What were Mr. Hawkins’ final moments like? Had he seen the person who pulled the trigger? Had he known them?
The door was cracked, and Bonnie pushed it open the rest of the way, allowing her eyes to adjust to the poor lighting before stepping up to the doorway. She scanned the floor and the shelves, finding nothing new.
What she looked for, she didn’t know. She only felt that there had to be some kind of clue at the scene of the crime. Something that everyone else had missed.
Or perhaps she was going mad and looking for hope where none could be found.
Sighing in disappointment, Bonnie turned from the doorway. Something flashed in the grass, and she bent down to pick the small object up.
A bullet.
She wouldn’t have seen it if it were not resting right on top of a clump of grass. As it was, the sunlight had hit the bullet in just the right way, causing a flash that caught Bonnie’s eye.
Bonnie’s heart beat fast. The bullet, she believed, was silver! Surely, that meant something. Most bullets were made from copper, iron, and lead.
Had the doctor extracted the bullets from Mr. Hawkins before he was buried? Bonnie couldn’t know. There had been a funeral for Mr. Hawkins the day after his death, and the coffin had been closed.
Bonnie’s mind spun. She wished she had found the bullet earlier. If she’d taken it to the sheriff, perhaps it could have helped her case. Steve wore a pistol like every other man in town, but he didn’t use silver bullets.
Taking the horse’s reins again, Bonnie closed her other fist around the bullet and walked down the road. She knew who she could show the bullet to.
Among other things, the general store carried bullets and a small collection of arms. Perhaps Mr. Mullins had sold this very bullet to someone in town. Or perhaps he had a guess as to who would use silver.
Tying the Briggs’ horse up, Bonnie went inside the general store. Jenny’s husband, Mr. Mullins, was at his counter, measuring out a bolt of cloth.
“Miss Potter,” he said, looking up from the cloth. “How are you faring today?”
“In a complicated way,” she answered.
That caught his attention, and his hands stilled as he looked back up at her. She walked forward, her hand open, the silver bullet sitting in the middle of her palm.
“Mr. Mullins, does this look familiar to you?”
He frowned. “No. Should it?”
Bonnie’s soul grew heavy with disappointment. “You do not sell silver bullets?”
“No,” he slowly said again. His gaze was fixed on the bullet, though. “Where did that come from?”
“It was in the grass outside of the hotel shed.”
“May I?”
She nodded, and he took the bullet, lifting it to his face for closer inspection.
“Do you know if the doctor… removed the bullets from Mr. Hawkins’ body?”
Mr. Mullins’ gaze cut to Bonnie’s face. “I do not think so. He dressed the body for burial in my back room. You believe this to have been one of the shots fired?”
“It is plausible.”
Mr. Mullins blinked, and his face changed as something dawned on him.
“What is it?” Bonnie asked.
“I don’t sell these bullets…” He shook his finger excitedly. “But I believe I know the manufacturer. If I’m correct, they are produced along with a very specific pistol.”
Turning, he went to a shelf on his back wall and selected a magazine, which he then spread on the counter. Mr. Mullins flipped through pages, Bonnie watching with bated breath.
“This one.” He lifted the magazine and showed her a drawing. To Bonnie, it appeared the same as any pistol.
“There were a limited amount made,” he said. “Folsom 1890.”
“1890?” Bonnie asked. “It is not 1890 yet.”
Mr. Mullins chuckled. “It sounds more exciting to name a product after the future. Good for sales.”
Bonnie studied the illustration. “You said there were a limited amount made.”
“Yes. I’m not sure how many, but it did not exceed a thousand.”
Bonnie chewed the inside of her cheek in worry. “That sounds like an awful lot to me, Mr. Mullins.”
“If they were made here in Wyoming Territory,” he said. “But consider the fact that these were produced in New York.”
He pointed at a Made in New York State line to prove his point.
“Then sold across the country,” he added.
Suddenly, Bonnie understood what he was getting at.
“And do you know where they were sold around here?” she asked.
“That I cannot say. I have never carried Folsom’s firearms here. Most of the men here bought their pistols in other places. Their bullets, too. Even a man hunting for a family takes a while to go through a whole box of bullets. If this really is…”
He trailed off as he fetched a magnifying glass and inspected the bullet. “See there?”
Mr. Mullins held the silver bullet so Bonnie could use the magnifying glass to look. F. 90 was etched into the bullet’s side.
“The writing is so small,” Bonnie said.
“They’re a special edition. Extra attention was given to them.”
“But what’s so special about these bullets?”
“Nothing, other than that they were sold with the Folsom 1890.”
“And a man could only acquire these bullets if he bought one of those pistols?” Bonnie confirmed.
“Exactly. He could shoot them in other guns, sure, but as they were only made for a brief time, why would a man have the bullets unless he at one point had the gun?”
“Or he received the bullets from someone else.”
“But who gives bullets away, Miss Potter? In a place like Wyoming Territory, where they are so necessary?”
“I would imagine not a lot of men.”
“Right.” Mr. Mullins grinned in satisfaction.
“This is what we need,” Bonnie said. Her heart felt so light she thought she might suddenly float. “If we can find out who in the area has this gun, we can narrow down the killer.”
Mr. Mullins nodded. “Exactly. Good work, Detective Potter.”
Bonnie was not even sure whether she responded or not. She was too busy staring at the illustration of the pistol. Just twenty minutes before, everything had seemed so hopeless, and now she had a clue. A direction to go in.
Do not worry, Steve. Your name will be cleared. I will not rest until it is.
21
21. Steve
Chapter twenty-one
For the tenth time since he’d arrived home, Steve went to the cabin’s door and looked in the direction of the road. It was almost supper time, and Bonnie hadn’t arrived home yet.
Maybe she’d thought her note would make it so he wouldn’t worry, but Steve didn’t like the thought of her out near dark. Whether she was with a friend or not didn’t matter. The area had never been the safest one, and now who knew what kind of foul humans were lurking out there?
Steve set to pacing, walking the length of the cabin and back several times. Unable to take it anymore, he grabbed his hat and set off. Whiteridge wasn’t that large. If he moved fast, he’d find her in no time at all.
‘No time at all’ ended up being one minute, for they met each other on the trail halfway between their cabin and Neil’s.
“There you are,” Steve said, sighing in relief. “Where’d you get to?”
“Did you not see my note?”
“I did, but that didn’t comfort me all that much.”
Bonine grasped his arm. “I am sorry, Steve. I did not mean to scare you. But, listen. I went to the hotel shed, and I found something.”
Steve’s heart jumped. “What do you mean by something?”
Bonnie licked her lips in excitement. “A bullet. A rare one, according to Mr. Mullins.”
Steve let the news sink in. Did this mean...?
“According to Mr. Mullins,” Bonnie went on, her word
s flowing fast, “these bullets were produced in limited edition with a very specific revolver. There was only a small amount of these revolvers ever made. If we find the owner of it, that can provide us with a suspect!”
“What kind of revolver?”
“Mr. Mullins said it was called a Folsom... let’s see… a Folsom 1890.”
Steve’s gut twisted. “Bonnie...”
She blinked and stared at him. “What?”
“That’s my revolver.”
“I...but...” She sucked in a sharp breath and shook her head. “But, no. That does not make sense. Mr. Mullins knows the bullet. He said there was only somewhere around a thousand of these made. It cannot be...”
“Except it is.” Steve’s tongue felt heavy. His whole body felt heavy. He hardly ever used that revolver. Like many men in the West, he wore his gun on his holster when he went out, but he’d never actually used it. When he went hunting, he took his shotgun. That was why he still had the bullets that came with the revolver, even a year after he’d purchased them.
Why was one of them down at the hotel shed? He hadn’t fired his gun.
So who had? Who had the same kind of revolver?
“Steve.” Bonnie clutched at both of his arms. “What is going on? Did you...”
“Did I kill Hawkins?”
“What?” she cried. Dropping her hands from his sleeves, she stepped back, shaking her head. “No. That is not what I was going to say at all.”
Steve pushed his hands through his hair, forgetting he wore his hat and knocking it off and onto the ground. Ignoring it, he pressed his hands to his temples and turned away from Bonnie. His breathing came hot and fast.
“Those are the bullets I have,” Steve said. “So why would you think I didn’t do it?”
Bonnie’s brow pushed together. “What are you saying, Steve?” she whispered.
“What reason would anyone have for not thinking I did it?” His voice rose with each word. He knew he was losing control, but it was like he’d left his body. He was watching the scene from far off, all control lost.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m just...”
What? What was he doing? Testing Bonnie? Daring her to accuse him of a crime he didn’t commit?
He was losing his mind, that’s what. He was terrified. Already, he was a suspect in Hawkins’ murder. This new clue could be the nail in the coffin.
But it wasn’t Steve’s bullet. It couldn’t be.
Going to the hooks by the front door, he took his holster down and slid the Folsom 1890 out. Its cool weight rested in the palm of his hand, and he and Bonnie silently looked at it.
“I’ve never shot it,” he said. “I got it about a year ago, outside of Pathways,” Steve said. “A traveling salesman on the side of the road sold it to me. I wear it every day, though. Just in case.”
Bonnie was pale. “Who else did he sell them to?”
“I don’t know, Bonnie.” Steve closed his eyes, thinking back to that summer day. He’d met the salesman on the empty road. There had been no other customers. Not that Steve had seen.
If the man had sold to anyone else in the area, Steve couldn’t make so much as a guess as to who it had been.
“So it was someone else’s bullet,” Bonnie said, her voice excited. “All we have to do it find out who else purchased the revolver and bullets. Or just the bullets.”
“Bullets came with the revolver,” Steve muttered.
“Yes, that is what Mr. Mullins said. And that might narrow it down even more. We find out who else has that revolver, and we find the suspects. You were not the only man in the area who bought it.”
“And how do you know that?” Steve asked bitterly. “Maybe I was. Maybe whoever killed Hawkins’ is long gone, and I’m just out of luck. You see how this seals the deal, Bonnie? It’s as good as blood on my hands.”
“No,” she whispered fiercely, stepping close to him.
Bonnie reached for his face, and Steve closed his hand over hers. Fear pulsed through his veins, seeping like poison into his heart. Why was this happening? Bonnie had only just entered his life, and now they were about to be ripped apart. Was God mocking him for believing life could be wonderful? Had he done something wrong that he didn’t know about?
Whatever the answer, Steve knew what this new turn of events meant. All signs pointed to him being Hawkins’ killer.
“You’re innocent,” Bonnie whispered, but the trembling in her voice told him that she understood perfectly what was happening. Innocent or not, all that mattered was how things looked.
Steve stroked the top of her hand with his thumb, cherishing the moment. It could be one of the last ones they had together.
Unless... this never got out. Steve could go back to the hotel shed and search for more bullets. Toss any he found into the woods.
“That bullet,” Steve said, “the one you found... where is it?”
Bonnie’s gaze lowered, and her hand trembled in his. Drawing her hand back, she pressed her fingers to her lips and did not answer.
“Bonnie,” Steve said, his voice rising. “Did you hear me?”
She took a tentative step back. He was scaring her.
Steve worked to calm himself down. “I’m not mad, Bonnie. I just need to know where the bullet is.”
“Mr. Mullins has it.”
Steve nodded, doing his best to control his breathing. So Chandler had the bullet. He and Steve weren’t close, but they were friendly. Perhaps, if Steve told Chandler everything he had told Bonnie, he would be understanding. He would give Steve the bullet back and say nothing more about this ever again.
Maybe.
“We’ll go to him now,” Steve decided. “He’ll still be at the general store. We can get the bullet from him and ask him to say nothing more of this.”
Bonnie’s gaze lowered, and Steve sensed her hesitation.
“I know it’s dishonest, Bonnie, but I don’t know what else to do.” Steve ran his palm down his face. “I was raised not to lie, like any good man. But this... this is different. If anyone finds out about this bullet, I’m as good as a goner, Bonnie.”
Maybe as good as dead.
Hanging was a punishment reserved for the worst of crimes. Like unjustified murder.
Tears rolled down Bonnie’s cheeks. “It’s not that, Steve. I know that we should ask Mr. Mullins to do that, but... but...” She sniffled.
“What, Bonnie?”
“He sent a messenger to Shallow Springs. To tell the sheriff about this.”
Steve’s blood ran cold. “Sent? The messenger has already left?”
Bonnie nodded. “I saw him ride away myself.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, Steve, I am so sorry. I did not know... if only...”
“Don’t, now. Don’t say that. You couldn’t have known.”
Steve closed the space between them and pulled Bonnie into his arms. He buried his face in her hair, and her shoulders shook from her sobs.
“What are we going to do?” she cried into his chest.
Steve’s thoughts raced. For the briefest of moments, he considered leaving town. They could pack up that night and move on without telling a soul. The West was a great place for a man to disappear into.
But he couldn’t do that. If he took off, everyone would think he was guilty, for sure. And Steve couldn’t help but care about his name. His family name. If he took off, word of what he’d done would make its way back east. He couldn’t have his family there thinking he was a murderer. The shame that would be on them...
No. He had to stay. Had to fight this and clear his name.
“We’re going to wait and see what happens,” Steve decided. “Likely, the sheriff will be here tomorrow. He’ll want to talk to me.”
Bonnie pulled back and turned her tear-streaked face up to him. “And what will you tell him?”
“The truth. That’s all I can do.” Steve kissed the top of her head. “Other than pray.”
22
22. Steve
Chapter twenty-two
Steve didn’t sleep a wink. Any time he got even close to drifting off, he jerked awake. The horror of what was to come was just too much for him to take. He’d briefly considered riding down to Shallow Springs that night and speaking to Sheriff Ross, but he knew it was only a matter of time before the sheriff came up to Whiteridge, and so he’d decided to wait.
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