“What about us making a scout up there toward the Missouri middle of next week. You’ll have this hay up and maybe we can locate them.”
“Sure, and I’ll keep listening.”
“Barley, I guess I’m on the outside being sheriff now. Is there lots of talk about the lynching and what am I doing about it?”
His hand clapped Herschel on the shoulder. “You can’t worry about wagging tongues. I hear a little here and there, but we’re doing this by the law. It don’t always work swift, but it grinds good.”
“I hope so.” Herschel raised his gaze to the green-brown hills. “Don’t get too sweaty putting this up.”
“I’ll hold back the sweat.”
Herschel put his foot in the stirrup, swung his leg over the cantle, and in the saddle, checked Cob. “See you next Wednesday.”
“Wednesday,” Barley repeated, and climbed on the iron seat. Reins undone, he drove the clacking mower away, sending the plovers scurrying away from the gray mares’ feathered hooves.
Mannon’s ranch was on Red Wing Creek. Herschel swung his roan horse northward, his mind set on talking to Nora Mannon. Maybe she had the answers that he needed. Strange, he hadn’t even thought about her before—maybe her isolation since becoming Rath’s wife for the past few years had wiped her memory from his mind.
Two hours later, he crossed the last ridge and followed the wagon track road. A grove of pines sheltered the place. Sprawling pens and sheds made a quarter moon around the main house, and the fenced hay fields beyond bordered the clear-flowing creek on both sides.
A few collies barked at his approach, and a woman shading her eyes looked in his direction from the porch. He’d been there before when he was campaigning, but that day he’d met Rath feeding hay with his boys in the bottom. In a hurry then, he’d declined an invite to the house.
“Hello,” he said from the yard gate, and removed his hat. She stood on the porch in a wash-wrinkled dress; her light brown hair looked like it needed brushing. Not the Nora he recalled, all prim and proper, from a few years gone by.
“Oh, yes, hello,” she said guardedly. “My husband isn’t here.” With her hand, she herded a small boy toward the open doorway.
“Nora? Herschel Baker here.”
“My, the sheriff. Rath won’t be back until—”
“I’d like a word with you.”
She looked pained at him. “No, my hus—”
“Nora, I need to talk to you.” Determined, he started to dismount before she went inside and closed him out.
She shook her head and looked ready to cry. “Herschel—I don’t dare.”
He was off his horse and through the gate, scattering collies in his wake. “Wait a minute. Don’t go in that house.”
“Oh, you don’t know—” Her face was pale and, clutching her hands together, she swallowed hard.
“I know lots of things. I am sheriff of this county and have every right to be here.”
“But what will Rath say?”
“Or do to you?”
Her violet-blue eyes blinked at him like he wasn’t even standing there at the foot of her porch. Nora Mannon was not in Herschel’s world—hers was one of obvious fear and possible oppression. Worse yet, he wasn’t certain he could do a damn thing about it.
“Nora?”
“Yes?”
“Do you know about Billy Hanks?”
“I ain’t seen Billy Hanks in years.” She looked over the top of his head with gauzy vision. “My, my, that boy could dance. You tell him I said hi.”
“He’s dead, Nora.”
“Oh, was it a horse wreck? He could sure ride them bad ones.”
Herschel stood at the base of the stairs and closed his eyes. Nora Mannon’s mind wasn’t in this world. That was the reason Rath didn’t take her to town and dances. He was hiding a dark secret, not a wife.
“I have to go,” he said.
“I’ll tell him you were by, Herschel.”
“Nothing important,” he said, and replaced his hat. “Good to see you again.”
“Oh, yes. Maybe we can dance again sometime.”
“I hope so.”
He short-loped Cob for home. Despite the warm sunshine, he felt gooseflesh on his back and arms. It would not be easy to shed from his mind his vision of the distressed Nora.
Hours later, he sat on the porch swing with Marsha listening to the night insects. With the girls in bed and things quiet at the office, he felt halfway relaxed with his arm over her shoulder.
“You said Nora’s face was blank?” His wife nestled against his chest as the heat of the day evaporated.
“She wasn’t right. Talked to the wind, not me. I don’t think she even understood about Billy being dead when I told her.”
“You think Rath’s been hiding her because of this condition?”
Herschel nodded, and felt nauseated at the thought of the once-beautiful woman turned into a vegetable. “What caused that?”
“Bad treatment.”
“I know that, but somehow I think it’s more than that.”
“Well, some women after having a child go crazy and never recover.”
“You don’t plan to go crazy on me?”
She elbowed him in the ribs. “I don’t plan to.”
He chuckled and hugged her. But he still didn’t know everything about the situation. It wasn’t likely that Billy Hanks had a thing to do with Nora Mannon’s problems. That little boy wasn’t his either—Hanks, by Herschel’s calculations, hadn’t gotten to Montana before the boy was conceived. The time did not add up, but he’d sort that out later.
“So—” She clapped him on the leg to bring him back to their world. “You have to find a jury for the cowboys that robbed the grocery, for the stage robber, and who else?”
“Mrs. Johnson will draw the names from the voter list. Then my office has to notify them they are to be in court when the judge gets here.”
“Catching outlaws isn’t your only job.”
“No, it ain’t. Art rode up and told the Crowley girl today. He’s going back up there with one of his wagons and haul her down here.”
“What else does a sheriff have to do?”
“Go next week and look for horse thieves. A ring of them are operating over in the far corner of the county. Barley and I plan to take a few days and find them.”
“Did Jim Matson get what he needed today?” she asked, spreading out her dress over her legs.
“Yes, all the parts for the mower, and Ed over at the shop fixed his harness. He should be mowing hay late this week down at your place.”
She squeezed his leg. “Our place.”
“Yes, ma’am. Our place.”
The swing creaked when he shoved off with the toe of his boot, and the night insect orchestra fiddled away in the starlight. Content to sit there and hold her for hours, he felt some of the job’s tension drain away. Billy Hanks’s killers were out there somewhere. He’d get them.
FIFTEEN
IS skeleton force worked in the office the next morning. Art, Phil, and himself. Herschel was standing in the light pouring in the window to better read the name on the next slip drawn from the box.
“Tom Harkins.” He looked at his deputies.
They both nodded. Harkins would do for a juror.
“Since he’s of sound mind and body, then make out a summons for Tom Harkins to be here for the jury pool.” He reached back in the box for another.
“Paul McGraw.”
“He votes?” Art asked with a frown.
“Must have voted last time. Why?” Herschel asked.
Art shook his head to indicate that McGraw wouldn’t work. “He ain’t real bright. Works down at the mill.”
“Too dumb to be on a jury?”
Both men nodded. Herschel put the slip down and went for the next one.
“Earl Mannon.”
“Why not?” Art asked.
“No reason?” Herschel half-turned to check with Phil, who turned hi
s palm up. “Put him down for a summons.”
So the morning passed until a hundred jury members were pooled.
It looked like a monumental task to serve all of them. Taken aback for a moment, Herschel realized he’d had no idea about all the other things that occupied a sheriff’s time. “Since this isn’t a criminal process, we can use the Fellars boy to serve some of them. I can take those over in the northeast for Barley to work. Phil or the boy can deliver the ones in town, and Art, you take the west valley.”
“Jury duty sure ain’t going to be very popular this time of year,” Art said, stretching his arms over his shoulder as he stood. “Haying and roundup all coming up at once.”
“They can tell that to Superior Court Judge Mathew Conners when he gets here.”
“I’m going in the morning to get Ida Crowley,” Art said. “She can stay in that small house on Burns Street. Take me two days to go up there and get back.”
Herschel agreed with a nod. “You get back. We’ll all need to ride hard to get these summonses out. Phil, who else can we get to serve them?”
“I’ll find someone.”
“Good. Guess I’ll have to put my campaign against horse rustlers off until this session of court is over.” He shook his head, feeling a twinge of dismay over being tied down by all the obligations of his job. There were more things to keep him occupied than he’d ever figured.
Phil got up to see who’d come into the office. In a minute, he stuck his head in the doorway. “Berry Kirk is here to see you.”
“Send him in.” Herschel shared a concerned look with Art. No time for them to talk it over. Kirk appeared in the doorway.
“You wanted to see me?” Kirk looked at them and the office with a haughty, suspicious glare.
“Yes, Berry. Have a seat.” Herschel indicated the chair in front of his desk.
“I’ll stand.” He folded his arms over his chest and his spur rowels jingled when he set his boots apart.
“You know why I needed to see you?”
“I reckon it’s over that ruckus in the Yellowstone.”
“Yes, and you shooting Tucker Ralston.”
“That was self-defense.”
“That a court will decide.”
“You’re saying I’m under arrest?”
Herschel nested his back in the swivel chair and looked at the sullen youth standing before him. “I could arrest you, but I don’t think you’re stupid enough to run. Go home, get a suit of clothes to wear, and then hire you a lawyer. Ten Friday morning be in Judge Watson’s office. Better bring all the witnesses you can find, too.”
Kirk’s dark eyes flew open in his first show of emotion. “That a trial?”
“No, it’s a hearing. The judge will listen to the case and he will decide if you are to be bound over to superior court and charged with murder or not.”
“It was self-defense.”
Herschel shook his head. “The judge decides that, not me.”
“I ain’t being railroaded—”
A tinge of anger rose inside Herschel’s chest—his eyes narrowed at Kirk and he cut him off. “I’ve heard enough from you. My good advice is over. You can do what you want, but if you don’t show up in court Friday, I’ll have a murder warrant sworn for you by ten fifteen. Do you understand me?”
“Yeah. I’ll be there.”
“See that you’re there. Now get out of here, I’ve got important business to tend to.”
Art walked to the office door and turned back when Kirk was out of hearing. “We going to have trouble with him?”
“He’s a troublemaker. I’m not certain how Tucker was shot. Let Judge Watson decide that. But he better heed my advice or he will be locked up in jail.”
“Randal Squires is out here,” Art said at the door.
Herschel nodded. A man in his forties, Squires lived up in the Sharky school district. “He here to see me?”
Art nodded, and spoke to the man in the outer office.
“Send him in,” Herschel said.
He stuck out his hand to the shorter man with the receding hair, his hat in his left hand. Squires wore a full white mustache twisted on the ends until they resembled long-horns, and was as bowlegged as anyone who’d lived his life on a cow pony.
“Morning, Hersch. Some damn outfit stole my good bald-faced horse yesterday. Left me some old wind-broke nag with a T bar on his right shoulder.”
“Bad trade, huh?” Herschel smiled at the man and shook his head. No doubt a drifter already halfway to Idaho by this time had stolen his horse.
“Bad trade!” Squires’s cheeks turned red and he looked ready to blow up.
Herschel shook his head in dismay at the man’s reaction. “I was only joking.”
“There ain’t a damn thing funny about it.” Squires’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I heard that you weren’t taking this job serious. You’ve never found out who hung that Hanks boy, either.”
“Mr. Squires, I have a handful of deputies to protect a large area of land. We are investigating the lynching and we will look for your horse.”
“Look for him, huh?” With anger in his eyes, Squires beat his leg with his hat. “Well, that ain’t enough for my money.”
“I’ll try to do better. Now if you will fill out the paperwork with Phil, we will be on the lookout for your horse.”
“I came in here expecting service. A man loses a damn good horse to some worthless drifter, and all you got to say is, you’ll look for him. Hell, a five-year-old kid can do that.”
“Mr. Squires, fill out the report with Phil. I don’t have time to argue.”
“By damn, we’ll get us a sheriff that does.”
“Suit yourself. You can go upstairs and get a petition right now in Mrs. Johnson’s office.”
Squires’s glare was meant to melt iron. “What are you, Republican or Democrat?”
“Independent.”
“A man don’t choose sides ain’t worth a pinch of salt.”
“I have a job to do. I am not here to argue politics. So get the hell out of my office.”
“Can I help you?” Phil asked from the doorway.
Squires used his hat for a pointer looking back while Phil had him by the arm to lead him out of the office. “I’ll see what the Herald has to say about this. They’ve got your number. A do-nothing sheriff, that’s what you are.”
They’ll have plenty to say. Herschel shook his head, still hearing the man ranting in the outer office. In the old days, he’d have gone to fists with that belligerent old goat. He pushed out of the chair and went to the window to let out some of the steam inside his chest. Sheriffs can’t fight over such things. Maybe Marsha would be proud of him. New baby inside and all. There were some good things in his life, like her and the girls. That reminded him, he needed another pony. Those girls were going to ride Chico to death.
“Sorry about that,” Phil said, sticking his head in the doorway a few minutes later.
Herschel turned back from the street scene of traffic and freight wagons and nodded. “Came close to throwing him down the stairs.” He looked at the tin-square ceiling.
“Wonder what he’d’a done if you’d told him you were a Democrat,” Phil said.
“Why?”
“He’s a big Republican. He’d’a knowed what was the problem, then.”
Both men laughed.
Herschel walked home for lunch. It was a cool day with clouds gathering. Phil had hired three men for a dollar a day to serve jury duty summonses. So that went easier in his mind. He still had the Berry Kirk hearing to deal with.
“We’re having chicken,” Kate told him, opening the front door for him.
He swept off his hat and smiled at her. “Sounds special.”
“Oh, it is. We dressed the biggest of those spring chickens. Mom’s frying it right now.”
He sniffed the air in the living room for the aroma and gave her his hat. “Good smell.”
“I thought so, too.” She winked and hung up th
e hat on the wall peg.
“Hi, anything happen today?” Marsha asked, turning from her cooking on the wood range.
“Selected a jury pool for Judge Conners. That will be real popular with haying and roundup on hand.” He hugged her and kissed her on top of the head. “Chicken looks wonderful.”
“I thought it would. Had a big hankering for some today. Kate, tell the riders to come in and wash up.”
He looked after the eldest girl’s retreat. “They sure enjoy that pony.”
Marsha nodded, and used a fork to turn a browned piece over in the hot grease of the iron skillet. “Can’t hardly get any work out of those two. I have to bribe them to even get help in the garden.”
“Girls need some time to be girls.”
She leaned over and put her head against his chest. “Or be cowboys.”
“That ain’t bad, either.” They both laughed.
“What are you doing this afternoon?” she asked.
“May have to take the jury summonses up to Barley and cancel our horse-rustling trip.”
“You’ll be home late for supper?”
“More than likely.”
She put down the fork, turned, and hugged him around the waist. “Be careful.”
“I try to be all the time.”
After lunch, he saddled Cob and went by the office to check with Phil. Things sounded quiet around the office, so he bundled up the summonses for Barley and headed east by northeast. There were lots of signs of haying along the way. Many mowers and teams were out in the meadows laying it down. Yellow meadowlarks darted in and out of the road and whistled their sharp calls.
Heart waved from working in her garden at his approach. With a bright smile on her copper face, she came to the fence with her hoe. “You just missed him. He went to see about some kinda trouble at Mike’s store.”
He frowned at her. “Any idea?”
“I’m not sure. Some boy rode up and said for him to come on the double, there was trouble down there.”
“Who was the boy?”
“I think Charles Mathews’s son. They bought Old Man Griscom out.”
“I better go help. You feeling fine?”
Her warm smile always touched him. “How is your family?”
“Marsha and the girls are fine. Had our first spring chicken for lunch. I better go see.”
Montana Revenge Page 12
