His eyes widened, then narrowed. “Where is Clara?”
The figure in the doorway reached back and pushed the door closed.
“Now you just wait—”
The pistol shot was deafening. Jonathon Hanfield’s words were replaced with an inarticulate gulping sound. He started to rise, then sat back down heavily before slumping forward onto his desk blotter. Randall Eastman stood in silence, gazing at his former employer with his head slightly cocked to one side—a habit he’d developed due to the sight never returning fully to his left eye. Finally, he let the pistol drop to the floor, turned, opened the door, and walked out of the room. He didn’t see Louisa Hanfield standing on the stair landing with her hands on the wrought iron railing.
The carriage driver looked impatient as Randall strode down the walk.
“Where to now, sir?”
3
Secretary of the Interior’s office, Washington D.C. Jan. 10 1866.
“Carl, please have this letter forwarded to Mister Usher. That windbag vacated this office nearly a year ago, and he still receives more correspondence here than I do. It’s a wonder these men out west can even name our current president.”
4
Lawrence, Kansas. Feb 12 1866.
John Usher wadded up the two sheets of paper and tossed them into the fireplace. His expression was thoughtful as he watched the flames consume the letter. He lifted the envelope and stared at the name written on it for a long while. John Elliot. He would have some quiet inquiries made, though the letter was dated from the previous summer, and John Elliot was likely as dead as Frank Picton must be. What Picton did before he vanished seemed to have been effective, however. It was like he had said all along: All the Indians need is a little nudge.
The envelope soon joined the letter, and he returned to the huge cherry-wood table in the center of the room. He bent and ran his hand over his scale model of the future Union Pacific Railway, Eastern Division’s central plains railroad—his railroad.
5
Near Carthage Mo. June 3 1866.
Clarence Masterson ran up to the main house and rapped once on the door before opening it.
“Mister Hoyt?” he called excitedly.
“Come in and shut the door, Clarence,” answered a spectacled man who was seated at a tiny desk next to a stone fireplace. “And mind your feet.” He put down the newspaper he was reading and turned toward the door.
Clarence, the Hoyt farm’s foreman, hastily stamped his boots on the doormat. “Mister Hoyt! There’s a nigger out here says he’s got a horse and saddle and some other things belong to you.”
Andrew Hoyt removed his glasses. “Is that so?” His hand went unconsciously to a thin scar just above his right ear. “What does this man look like?”
“Well, he’s a sight, for certain. Rode in here like he was the Almighty himself. Got a scar on his face as thick as a bridge rope, and he’s wearing two pistols. You want I should get the rifles?”
Hoyt was silent for a long moment. Clarence was about to repeat the question when he finally spoke. “I don’t think we’ll need the rifles. See to his animals and bring him in. He’s probably thirsty.”
Acknowledgement
Writing is not as solitary as one would think.
This novel would not have been possible (at least in any form that would be worth reading) without my mom and dad, for whom I owe absolutely everything; Mindy, Chazz, Casady, Chelcy, and Cheyenne, for their unwavering support; Sarah for her honesty, even when she knows it will ruffle my fragile feathers; Sage Adderley-Knox for being an all-around awesome person, and for believing that I have something to offer; the staff at Sweet Candy Press for their skill and hard work.
Thank you.
In the Shadow of the Hanging Tree Page 27
