”
“After what McCloud told us, I knew there was no way I’d let Weatherford live. I know you said you’d hunt him down like a dog, but I didn’t want you to have that on your conscience.”
“So now you have it on yours.”
“It doesn’t matter. I have—” He shook his head. “He wasn’t the first. Most likely he won’t be the last.” There was defeat in his boy’s voice. “You saw how easily I killed McCloud.”
“He needed killing. They both did.” Steve rolled toward Sharps and pulled his sweet boy into his arms. “You’re right. It doesn’t matter. You did what had to be done.”
“You’re not mad at me?”
“I’d only be mad if you wound up in jail.”
“Really?”
“Really.” And thank God, the tension in his boy’s shoulders finally seemed to ease.
“I just…I didn’t want you to see me killing him. I suppose I should have realized you wouldn’t stay behind.”
“I wouldn’t, not where you’re concerned.”
“I still wish you hadn’t seen what I’d done—what I’m capable of doing.”
“I don’t care. You protected us, and I’m grateful.” He tightened his grip on his boy. “I have no doubt Weatherford would have done his damnedest to turn the town against us, and since they don’t know us, it wouldn’t surprise me if he’d succeed.” He recalled how easily Weatherford had talked the people of Willow Crick into believing his cock-and-bull story of Bart and Frank going loco and shooting at the Wilson brothers for no logical reason. He pushed those days from his mind, nuzzled the soft hair at Sharps’s temple, and tightened his grip instead. It was obvious Sharps had done more than he’d admitted, and one day Steve hoped he would tell him what had happened during that last year of the War and the years afterward, but they had the rest of their lives ahead of them to talk about it. “Now try to get some sleep.” He brushed a kiss over Sharps’s mouth, something he wouldn’t usually do where they could be seen, but to hell with it; it had been a rough night, and he needed it.
And from the way Sharps responded to that kiss, he needed it, too.
Chapter 35
Frost covered the ground that morning when Sharps, who’d had last watch, woke Steve.
“Rise and shine, Captain.”
Steve stretched and rolled out of his bedroll. Frank, who’d spread his bedroll on the other side of the campfire, grumbled about the chill and the uncomfortable spot where he’d slept.
“Next time get your own wagon.” Sharps felt comfortable enough with Frank to tease him a bit. Bart, Mrs. Hall, and her brothers had all slept in their wagon. As for him, he’d spent worse nights sleeping out in the weather, and he knew his captain had also.
“Huh.” Frank made sure his boots had no
unwelcome visitors before he slid his feet into them, grumbling even more about how cold his boots were. “Coffee,” he muttered. “I need coffee.” He clambered to his feet and went to start the campfire.
Mrs. Hall climbed out to start the day. She wore a shawl around her shoulders to keep out the cold. “This was Mama’s,” she said, stroking the soft wool. She was followed by her husband and her brothers, who all wore jackets.
Sharps had donned his buckskin jacket before he relieved Bart, and he reached for the other one and handed it to Steve. He watched the smooth bunch and flow of his captain’s muscles in approval as Steve slid his arms into the fringed sleeves.
Steve sent a warm smile his way, and for a second, Sharps couldn’t catch his breath or believe his good fortune. Steve was aware, if only to a degree, of what Sharps could do, and still loved him.
Together they went to the corral to water the animals and see they had fresh grass to feed on. “We should have picked up some grain while we were in town,” Sharps said. “We’re starting to run short.”
Steve blew out a plumy breath in the chilly air. “We’ll be in town soon enough. We can stock up then.” He shivered and blew out another breath. “Who’d have thought it would become so chilly overnight? I’m getting old.”
“Not you, Cap.” Sharps was pleased when his captain actually blushed with pleasure. Sharps pretended not to see. He tilted back his head and sniffed. “Something smells good.”
“It does. Georgie’s a damned good cook.” Still blushing, he grinned at Sharps, and Sharps sent a broad grin his way in return.
Before too long, Mrs. Hall sang out, “Come and get it.”
Conversation around the campfire was sparse as everyone huddled by the fire to stay warm and chowed down.
“We won’t be able to stay here much longer,” Mrs. Hall said as they finished their breakfasts.
“I reckon not,” Sharps agreed. “I’ll go take a look at the mules, make sure they’re ready to leave when we are.”
“Thanks.”
“My pleasure, ma’am.” Sharps tipped his hat, then rose from his place by the campfire, took a last sip of his coffee, and put his cup and plate into the pot of soapy water. He chuckled softly to himself. Pa had taught him to clean up after himself—that cooking and keeping his campsite tidy wasn’t necessarily woman’s work—but now that he knew Mrs. Hall was actually a man, he didn’t mind leaving that chore to her.
He strolled to the corral. All the mules needed to be groomed, but Sharps was going to start with Steve’s pack mule. He hooked a lead to Shotgun’s halter, led him out, and tied the lead to a small tree. Then he retrieved a pick and began working on the mule’s hoofs, humming the song the piano player had played the night before.
He was almost finished when Frank approached with his tack. “Jiminy, this saddle is cold. And heavy,” he complained. “I don’t know how you can do it.”
Sharps swallowed a grin. “You do what you have to do.”
Frank grumbled. “You’ve got that right.” He set down his saddle and entered the corral. Sharps could see why the other man tended to be irritated. His roan gelding trotted behind the mules, and no matter how Frank maneuvered, Athos kept dodging him, keeping the mules between them.
Sharps ducked his head, coughed to disguise a laugh, and finished working on Shotgun’s last hoof. With that done, he picked up the currycomb, darting glances at Frank, amused—although he shouldn’t be—at the difficulty the lawyer had in rounding up his horse.
Finally, Frank stopped. With his hands propped on his hips and the bridle dangling from his grip, he growled, “Enough, Athos.” The gelding must have realized he was serious. He bobbed his head, snorted, and let Frank approach as if that had been his intention all along. Frank muttered a few choice words under his breath, caught his horse’s halter, and slipped the bridle over the animal’s head. “Pain in the ass hay burner,” he muttered, and Sharps couldn’t help a choke of laughter.
“Where are you off to?” he asked, hoping Frank hadn’t noticed his amusement.
“I’m heading into town to see about renting a couple of houses for us. We don’t want to spend the winter here—not yet at any rate.”
“I reckon not. Worse comes to worse, the cap and I can take a room at the hotel.”
“Hopefully it won’t come to that, but if I can make the arrangements, I kind of hoped you and Steve wouldn’t mind living with us.”
“I wouldn’t mind.” In fact, he’d like it a lot. The notion of sharing a place with the cap, whether a room at the hotel or in a house—It would be swell. He picked up the dandy brush to get rid of dirt and loose hairs and went to work on Shotgun’s coat. “Before I came home last year and stayed with my pa, I hadn’t lived in a house in about eight years.”
“Really?” Frank paused to stare at him for a moment before he swung his saddle onto his gelding’s back.
“Yep, not since the beginning of the War.” Sharps didn’t consider the weeks he’d spent in the big house at Shadow Brook, Colonel Sebring’s farm. He’d been too sick.to take any kind of interest in it, and then just when he’d thought he was recovering, his balls had become so sore he couldn’t bear it. Of all the things he’d been through, that was the one thing that had made him wish he were dead.
“Georgie, Bart, and the young ones will have their own place, and I’ll see if I can find something that will be comfortable for the three of us.”
“Sounds good. Much obliged.”
“Don’t mention it.” Frank got his foot into the stirrup and swung into his saddle. “I’ll be off now. Do you need anything from town?”
“No, but…If you stop by the general store, would you mind picking up some rock candy and bringing it to the Fox children?” Sharps paused in the circular motion that would loosen the dust on Shotgun’s coat. He reached into the pocket of his vest and retrieved a two bit piece. “And get some for Mrs. Hall’s…brothers.”
“I’ll do that. Chris loves peppermint.” Frank grinned, then quickly sobered. “You got along really well with young Bert.”
“He’s a good kid. If I was ever to have young’uns of my own, I’d like a boy just like him.”
“Maybe you could adopt a child from an orphan train?”
“Not likely.” Not with him and the cap living together. Most of the organizations that sponsored the trains were religious, and they didn’t look kindly on a household without a woman in it.
“Ah well. Who knows what the future holds for us?” Frank touched the brim of his hat. “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck.” He watched Frank ride off, then gave Shotgun a final rubdown before he turned the pack mule back into the corral and took the lead mule to begin working on her feet. A shadow fell over him, and he glanced up to see Steve standing there. “Hi, Cap.”
Steve leaned forward and brushed a kiss that tasted of coffee over Sharps’s lips. “My boy.” He took another mule from the corral, picked up one of the brushes Sharps had lying on the ground, and began working on the mule. “Where is Frank off to?”
“He’s heading for town. He plans to see about renting some houses for us for the winter. I wonder if we’ll be able to find some jobs to tide us over.”
“Cottyn said he’d be interested in having me as his deputy.”
“That would be smart of him.”
“What about you? What will you do?”
Sharps sent a smile his captain’s way. He’d worked at all manner of jobs. “I’ll come up with something—”
“I reckon you will.”
“—but if nothing does turn up, I’ll just play cards.”
Although Sharps had something else in mind. Mrs. Hall had spoken of the reason behind her flight from the city—her siblings’ abuse by their uncle. According to the telegram Sharps had found in Ezra Wilson’s saddlebag, that uncle was also behind the kidnapping attempt of Mrs. Hall and her brother Chris. An action like that was not only illegal but unjust, and Sharps had worked against such injustices af
ter the War. Because of that, because Steve liked Mrs. Hall and her family, and because Steve meant so much to Sharps, Sharps was determined to see the person responsible for that paid with his life.
The weather just then was too uncertain, but come the spring, Sharps intended to travel east and deal with Mr. Lewis St. Claire himself.
* * * *
In the early afternoon, a buckboard carrying two men came barreling into the valley. Sharps stepped forward, his hand hovering near the handle of his gun. After the surprise appearance by McCloud, he wasn’t going to take any chances.
“Hello there, Mr. Phipps,” Bart called, and Sharps realized this was the architect Bart had spoken of.
“Hall.” He stepped off the buckboard. “This is my assistant. He’ll make notes.” The man secured their team while Phipps approached with his hand extended. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard the latest news from town?” It was obvious the architect was anxious to share his news.
“Can’t say that we have.” Bart shook his hand.
“That’s right. You’ve been out here all this time.”
“What’s been going on?”
“A saddled horse came racing into town early this morning, and the sheriff and a few men went out to back track it. Well, you know being without your horse is a death sentence in these parts.” He addressed those words to Steve. The entire town knew he was the wagon master and would be aware of things like that more so than the people he was transporting.
Sharps kept his mouth shut and let Steve handle it. His captain nodded. “I’m aware of that.”
“They found the body out west of town. Something apparently spooked his horse, and it threw him. He landed on a rock and bashed his brains out.”
“Do tell.” Sharps had to admit to himself he was pleased his plan had worked.
“Indeed! Word has it animals had gotten to the body.” The architect curled his lip in distaste. Well, he’d probably never heard of anything like that before.
“Sounds like the sheriff won’t be able to get word back to his people.” Sharps stooped to pluck some stalks of dried grass and began braiding them.
