by Tony Healey
Mitchell joined them. “Looked to me like something was going to go off. That’s why we came in here, to try to diffuse the situation.”
“I’m sure glad you did,” Warren said. He pushed himself away from the bar. “I think I’m about ready to get out of here.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Ethan told him. He saw Warren off, watched him for a second as he navigated the dark street, then returned to the bar. Noise had returned to the saloon. Old Lew at the piano broke into an off-key rendition of an old church standard. One of the working girls from upstairs sat next to him, her head nodding in time to the music. Occasionally she sang along, her voice textured and deep.
“I don’t want trouble in Amity Creek,” Abernathy said. “It was only today you were in here when Denton caused a stir. You ain’t even took your funeral suit off yet.”
“Not had time to.”
The sheriff shook his head. “I don’t like this. Boyd told me what happened at the livery. Sorry to say I slept through the whole thing. But in any case, whatever is happening between you and Jack Denton is escalating.”
“Sir, with all due respect, Ethan is right,” Deputy Mitchell said. “The big Russian thug that caused all that commotion last night has to work for Denton. He just has to. I still think we ought to ride out there, see what’s what.”
“Perhaps . . . ,” Abernathy said, stroking his beard. “I don’t know. He might not take too kindly to havin’ the law poking around his property. It might be just the thing to tip this situation over the edge. Especially after tonight.”
“Sheriff, ain’t that why we’re here? To root out the bad that men do? Just give me the chance.”
Abernathy shook his head. “No, I’ll do it. You’re too hotheaded around Denton. You don’t care for him, and he certainly don’t like you, son. What this situation calls for is an experienced hand.”
“That’s what you call it,” Mitchell said glumly. “I’d happily go poking around, do everything I can to get up his nose.”
Abernathy snapped his fingers. “That right there, Deputy, is why I don’t want you doin’ it,” he said. He turned to Ethan. “As for you, I want you out of this town. I mean no offense, sir, but I can’t have you here stirrin’ things up. I don’t like to do it, but I’m gonna have to insist you move on.”
“I already am.”
“Oh,” Abernathy said, taken aback. “You are?”
“Yes, Miss Hart offered me to lodge at hers a few nights. Then I’ll be on my way—you have my word.”
The sheriff pulled a face at the suggestion of Ethan staying with Myra Hart. “Like that, is it?”
“It’s not like anything, Sheriff. I had nowhere to go. She has an entire house to herself.”
“Uh-huh . . .” Abernathy smirked. “And tell me, what’s the delay in you moving on?”
“I have unfinished business here.”
The older man assessed him. “I see. And I guess you intend on seeing it done, by hook or by crook, am I right?”
“Yes.”
Mitchell looked at his boss. “Henry, some things been a long time coming, I think.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Abernathy drained his beer, running the back of his hand across his mouth. “Damn that felt good. I could have another and another. But when would I stop? That’s the most important question. When do you stop?”
“When you’re stumbling through those doors yonder,” Mitchell said, “and falling flat on your face in the street.”
“Sounds like a good night to me,” said Ethan. “Look, I’d best be on my way. If you don’t have any further questions for me, that is.”
“You’re free to go,” the sheriff said.
“See ya around, fellas.”
Mitchell caught him by the arm. “Be careful out there. They may be waiting for you on the road out.”
“‘Careful’ is my middle name.”
The saloon doors flew open. Bobby Denton burst in, face red, eyes bulging. He pointed at Ethan. “That you, is it? You the one causing trouble for my pa?” Bobby demanded, the volume of his voice drawing everyone’s attention. “Somebody oughta teach you a lesson!”
“Get out of here, Bobby!” Abernathy roared.
But Denton Junior was already pushing past those seated between him and the bar. He was intent on reaching Ethan and causing trouble. Intent on making his mark. Ethan knew it; he almost respected it. But as the kid got within reach and pulled back his right fist, Ethan knew there was only one course of action to take. He darted in close, breaking the flow of Bobby’s actions, forcing him to falter. In that split second of indecision, Ethan slammed his fist into Bobby’s stomach, then brought his elbow up under the boy’s chin. Bobby doubled over then as if he’d been whiplashed. He was thrown backward onto the table his father’s female companions had occupied only minutes before. He skidded across the tarnished wood and fell over the other side, landing in a heap and sending chairs tumbling down with him.
Deputy Mitchell was immediately at Ethan’s side. “Damn, you knocked the boy clean out!”
“A sharp shock is what’s needed sometimes,” Ethan said coolly as if the skill he’d demonstrated wasn’t much to get excited over. “Give him twenty minutes. He’ll be right as rain.”
Mitchell whistled through his teeth. “If he weren’t already, Jack Denton is gonna be after you now for sure.”
“I think it’s safe to say I’m on his agenda as it is.”
“Reckon you’re right.”
Sheriff Abernathy assessed the boy’s condition as he lay haphazardly on the floor. “Sleeping like a baby,” he said, nudging him with the toe of his boot. “Out cold. Where did you learn to hit like that?”
Ethan shrugged. “Comes to you after a time.”
Abernathy looked at him. “You know I should probably arrest you, right? That’s what’s expected.”
“I do.”
“But I’m not going to.”
Ethan was surprised. “Why not?”
“Because there’s more at play here than meets the eye,” Abernathy said. He looked at Bobby. “And I gotta say, I just don’t like the kid. I’ll throw him in the clink for the night. That ought to straighten him out.”
* * *
* * *
Ethan stopped by Warren’s place to thank him again for his hospitality, but the blacksmith was not to be found. With that, he rode out of town in the dead of night, careful to leave the road out of town as soon as he was able and cut across the country instead. It wasn’t easy terrain to navigate in the darkness, but the partial phase of the moon was bright, and his eyes soon adjusted to the pale light it afforded him. He urged Ruby on through a shallow brook, the horse not taking too kindly to the cool water running past her legs. They continued on, Ethan careful to steer Ruby around any areas where she might stumble on rocks and lose her footing. A considerable distance away he saw two coyotes watching them, eyes flashing bright green as they caught the moonlight.
He was reminded of the night he’d left home for good. He’d run away from his aunt and traveled with only his father’s guns at his side and enough food to last him three days. There was no trail to follow, no predetermined path. He knew only that he had to track his father’s killers down and bring them to justice. Had to find them, put an end to their murderous legacy. Out on his own, he’d instantly regretted leaving. But something within him told him that it was necessary—the only way he’d ever be able to live with himself. There were too many other children and parents out there who would die at the gang’s hands, their actions unimpeded by anything close to morality.
Those many years ago, Ethan had traveled out into the night and cut east across the snow-covered plains, knowing only that wherever he was headed, the sun would rise eventually and he would know where he was. There’d been wolves then, too, and at one point a mountain lion watching him with cur
iosity from the upper branches of a tree. It growled as he passed beneath it, and his horse had wanted to fly, but Ethan was already an experienced rider and held steady with the reins, calming the beast.
Tonight there were no mountain lions. Just the empty expanse of the landscape and the night turning overhead—the prospect of being ambushed by Denton or his women diminished by avoiding the road. His knuckles smarted from the hit he’d given Denton’s son, and Ethan knew there would be repercussions to that action. But it couldn’t be helped. Either he hit or he got hit. And he did not much fancy being the one on the floor.
He wondered if perhaps he’d done wrong telling Myra his sad story. But their shared trauma was what connected them. It was the reason he could trust her and she could trust him. The pain came from the same place. And it originated with the same man.
Jack Denton. Bertrand Woodward.
The same devil.
Seeing that the land ahead was now devoid of obstacles for at least a mile, Ethan clucked his tongue and applied pressure with his heels to Ruby’s sides, spurring her on to run.
* * *
* * *
Myra headed outside at the sound of an approaching horse, but couldn’t see anything in the murky darkness. Then she saw the flicker of a struck match, followed by the glow of a lit cigarillo. Sure enough, Ethan came into the dim light afforded by the lamps burning inside the house, where she had been poring through more of Glendon’s documents.
“Finally, my houseguest arrives,” she said.
Ethan tipped his hat. “Took longer than I thought. I had to avoid the road and cut across the open terrain.”
“How come?”
“A run-in with Denton at the saloon.”
Myra sighed. “Again? Was it just a repeat of what happened today at the wake?”
“Not really,” Ethan said. “He came with weapons and women this time.”
“Women?”
“With guns hidden inside their jackets.”
“What happened?”
Ethan told her exactly what had taken place, ending with him knocking out Bobby Denton and stepping over his unconscious form to exit the saloon.
“You still have your funeral suit on.”
“I know,” Ethan said, looking down at himself.
“I roasted a rabbit today. I saved you some if you’d like it.”
Ethan felt his empty stomach gurgle. “I’d like that very much.”
* * *
* * *
After getting Ruby settled in the stable, Ethan carried his things inside the house. As soon as he shut the front door after himself, the aroma of the roasted rabbit made him realize he wasn’t just hungry but starving. He sat at the table and dug into the rabbit Myra set down in front of him, tearing off hunks of bread from a loaf between them, using it to mop up the juices from the edges of the bowl.
After giving him a few minutes to eat, Myra said, “So where do we go from here?”
“How do you mean?”
“What I mean is, what’s the plan? Do we just stay here like sitting ducks, waiting for Denton to come try to kill us? Or do we stop him from doing anything to anyone ever again?”
Ethan took a long drink from a tankard of water, then looked at Myra earnestly. “I have a plan. But you may not like it.”
“I don’t like any of this,” Myra said, indicating her brother’s house. “Giving me one more thing to dislike isn’t going to ruin my day, Ethan.”
“Good. Now take a seat. I have a lot to explain.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Morning sunlight filled the sheriff’s office. Deputy Boyd Mitchell released the ring of keys from his belt and proceeded to open the cell door. Bobby Denton stirred at the sound of the key rattling inside the lock, and as the door screeched open on its old hinges, he sat upright on the cot, working the sleep from his face. He looked first at the deputy, then at the man who stood behind him.
Bobby’s eyes widened. “Pop?”
“Get up, Bobby. I’m here to spring you.”
Bobby gathered his things together. Mitchell stood to one side to allow the boy to exit the cell, then closed the door behind him. “I’m hopin’ a night in the cell will have drummed some sense into you, kid,” he said.
“Take more than that to make me turn a blind eye to the way things are done around here,” Bobby retorted angrily.
Jack Denton whopped him upside the back of the head. As his son recoiled from him, Jack grabbed him by the front of his shirt. “The man’s lettin’ you go, you idiot! Have some respect. Know when to speak and when to keep your damned mouth shut, you hear?”
Bobby mumbled something.
“What did you say?” Denton demanded.
Bobby cleared his throat. “I said, ‘Yessir,’ is what I said.”
Mitchell escorted them outside. “My advice is when your father has an issue, you don’t adopt it as your own. Your old man seems more than capable of handling his own affairs.”
“Sterling advice,” Denton said. “Probably as close to a compliment as I’ve ever got from you, Deputy Mitchell.”
“Most you’re gonna get,” Mitchell told him. He stood with his thumbs tucked under his braces, surveying the main street, the damp ground shining with morning light. “Now, we got a beautiful day comin’ and I’d rather not spend a moment longer here with either of you two, so if there’s nothing else . . .”
Denton grimaced in anger, but he maintained his composure. He even managed to smile at the deputy. “We won’t take any more of your time.”
“Good to hear that,” Mitchell said, spitting off to the side. “Good day, gents.”
Denton watched the deputy close the door to the sheriff’s office and busy himself with something inside. Then he turned to Bobby and said, “Come on, scat for brains. Let’s get going.”
“I don’t like it when you talk to me like that, Pop.”
“You don’t?”
Bobby shook his head. “Makes me feel inferior.”
“That’s because you are. I don’t need green boys like you fighting in my corner, Bobby. It makes me look weak. Only reason I didn’t wreck that saloon last night was because I chose not to. Trust me, I certainly didn’t walk away because I was countin’ on the likes of you walking in ten minutes later to lay the law down in my defense. Honestly, son, it’s pathetic.”
“Fine.”
“Glad you understand,” Denton said, stopping his son in his tracks, his hand on the boy’s chest. They were mere inches apart and he could see the mixture of discord and fear in his son’s eyes. “I’ll say this once, and once only, son. Make me look like a fool again, I’ll put you down as surely as I would a lame mule. As I would put down any man in the street dared make me look like a fool the way you have.”
Bobby swallowed hard. “Sorry.”
“Good,” Denton said, his attention drawn to someone entering the gunsmith’s across the street. “Now get the horses. I’ll be right along.”
* * *
* * *
Dayton Woode, the town gunsmith, set two boxes of ammunition on the glass-topped counter. “Anything else or will that do ya?”
Myra thought for a moment, biting her bottom lip. “I was thinkin’ of getting a new gun belt.”
“Who for?”
“Well . . . me. I need one. I should’ve got one a long time ago, but thought it’d look silly. Or like I was askin’ for trouble to find me. But out here, where things are different, I think I need one,” Myra explained. “Do you have any?”
“A few. Here, come out back,” Woode said, lifting the wooden end of the counter up for her to pass through the opening. He led her out the back, where there was an array of items hung up on pegs. Hats, work gloves, a few pairs of boots. Several gun belts in various styles and configurations. “What price range you lookin’ at?”
> “Any. I have enough.”
His eyes lit up at the suggestion of Myra spending a fair amount of coin in his store, and he proceeded to talk her through the various belts, giving her the advantages and disadvantages of each until she decided on a dark brown leather belt with square studs. Woode insisted on her trying the belt on first, to be sure it was a good fit and comfortable to wear.
“I’ll take it,” Myra said.
Woode carried it through to the front. “A fine belt,” he said.
“It’ll do nicely. What do I owe you?”
Woode gave her the total, and Myra paid in cash. She thanked him and carried her purchases outside. Ruby was still hitched to the post outside the general store, but Ethan was nowhere to be seen. Myra proceeded to pile her ammunition and gun belt into the horse’s saddlebag when she felt a presence just over her shoulder. She turned around to find herself faced with Jack Denton.
“Morning,” he said.
“I do not wish to converse with you, Mr. Denton,” Myra told him.
He looked at her in mock outrage. “What have I ever done to warrant such a response?”
“Back up,” Myra warned him.
Denton’s tongue flicked out over his lips. He looked about. The town hummed with activity. He turned back to her, a sickly smile under his bushy gray mustache. “You are fortunate that it is broad daylight, Miss Hart, or I’d teach you how to respect a man.”
Myra felt her heart leap inside her chest out of fear. It fluttered like the wings of a frightened bird from the adrenaline now pumping through her veins. “I’ll be the one teaching you. I’m going to see that you pay for what you’ve done,” she managed to say, her voice warbling with nerves. “You’re going to hang, Mr. Denton, and I’ll be first in line to watch it happen.”
“Will you now?” he demanded, pressing in on her and glaring down into her face. In a way, Myra knew, Jack Denton had been looking down on her since the moment they’d met. He took hold of her wrist, his grip like a vise. “Head into town defenseless or do you got a gun to go with that belt?”
