Anabel Yeager considered for a moment, then nodded and stepped back to open the door the rest of the way. "Come in," she said politely.
Flint stepped into an ornately appointed foyer. Anabel moved around him and gestured to him to follow her into a parlor that opened to the right. A large oak desk piled with papers stood against one wall of the opulently furnished room. Filling the wall opposite it was a huge fireplace with a massive mantel. Gauzy curtains were drawn over the windows, subduing the light that filtered into the room. Flint thought it was appropriate, considering that the owner of this house had died not long ago.
Anabel's dark, sedate dress was further evidence of the recent death, but even in mourning clothes, she was beautiful. She turned to face Flint and said, "Please have a seat, Mr. Flint. Would you like some tea, or perhaps something else?"
He shook his head as he sat down on an expensively upholstered sofa. "No, thank you, Miss Yeager."
Anabel settled into a brocaded wing chair. "Well, then, what can I do for you? What is this personal matter you wanted to discuss with me?"
"It's about your late father, ma'am," Flint said bluntly. "I'm Rachel Coleman's brother-in-law."
Anabel's breath hissed between her even white teeth. Anger flared in her eyes as she said, "Then I'll thank you to leave my house, please, Mr. Flint."
"I really need to talk to you, Miss Yeager," Flint said without making a move to get up.
"I have nothing to say to any relative of that...that murderess!" Anabel snapped. "Please leave."
Flint wasn’t accustomed to ignoring a lady's request, but this was too important to let good manners interfere with finding out what he needed to know. "Miss Yeager," he said firmly, "I'm just trying to get to the bottom of this and find out who really killed your father. I would think you'd want to know that, too."
"That woman killed him," Anabel shot back. "Everyone in town knows that. Surely you can't claim now, after she's been tried and convicted, that she didn't do it?"
"That's exactly what I think," Flint told her. "I know Rachel Coleman, Miss Yeager. She's perfectly capable of carrying on the feud with your father that she told me about, but not of killing anyone. She's sworn to me that she's innocent, and I believe her."
"That doesn't mean a thing." Anabel's voice was as hard as stone, harder than seemed possible coming from a young woman with lush blonde hair and creamy skin. "The jury said she was guilty, and the judge sentenced her to hang. That's all that matters."
"Is that what you want?" Flint asked.
"I want justice," Anabel snapped. "My father is dead, and Rachel Coleman has to pay for that."
"Even if she's innocent?" Flint prodded.
"She's not." The young woman sounded absolutely convinced.
Flint hesitated a moment, then asked, "Miss Yeager, have you ever seen anyone being hanged?"
"Of course not," Anabel replied. "My father never allowed me to watch such a thing. But I intend to witness this execution."
Flint nodded. Then his voice grew harder as he said, "Then I'll tell you what you're going to see, Miss Yeager. The person being hanged usually has his hands tied behind his back. In this case, her back. The hangman will put a black hood over Rachel's head and then place the noose around her neck while she stands on the trapdoor of the gallows. When it drops, her weight will hit the rope, and the jerk will break her neck—if she's lucky. If she's not, she'll hang there until she strangles. It can take a long time. It's an ugly sight, Miss Yeager."
Even though the images he conjured up hurt him, Flint spoke in a rush, bearing down on the ugliness of it as he tried to get through to Anabel Yeager. But although he saw her flinch a time or two at the harshness of the scene he described, the resolve in her face didn’t falter.
"There's nothing I can do to stop this execution, Mr. Flint," she said when he was finished. "And even if there were, I wouldn't want to. Rachel Coleman killed my father." She shook her head. "I can't feel sorry for her. Now, I believe I asked you to leave several minutes ago."
Flint ignored her last statement. "Isn't there anyone else who might have wanted to see your father... well, out of the way?"
"You mean dead, don't you?" she said in a deliberately harsh voice. She stood up and walked to the window, peering out through the curtains at the street. Flint saw her shoulders move and knew that she was trying to regain control over emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. When she turned around to face him, her face was composed. She said calmly, "My father was a prominent businessman in this territory, Mr. Flint, and besides that he was a politician. He was a powerful man."
"So I've been told."
"A man does not achieve that success without making some enemies along the way. There will always be people who don't understand..."
Anabel was saying the same thing everyone else in Cheyenne had told him. Russell P. Yeager had made enemies.
Flint leaned forward and said, "Is it so hard to believe that one of your father's other enemies might have been responsible for his death?"
"It is when you consider the evidence," Anabel replied. "He went to dinner at that woman's house and then he...he died. What could be plainer, Mr. Flint?"
Flint couldn’t argue with the young woman's logic. If he had not been personally involved with the case, he probably would have believed Rachel was guilty, too. But he knew better, and he wouldn’t quit prodding.
"What about your father's business partner?" he asked. "What about Lance McGill?"
At that moment, the front door of the house opened, and a man stepped into the foyer in time to hear Flint's last question. He stopped short, a frown forming on his face, and snapped, "What about Lance McGill?"
Flint stood up, turning to face the newcomer. The man was tall and lean, with a dark, handsome face. He wore range clothes, but they were clean and showed little wear. His black Stetson was pushed back on his head, revealing crisp dark hair. A Remington .44 revolver rode in a well-oiled holster on his hip.
The man took a step into the room. "I asked you a question, mister. What were you saying about Lance McGill?"
Anabel hurried over to him. "It's all right, Lance," the lovely blonde said quickly. "This gentleman was just leaving. Weren't you, Mr. Flint?" She turned and glared at the marshal.
Flint studied Lance McGill for a moment before he answered. He was fairly young, probably in his mid-thirties. After hearing about the man's influence and successful running of the ranch Yeager and he had owned, Flint had expected McGill to be older.
He ignored the look that Anabel Yeager gave him and said, "My name is Lucas Flint, Mr. McGill. I'm Rachel Coleman's brother-in-law, and I've come to Cheyenne to look into this matter."
McGill glanced down at the young woman and put a hand on her shoulder. "Has this man been bothering you, Anabel?"
She shook her head. "He just had a few questions he wanted to ask about...about my father's death."
"So I heard." McGill looked back at Flint. "You weren't suggesting that I might have had something to do with what happened to Russell, were you, Flint?"
"I was just asking Miss Yeager's opinion. You were her father's business partner, after all."
"I was just about to tell him how insane it is to think that you had anything to do with it, Lance ," Anabel declared. "I know that you and Father were friends as well as partners."
"That's right." McGill started to move past the girl, but she reached out and put a hand on his arm to stop him. Looking at Flint, he went on, "We don't need you coming around here and causing trouble, Flint. What gives you the right to bother people like Anabel here?"
"Like I told you, I'm Rachel Coleman's brother-in-law," Flint replied. "And I'm also the marshal of Abilene, Kansas. As a lawman, I'm interested in seeing justice done."
McGill seemed taken aback by Flint's pronouncement, but he recovered quickly and tightened his jaw. Slipping an arm around Anabel Yeager's shoulders in a proprietary manner, he said, "That doesn't matter. You don't have any authority
here in Cheyenne, mister, and I don't want you bothering the woman I'm going to marry."
Flint was surprised by the sudden revelation. But it made sense. According to the theory Flint was developing, McGill could strengthen his control over what went on in this territory only by marrying Anabel.
But when Flint looked at Anabel Yeager, he saw an uncomfortable expression in her eyes. Her breathing had quickened when McGill embraced her. As Flint studied her now, he came to the conclusion that her reaction wasn’t one of pleasure or excitement.
Anabel didn’t contradict McGill's statement, though. Instead, she said, "Please, Mr. Flint. I've asked you several times now to leave me alone. I don't want any more trouble. I've had quite enough of that lately."
"Don't worry, Anabel," McGill assured her as he tightened his grip on her, "I'll see that this fella doesn't bother you anymore." He put his other hand near the butt of his Remington and stared angrily at Flint. "You leaving?"
Flint took a deep breath and reined in his own temper. Losing it now wouldn’t accomplish anything except maybe to get him thrown into Sheriff Dedrick's jail. As he had been told more than once since he arrived in Cheyenne, he had no authority, no jurisdiction, here.
"I'm going," he said. McGill and Anabel moved aside as he left the parlor and went into the foyer. He paused there and looked back as he put on his hat. "You may not believe this, Miss Yeager, but I am sorry about your father."
"I... Thank you, Mr. Flint." Anabel said nothing else, and her tone made it clear that she expected Flint to leave immediately.
The marshal turned and went out the door. He could feel McGill's eyes boring into his back as he went down the walk and turned toward the downtown area of Cheyenne. It was an uncomfortable sensation, and Flint had the feeling that McGill wished he were studying him over the sights of a rifle. He was going to have to watch his back while he was in Cheyenne.
But that wasn’t unusual. Lucas Flint had had plenty of men gunning for him. Somehow, though, he had never gotten used to it enough to like it.
Lance McGill probably wouldn’t try anything, Flint decided. The man did have to think of his position in the community. But there was an unmistakable ruthlessness in his face. Flint was certain that a great deal of McGill's success was due to that trait.
Flint found a small café and went inside to order some lunch. The waitress brought him a platter of pork chops, mashed potatoes, and beans. He enjoyed the meal, despite everything that was on his mind.
As he stepped onto the sidewalk after he had finished eating, he suddenly heard hammering. He stopped and winced as he realized that the pounding was coming from the square.
Newcomb and his men were at work already, Flint thought. The hangman wasn’t wasting any time. He had been in Cheyenne only a few hours, but construction of the gallows was already under way.
Flint shook his head. He couldn’t afford to waste time being angry with Newcomb, but he couldn’t quite banish the disappointment he felt. He had liked the burly hangman—before he found out what his line of work was.
"Marshal!"
Flint turned to see who had hailed him. Sheriff Bob Dedrick was striding purposefully down the boardwalk toward him. His grim expression showed that he meant business.
"Hello, Sheriff." Flint nodded as Dedrick walked up to him. "What can I do for you?"
"You can stop bothering the citizens around here. That's what you can do," Dedrick snapped.
Figuring out who had complained was easy. Flint knew that Leonard Bosworth and Thatcher Horrigan wouldn’t have gone to the sheriff upset about his conversations with them, so that left only two possibilities.
"Who came to see you, Sheriff? Was it McGill or Miss Yeager?"
Dedrick chewed his mustache for a moment, then said, "If it's any of your business, McGill is the one who lodged the complaint. He said you'd been over at Miss Anabel's house pestering her."
"Did Miss Yeager come along to back up that claim?"
"She didn't have to," Dedrick growled. "McGill's not going to lie to me, Flint. He has some respect for the office of sheriff."
Having met McGill, Flint doubted that, but he didn’t waste his breath arguing with Dedrick. Instead, he asked, "Did McGill file an official complaint?" He was almost hoping that the rancher had. That would force Anabel Yeager to tell her story to the sheriff if Dedrick tried to make the charge stick.
From the look in Anabel's eyes as McGill embraced her, Flint had a feeling there was a limit to how far she would go to back him up.
However, Dedrick shook his head. "Mr. McGill said he didn't want to cause you any more trouble than he had to. He just wanted me to have a talk with you, to see if you'd back off and stop causing a commotion about this."
Flint's voice hardened. "I think Rachel Coleman's life is worth raising a ruckus about, Sheriff. And I'd like to know why the simple act of asking a few questions has McGill so worried if he has nothing to hide."
Dedrick started to reply, then stopped abruptly, as if the logic of Flint's comment had just sunk in. The moment didn’t last long, though. "It's my job to ask the questions around here, Flint," he said curtly. "I'm satisfied. The judge and jury were satisfied. All that remains is to carry out the sentence of the court. Now, you've got a right to stay here in Cheyenne until that's over. But I don't appreciate you coming into my bailiwick and trying to stir things up. I want you to stop disrupting my town."
"What's more important, Sheriff?" Flint snapped. "Keeping things running smoothly for you or learning the truth? It's starting to sound to me like you're in Lance McGill's pocket."
Dedrick's face flushed with rage, and Flint tensed for the lawman's reaction. He knew how he would feel if someone came into Abilene and accused him of being paid off. But his frustration was beginning to get the better of his common sense.
The sheriff made a visible effort to control his anger. "I'm going to try to forget you said that," he growled, "since I know how upset you are about your sister-in-law. But what I said goes. You leave folks alone, or you'll find yourself behind bars." With that, Dedrick turned and stalked away.
As Flint watched him go, he became aware once again of the incessant hammering that had been in the background all during their conversation. It seemed so loud that he doubted he could go anywhere in Cheyenne and not hear it. Like the ticking of an unnaturally loud clock, it would serve as a constant reminder of just how little time he had left to save Rachel's life.
It was going to be up to him alone, Flint knew. Dedrick wasn’t going to make any effort to reopen the investigation into Yeager's death. Bosworth and Horrigan wanted to see Rachel cleared, of course, but neither man was the type to take things into his own hands.
No, he was in this by himself.
6
Flint spent the afternoon familiarizing himself with Cheyenne, visiting several stores and a few saloons. Along the way, he picked up as much gossip about Mayor Yeager's death as he could from clerks and bartenders, most of whom were eager to talk about the murder. The townspeople who overheard his conversations were only too happy to volunteer their comments, so that by early evening he had a good idea what the town thought.
Most of the citizens seemed to agree that Rachel had indeed poisoned Yeager, although many of them thought it was a shame she had been caught at it. Flint discovered that despite his victory in the last election, Yeager had not been a particularly well-liked man. The inhabitants of Cheyenne had wanted to stay on Yeager's good side, but not many had mourned his passing.
More than one person expressed disbelief that Rachel could have done such a thing, but nearly everyone admitted that the evidence certainly looked damning. Flint kept his opinions to himself, along with his true identity. He concentrated instead on drawing out the thoughts of the people he was talking to.
And wherever he went, he continued to hear the pound, pound, pound of the carpenters' hammers as they nailed together the gallows.
Flint returned to the café where he had eaten lunch to hav
e his supper. The place was busier at night, and he had to wait awhile to be served a steak with all the trimmings. He followed that with a dish of excellent peach cobbler, but while he knew the food was good, he didn’t seem to taste much of it. He wondered if Rachel was being fed well in the jail.
That thought did away with the last of his appetite. He left a little of the cobbler, paid his bill, and walked out into the street. The sun had gone down a few minutes earlier. He saw the fading rosy glow in the sky and the quickly gathering shadows in the alleys between the buildings.
Glancing around, Flint oriented himself again and turned toward the jail. He wanted to make sure Rachel was all right and to let her know that he had started investigating the mayor's murder.
When Flint entered the office, he found a younger man seated in Sheriff Dedrick's chair behind the desk. He had a deputy's badge on his chest and looked up at Flint from behind a pair of thick spectacles. "Hello," he said pleasantly. "Can I help you?"
"I'd like to see Miss Coleman. My name is Lucas Flint."
From the look on the young deputy's face, the name clearly meant something to him. He frowned as he pushed back his chair and stood up. "Sheriff Dedrick said you might come by. He told me to let you see the prisoner anytime you wanted."
"Tell the sheriff I appreciate that," Flint replied sincerely. If the situation had been reversed, he wasn’t sure he would have been so cooperative.
The deputy plucked the key ring off the nail on the wall and opened the door into the little cellblock. Flint stepped into the hall leading past the single cell. Rachel was sitting in the straight-backed chair this time, eating from a tray that she had balanced on her lap.
"That cobbler looks familiar," Flint said with a grin. "They must bring your meals from that café down the street."
Rachel returned his smile. "One of the advantages of being in jail, I suppose," she said.
The deputy gestured with the ring of keys. "Did you want to go into the cell, Mr. Flint?" he asked.
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