“Cletus? There’d be no one here to protect you.”
Absalom rocked as if he’d been slapped in the face, but he said nothing. “Ab and I can protect this place. Go in the buckboard or not. Walk if you prefer.”
“I’m trying to protect you,” Blue said. “A lot of thanks I get.”
Absalom smiled suddenly, unexpectedly, as if there weren’t a killer stalking the place. “Pick a few of these for my mother,” he said. “Take them with you. She can’t see them, but you can tell her what’s on the paper. It’s a gift to her.”
“I don’t have time... oh, hell, you choose some. But if they get wet don’t blame me.”
Blue couldn’t understand why he was picking on Absalom that way. He couldn’t let it alone. His own daughter, a new widow, glaring at him, just when she needed help from him. But if she thought she’d be protected by the likes of that brother of hers in the new box-creased flannels, she had better prepare for the worst. Jack Castle would cut through him like a hot knife in butter.
“Maybe she’ll like them drawings,” Blue said. That was as close to an apology as he intended to get. “All right. I’ll have Cletus drive me, being that’s how you feel about it.” He turned to Absalom. “How long are you staying?”
“Until my business is done.”
“And what’s your business?”
His son plunged into silence again. There was something here Blue didn’t fathom, and it bothered him. Both Tammy and Absalom stared at him from faces cast in granite. It was as if they had some sort of secret, something they didn’t want Blue to know.
“There’s something you can do for me, and for yourself,” Absalom said. “Deputize me.”
“Deputize!”
“You need a deputy here, empowered to uphold the law. Swear me in.”
“You? I should deputize Cletus. He’s worked for Zeke in town, and he’s tough.”
His son turned toward the window. “I didn’t expect you’d change, and I was right,” he said. “That’s why I asked Tammy not to let you know I was coming. Or why. You’ll always be the same. Nothing will ever change.”
“I don’t want you shot,” Blue said. “Temporary deputy here’s a good idea, but it’ll be Cletus.”
Absalom nodded. There was only bleakness in his face, or was it resignation?
“I’m tired of this,” Tammy said. She swung outside, and Blue watched her head for the bunkhouse. Its door opened, flaring light. Moments later Cletus headed for the catch pen and began harnessing a trotter for the buckboard. It would be a long night’s ride, but better by night than by day, Blue thought.
Blue spotted some fresh bread in a pie safe, sliced off a piece to hold him until he got some chow, and headed into the gentle night.
“You mind if I take this?” Blue asked, waving Steve’s old rifle.
She shook her head.
That old Springfield felt just fine in his hand. Cletus drove the buckboard around to the ranch house. It was little more than four spoked wheels on a small box with a hard seat for two. One of its wheels howled on its axle.
“You send for help if you need it,” he said to Tammy. “I have help, dad.”
“Some help.”
“Absalom likes city life, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t learn what you had to teach him. Maybe you should be giving him his due.”
“Against Jack Castle? You’ll be lucky to live.”
“You’re the most stubborn and bullheaded man in the county,” she said.
“And this is a peaceful place. Or was. If you don’t like it, run against me next election.”
“Oh!”
Blue got in the last word, as usual, and clambered into the hard seat, knowing his bones would ache by the time he got to Centerville. He laid the old rifle across his lap and nodded to Cletus. “Wait! You forgot Absalom’s gift,” Tammy said.
She raced toward the lamp-lit door of the house and plunged in. Blue sat impatiently, hating to be silhouetted by the lamplight with a lobo wolf out there. “Just git,” he said to Cletus.
“In a moment. I work for her, sheriff.”
When Tammy emerged from the door, she carried a roll of Absalom’s artwork wrapped against the rain in a checkered oilcloth table covering. “You tell Mom this is from him,” she said. “And you tell her what each picture is, and good enough so she knows each one. You’ll do that? You promise?”
Blue nodded. He hoped the art would get lost en route, and was angry at himself for thinking it. Why was he feeling like a scalded dog?
Chapter 17
Cletus dropped Blue at the livery just before dawn, after a bone-crunching night in the buckboard. Blue stood stiffly in the quiet, knowing that the hostler would have to be aroused. The day’s first light backlit the black mountains to the east. He was tired. He didn’t have a dime in his pockets. He had spent half the night wondering what Tammy and Absalom were hiding from him, and had come up with nothing. He felt as sour as a grizzly coming out of hibernation. He thought of rousting Zeke Dombrowski out of his sack, but thought better of it. The hostler would help. He wandered into the cavernous darkness of the livery barn, smelling new-mown hay, manure, the acrid scent of horses. One whickered at him from a stall. The hostler, a little monkey called Willis, bunked back of the office, which consisted of one battered desk and a stump for a chair. “Hey, Willis!” he said, “hey, it’s Blue Smith.”
He hoped the name would evoke terror and haste in the wiry hostler, but nothing happened.
“Willis, dammit, you come out here. This is the sheriff.”
This time he heard muffled rustling within, and pretty soon the door creaked open. Willis, the runt of the litter, lacking only boots, yawned, studied the sheriff. “What?” he asked.
“It’s Blue Smith. I need an outfit fast, right now.”
“Day rate?”
“No, buy it.”
“You sure? You had coffee yet?”
“Come on now, show me your stock, your tack, and name your price. I’m in a hurry and this is official business.”
“Everyone’s in a hurry.”
Willis vanished into the gloom and emerged with his battered boots encasing his dirty feet. “Hell of a time to buy an outfit,” he said. “Don’t know that I want to sell. I’m short of riding horses, and all the tack I got is a saddle some cowboy never claimed. Could be he still owns it, once he pays some storage.” He eyed Blue. “How about a trotter and a buggy?”
“Saddle horse, and a good one. Good in the mountains. I’m after someone and every second you fiddle around, he’s getting farther away.”
“I hear he’s after you.”
“You can stuff that rumor down someone’s throat.”
Willis scratched and considered, and led Blue into a catch pen behind the livery barn. He moved easily through the snoozing horses, and slid a halter over a speckled white gelding. “That your best?”
“He humps up when you get aboard, but you turn him in a circle and he settles. He’s a mover.”
“He got bad habits?”
“What horse has good habits?”
“Show me the others.”
A half hour later, after looking at a lame bay and a mean sorrel that kicked anything within ten feet, Blue settled on the white, along with a slick-forked single-rigged saddle that would probably bust his butt.
“That comes to one hundred seventy eight and a half,” Willis said. “I’ll draft a voucher on the county.”
“Cash.”
“I said it’s on the county. On the sheriff account, Blankenship Stockmen’s Bank.”
“County don’t pay for six, seven months. Nosiree. You give me your personal warrant, collectable on the Blankenship bank, I’d do her.”
“I’m the sheriff, dammit. I tamed this county, and I keep it tame. This is official business, boy. I’ve kept the peace here since before you were born, boy, and I need a horse.”
But Willis wouldn’t budge. Blue penned the personal note, blotted the draft, clambered a
board the white, which shivered under him, and rode into the first sun of the innocent new day. He rode the white for ten minutes and hated it. Its loopy gait bounced him around and it reined like a plow horse. He started back for the livery barn, thought better of it, and headed toward Blankenship. Years ago, no slicker would have dared to pull a fast one on Sheriff Blue Smith. He fumed. County was filling up with people who didn’t know what Blue Smith had done to tame the place, and worse, who didn’t care. Maybe he would show them a thing or two now that wild Jack Castle was prowling. Maybe they’d think twice about crossing Blue Smith or unloading bad horseflesh. Time was, he’d ask for a horse and they’d bring him the best there was in the area, anything to help old Blue. But that was long ago. The hostler couldn’t come up with a saddle sheath, so Blue had to tie the old Springfield down with saddle strings and hope he didn’t have to use it because it would be a devil to untie in a hurry.
He would get a proper outfit in the county seat, peddle this nag to a dog-food company, and hang the expense on the county, like it should be. And then he’d fetch a noose around Jack Castle’s thick neck, that’s what. He rode through a fine cool morning, following the road to Blankenship which described a long loop around the mountains that lay between the towns. He scared up crows and magpies, pushed the addled white horse through meadowlands and cottonwood groves, stopped at a sweet-water spring to rest and listen to meadowlarks, and then rode the lumbering nag onward. There was nothing worse than a bad horse, and he cursed Willis with every passing mile. But it was a fine sunny day, not too hot, dew on the grass, and the horse was eager; he could say that for it. It beat a nag he had to spur and whip.
Ahead a horseman awaited him, tight-reining a hot-blooded black that wouldn’t stand still. The man waved lazily, wanting to visit, and Blue put heels to his lumbering white steed. The man wore fringed buckskin pants, a blue flannel shirt, red neckerchief, and a flat-crowned cream-colored hat. Pretty flashy dresser, but the young were like that.
Blue reined up, and knew suddenly it was too late.
The snout of a blue-steeled revolver bored at his chest, and behind it sat Jack Castle, grinning easily. He was a handsome son of a gun, chiseled face, clear green eyes that laughed, and an easy way about him. Blue felt a rush of terror and admiration.
“Sweating a little, Blue? Imagine so. Think you just bought it, eh? I would too, was I in your boots. There he is, old Jack Castle, not good enough for your family, too wild for a nice girl like Tammy, pointing forty-five hundredths of an inch of lead at your chest.”
Blue steadied the horse. A man busy talking was a man not shooting. But Blue figured his days were done, and there was no way out.
“Surprised, Blue? I suppose you are. Here’s old Jack, standing in the middle of the main road where he’s not supposed to be. Old Jack’s supposed to be running from Blue Smith, running clear to California, hiding out from the law. And here he is, fresh out of the pen, and there you are, king of the county, just like always.”
Blue felt his pulse rise. The bore of that six-gun never wavered. “Look at that old Navy. Real easy now, Blue, unbuckle that belt and let it drop.”
Blue did as directed. His belt, holster and revolver slid into the clay. “Now, Blue, you untie those saddle strings and lower that old army rifle of Steve’s down, real careful how you point the muzzle. Darndest thing to be toting around, ten extra pounds of iron. Funny how a sheriff arms himself these modern days.”
“I guess I won’t,” Blue said. “Do it yourself.”
The shot startled him. Blue felt lead sear past his ear. He slowly undid the Springfield with trembling fingers and let it slide.
“Now, you empty your pockets of those old army cartridges, Blue.”
Blue pulled each pocket inside out and let the contents fall.
“That’s better. Now, Blue, we’ll have a little discussion.”
“It’s going to be one-sided. I’ve nothing to say to you.”
Castle grinned, baring even white teeth. “Poor old Blue, getting chased all over the mountains by an outlaw just out of the pen, trying to figure out what next. But you really know what’s next. Sitting there, wondering if you’re breathing your last, whether you’ll see the sun rise again.”
Castle was toying with him. Blue hunkered low inside of himself, looking for the break. Even men as skilled as Jack Castle made mistakes.
“You’re not going to die yet,” Castle said. “Not for a while. Not until you see what happens.”
“What’s going to happen?”
“You’ll know soon enough, sheriff. For years I’ve been thinking on it. Thinking, hell. I’ve worked it out, Blue, worked out all the ways that a hard old man who thought his daughter was too good for me can feel pain. When I’m done, you’ll know what it’s like to be on the receiving end.”
Something violent built up in him, chilling Blue. “Everything that’s going to happen to you, it’s nothing compared to what you did to me. You’re going to take it, and there isn’t a thing you can do about it. You wrecked my life, and you’ll see what it’s like.
“How about a posse, Blue? You’re too proud to depend on one and you know I’d make fools of the whole lot. I’ll brag. I’m better than ever, Blue. I’m young; you’re not. Go ahead and lay traps, comb the mountains, outguess me, go right ahead. Wire every sheriff hereabouts. Get up a few posses. Start a big snipe hunt. Converge on me from all sides. It’ll be amusing. I’m exactly what you wish Absalom could be. Poor pale devil, guarding his fine, respectable, virtuous sister from the likes of me. I’m the son you couldn’t have, isn’t that right?”
“No, Jack, I always wanted an honest son.”
“Even now, you’re sitting there, cursing yourself for missing that coulee there. See how it stretches north into the mountains? That’s how I got here, rode fifteen miles down that gulch to this road. It’s my highway into the high country. This is where I robbed that stagecoach, but you forgot that, didn’t you? Back when you were a real sheriff, and not a husk of one, you’d have seen it, seen what a gulch like that might mean, and I wouldn’t have caught you unprepared, easy pickings, a man living in his past and too proud, too blind and too deaf to respond.”
Blue listened carefully, miserably, knowingly. But another part of him was searching, weighing. He would live, for the moment. And that was all he asked. “Take a good look, Blue. Look at me. All those years behind bars. Not years, Blue—months, days, weeks, hours, minutes, seconds. They do things to you. They make you hate. I’m a hater, Blue. They make you mean. I’m mean, Blue, and you’ll see how mean a man can get. Meaner than anything you’ve ever seen. It’s not just freedom they take away; it’s who you are, too. It’s like a tattoo on the forehead the rest of your life. That’s what you did.”
Blue thought for a moment that Castle would pull the trigger, but then the killer-look slid from the man’s face.
“All right, Blue, off that plug. And then hang the belt over the saddle horn. Go ahead, try something fancy if you want. I’d enjoy it. And then start walking. Blankenship’s only thirty miles.”
Blue slid to the ground, feeling pain shoot up his stiff legs, and carefully hung the revolver belt over the horn. “Walk,” Castle said.
But Blue walked straight toward Castle, straight into that black bore, his rage barely contained. Walked toward that tight-reined horse. Walked toward his quarry. Walked with intent. One yank of the bridle and he’d have Castle. He was that close to ending it all.
“Stop, Blue.” Castle’s voice was low and deadly.
Blue didn’t. He put one foot forward, and then another, until he was close enough to grab that bridle and start that jittery horse pitching. Only then did Castle back the horse. And that’s when Blue saw the flare of something, maybe fear, in Castle’s eyes.
“Damn you, Blue!”
The shot seared past Blue’s ear.
Blue stopped cold.
“Turn around and walk.”
Blue walked. Then he looked back. Ca
stle had picked up the rifle and was riding up the coulee leading the white horse. Funny thing. He didn’t care about the white plug or Steve Cooper’s old Springfield or his revolver, or the slick-fork saddle or the rest of his gear. He felt bad about losing Absalom’s art, the boy’s gift to his blind mother.
Chapter 18
Deputy Carl Barlow was grinning, and that made Blue mad. It was bad enough having to confess to his underling that he’d had four horses shot or stolen from him, along with his own outfit and another belonging to his daughter. Worse still, Jack Castle had held him up and casually made off with the last of his possessions, including a borrowed rifle. And here was his own damned deputy grinning at him.
“Wipe that smile off your face. We’re dealing with a killer.”
Barlow slowly erased the grin and ran a hand through wiry red hair. “Olivia took it hard, losing Steve Cooper. I read her that letter, and I couldn’t comfort her.”
“I haven’t been there yet. I’ve been sitting in a freight wagon for two damned days.”
That had been another offense to his person, hitching a ride with a teamster driving an ox-drawn freight wagon at ten or twelve miles a day. But his stiff old legs wouldn’t take the thirty-mile hike after Castle set him afoot.
“How’s she been, other than that?” Blue asked, dreading the answer.
“Hell, Blue, she didn’t get locked up to sleep anything off.”
“But she was sampling?”
“Sure. She always does when you’re on the loose. She’s got her a little green mason jar left over from canning beans she takes into Finnigan’s and lays out some coin and then she goes to the park after dark and sips and cusses at dogs. I saw her there ten times maybe, and I just left her alone. She gets ornery, you know, beggin’ your pardon.”
“Not around me she doesn’t. It’s just that you don’t know how to keep her respectful. Me, I keep everyone respectful, starting with my own wife.”
Barlow was grinning again, damn his pasty hide.
“Did it get into the paper again?”
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