by Anna Schmidt
The herders thought Trey had tricked her so he could take over her land, but what if the shoe was on the other foot? What if she had been the one to trick him? Certainly, she had no future on her own. There was no way she could manage that sheep ranch without help—financial and otherwise—and Trey was a good catch. Any number of families in the territory knew that, and several had made their bid to have him take note of their unmarried daughters. How had Nell Stokes managed to steal his heart?
The woman was trouble, at least for Trey. Juanita frowned. She had suffered the loss of one son; she would not lose another in the bargain. Nell Stokes Porterfield had best watch herself, at least when in the presence of Juanita.
* * *
Following the graveside service, Trey moved among the crowded rooms of the ranch house like a ghost. He heard friends and neighbors speaking of Javier in low, respectful terms. Occasionally, he would hear a burst of laughter as someone told a story of Javier’s antics out on the range. Once or twice, he stepped up to the circle of men and tried to share in the memories, but it was evident his presence made them uncomfortable, so he moved away. They blamed him, and why not?
His sister Amanda carried a tray loaded with food from the kitchen to the tables set up in the courtyard. Trey wondered at the need for people to express their condolences through food. Something to do with sustenance, he thought, although he couldn’t quite grasp the connection.
He saw Pete Collins’s wife and looked around for Pete. He was the only rancher who had not shown up for the funeral. Trey crossed the yard, and as he approached Bess Collins, she looked around as if seeking an escape.
“Thank you for coming, Bess. I know the turnout gives Juanita and Eduardo some comfort. Where’s Pete? I’d like to thank him as well.”
Bess twisted a handkerchief and did not meet Trey’s gaze. “Pete? Well, he…that is, there was… I expect he’ll be along directly.”
One of Pete’s hired hands stepped forward. “We had some trouble at the ranch,” he told Trey. “The boss sends his deepest sympathies and said he’d stop by as soon as he can.” He took hold of Bess’s arm and steered her away.
Trey didn’t believe a word of it, but his suspicions about Pete could wait. Javier’s family—and his—should be the focus now.
Juanita sat in the shade, graciously accepting the brief condolences a line of guests offered in turn. Rico stood just behind her, a sentry on guard lest anyone upset his beloved mother. Eduardo shifted nervously from one foot to the other, his head bowed, his hands clasped behind his back.
Trey looked around for Jess and saw his brother talking to their brother-in-law Seth Grover, both of them men of the law. Jess was marshal in Whitman Falls while Seth had been elected and reelected to serve as sheriff of the region with headquarters in Tucson. The two of them kept glancing his way. Something was up, and he intended to be full party to whatever decisions they were making.
“What’s going on?” he asked when he reached them.
They abruptly ended their conversation.
Seth glanced at Jess and nodded.
Jess sighed. “You need to turn yourself in, Trey.”
Trey was astounded that they were focused on his part in what had happened at Deadman’s Point rather than what they might do to prevent all-out war. “There’s no cause,” he said. “It was an accident. Galway tripped while he was holding the gun and—”
“Ernest Stokes insists it was deliberate,” Seth said. He placed a comforting hand on Trey’s shoulder. “Just do it, Trey. We’ll get this all worked out, but right now, the less fuss you make…”
Seth had been an undercover detective for Wells Fargo before taking the job of sheriff for the region. If anyone knew how these things worked, he did. Still, Trey had his doubts. “But won’t that make it look like I’m guilty of something?”
“You’re not saying that,” Jess explained. “You’re just trying to do what you can to get this whole business settled. After all, Stokes and Galway’s son will tell a different version of things.”
“We just buried one of those witnesses,” Trey reminded his brother. “That leaves you.”
“And my position as marshal ought to count for something, but still.”
Trey was well aware that Jess didn’t like it when others contradicted what he thought best, especially when that challenge came from his siblings.
“You’re also my brother,” Trey reminded him.
“Lower your voices,” Addie said, coming alongside her husband.
Trey looked around and saw that the mourners were casting furtive glances in their direction. Did everyone assume he was guilty? He could understand if the Galways and other herders believed that, but his own neighbors?
He wound his way through the cluster of people that stood between him and the kitchen door. “Excuse me,” he murmured to those he passed. A few nodded sympathetically and stepped aside while others turned away.
Once inside, Trey walked straight through the house to the front door. And having put the house between him and the mourners, he stood on the veranda and took in a couple of deep breaths to calm himself. He stared up at the sky, overcast now. They would have that much-needed rain before dawn. He walked over to the small fenced cemetery that held the graves of his parents and now held Javier. The mound of sandy dirt that covered the newest grave was covered with flowers. He knelt and picked up a red rose someone had left and remembered the blood, so much blood, that day.
Newly determined, he placed the rose back on Javier’s grave. As he returned to the house, he heard the thunder of hoofbeats in the distance and saw half a dozen soldiers riding in his direction. Expecting this signaled trouble, Trey strode around the side of the house to the yard where all conversation had dwindled to whispers as everyone turned their attention to the approaching soldiers.
Trey joined Jess and Seth, and Nell worked her way through the crowd until she was standing next to him. Once there, she entwined her fingers in his as if she had no intention of ever letting go. “What’s happening?” she asked, her voice shaky with fear. “Why are those soldiers coming here?”
The officer in charge dismounted and strode across the courtyard until he was standing nearly toe to toe with Trey. “Trey Porterfield, you are charged with the murder of Henry Galway and are to be held in custody until such time as arrangements can be made for your trial.”
Seth and Jess both stepped forward. Jess cleared his throat. “Come on, Captain. Galway’s death was accidental,” he said.
“Not according to the witness who came to the fort this morning to report what he observed.” The captain nodded to two of his men, who dismounted and approached Trey.
Nell tightened her grip on his hand and edged close to him.
“Now, ma’am,” the captain said, his voice gentle and soft as if speaking to a child. “I need to ask you to let us do our duty here.”
“Henry Galway is…was my brother,” Nell replied. “Your witnesses are my nephew and my late husband’s cousin. Both of them have reason to want to make trouble for my husband.”
Trey saw a flicker of surprise pass over the captain’s features. “Look, Captain,” he said, “this entire business is tied to the conflict between cattlemen and sheepherders. I had hoped the meeting that day might be a first step toward finding a path through all that, a way we might share the land and get along better. Things got out of hand when Mr. Galway learned that his sister and I had married. I have nothing but respect for the Galway family, and indeed all the herders in the region, but you have to understand they might see things different.”
He was tempted to ask why the soldiers weren’t over at the sheep ranch arresting Ira for killing Javier in cold blood. But one step at a time. “You mentioned a new witness, Captain. May we know who that is?” If Spud was the witness in question, then that was easy to dismiss, since he’d been nowhere near the meeting.<
br />
“Peter Collins,” the captain replied curtly. He nodded to his soldiers, who took hold of Trey’s arms, gently prying Nell away in the bargain. The men tied his hands in front and led him from the yard to where the rest of their party waited with a riderless horse. They helped him mount before tying his hands to the horn of the saddle.
“Collins wasn’t even there,” Jess protested. “He was supposed to be, but he never showed.”
“He says he was late, and as he started up the trail, he saw your brother push Galway—”
Any further information the soldier might offer was cut short by Juanita’s feral cry as she fought her way through the throng of people and faced the captain. “This is my boy,” she said, her voice coming in gasps as she pointed to Trey. Then she pointed in the direction of the freshly covered grave in the family cemetery. “And that was my boy,” she continued, jabbing at the captain’s chest to place emphasis on every word. “You speak of cold-blooded murder? What about my son, Javier? What about his killer?”
“Already in custody, ma’am. Now please”—he raised his eyes to include everyone—“let us do our job.”
Eduardo stepped forward and gently led his wife back to the house. No one spoke or moved as the captain strode back to his horse, mounted, and then ordered his men to move out. When Trey looked back, he saw Nell holding Juanita as the older woman sobbed uncontrollably.
Pete Collins hadn’t come to Javier’s funeral, and Trey had thought that strange, but there were all sorts of reasons why a rancher might not be able to get away from his work. After all, Pete had made sure his wife and kids were there to pay their respects. But now he also recalled how nervous Pete’s wife had been when he asked after her husband.
Why hadn’t Trey realized Pete’s wife was lying or at least covering for the man? And what could Pete hope to gain by accusing Trey?
Control.
The answer was as clear as the Arizona sky. Pete wanted—needed—Trey out of the way.
* * *
Nell wanted nothing so much as to go running after the departing soldiers, scream at them to stop and let Trey go. But Juanita collapsed against her, and until Addie and Amanda came rushing to her aid, it was all Nell could do to keep Javier’s mother from sinking to the ground.
As soon as Addie and Amanda led Juanita away, Nell sought out Jess and Seth. “What are we going to do?” she asked.
Both men looked down as if surprised to see her still there. Seth’s gaze was kind, but Jess glared at her with the same fury he’d directed at her after Trey had announced their marriage. “Haven’t you done enough?” he asked and strode away, back toward the house.
Nell watched him go. Behind her, Seth said, “The best thing you can do, Nell, is stay out of it. You have your son to worry about. We’ll take care of Trey.”
She understood Seth was trying to offer comfort and sympathy, but his words set off a fury within her, a fury she realized she’d been holding in ever since the day of the ill-fated meeting. She turned slowly and looked up at this man who was now her brother-in-law, and it struck her for the first time she had inherited Trey’s family. His sisters and brother were hers now, his in-laws hers as well—and she theirs.
“Trey is my husband,” she said calmly. “He is in trouble, and I will not stand by and do or say nothing as others decide his fate.”
She thought she saw a hint of a smile before Seth said, “How can I help?”
“If you would be so kind as to arrange for a horse and buggy that I can use starting first thing tomorrow, I would be much obliged.”
“And just where do you plan to go?”
“I will go to the fort to be sure my husband is being fairly treated, and then—”
“And if he is not being fairly treated?”
That had not occurred to Nell. “Surely—”
“Just making sure you think this thing through, Nell. So you go to the fort. Then what?”
“I need to pay a condolence call on my brother’s wife and his sons, if they’ll see me. At any rate, I need to bring Joshua back here, try to explain to him what is happening, and get him settled. If Juanita and the rest of the family are all right with the two of us staying on here. If not, then I really don’t have any other—” Her eyes welled with tears, and she swiped at them with the back of one hand. She was so very tired—and more frightened than she had ever been in her life.
Seth pulled a clean handkerchief from the pocket of the coat he had worn for the funeral and pressed it into her hands. “Come on, Nell Porterfield. Let’s get some supper, and you leave that horse and buggy to me.”
* * *
The accommodations at the fort were anything but luxurious. The soldiers walked Trey across the parade grounds, past Colonel Ashwood’s headquarters where he had met on several occasions with other ranchers and the colonel, and on to a squat adobe building at the far end of the compound. Now that the native population had been moved to reservations and towns and settlements that dotted the area, there was no longer a need for soldiers to be on hand to protect settlers. The fort was scheduled to close later that spring, and already the number of soldiers stationed there had noticeably declined.
“Watch your head,” the captain instructed as he ducked through an open doorway into a narrow and shadowy passage lined with barred doors on either side. “In here,” the soldier added as he pushed open a rusted iron door.
Trey paused at the entrance. “May I see the colonel?”
“In time. For now, welcome to your new home.” He made a grand gesture mocking the sordid conditions, and Trey stepped past him.
He could stand in the center of the small space and touch the adobe walls with the flat of his palms. He saw a cot—the sort soldiers used when out on patrol, canvas worn thin on the edges and sagging in the middle. In the corner was a battered tin bucket. “Well, at least there’s a toilet,” he joked as he tossed his hat on the cot and walked to the barred window, no more than a slit really. Other than the little sunlight that made its way down the passage where the soldiers waited, it was the cell’s single source of light.
The metal door clanged shut behind him, and he heard the retreating footsteps of the captain and his men. From outside came the chants of soldiers drilling on the yard, along with the familiar noises of someone shoeing a horse and the soft conversation of two military wives as they passed beneath the small window of his cell. He sat on the edge of the cot, his boots scuffing the loose dirt that made up the floor until he unearthed a small rock. He dug it out and used it to mark a single scratch on the cell wall, followed by other marks as, from memory, he drew an outline of his home.
He stopped when he heard a noise from the other side of the wall. Someone was crying and trying hard not to be heard. “Hello?” he called, moving to the bars of the cell so his voice would carry. “Who’s there?”
“Ernest?” The male voice cracked with the high-low of adolescence. “They got you too?”
“It’s not Ernest. It’s Trey Porterfield.”
Silence from the other cell.
Trey recalled the captain’s answer that Javier’s killer was already in custody. “You’re one of the Galway boys, right?”
More silence.
“Ira, right?”
“Stop talking to me. You killed my pa in cold blood.”
Trey felt his frustration build at the boy’s determination to see things the way he wanted and not the way they had really happened. That, along with his rage over the senseless death of his best friend, made him want to lash out at the kid. He forced himself to take a deep breath. If his fight was to prevent more violence, then he needed to start by subduing his own urge to beat the stuffing out of Ira Galway.
“Now come on. You know he tripped and fell. It was an accident.”
“So you say.” The boy choked back a fresh sob. “Didn’t even let me stay past the f
uneral. I guess you and your cowboys had something to do with that, right? I mean, what chance does my kind have with all of you lined up against us?”
Trey swallowed the bile of his rage. Did the kid have no remorse for killing Javier? “If I had any kind of influence in this business, do you think I’d be locked up next to you?” he asked.
Something metal hit the wall. Trey suspected it was the boy’s tin bucket. “Just stop talking to me,” Ira yelled.
There was a loud thud, one Trey deciphered as the kid collapsing onto his cot. He’s a boy, Trey thought. He’s scared. His innate empathy gave him control over the bitterness he felt toward Ira.
“You’re gonna want to take it easy on your furnishings over there,” he said. “That bucket’s the only toilet you’re likely to see while you’re in here. Wouldn’t want to puncture it and have to deal with a leak, and if you crack the frame on that cot, you’ll be sleeping on the dirt floor.”
“Shut up,” Ira shouted.
Trey imagined him sitting there with his hands over his ears. He went back to his drawing, moving his cot away to give him the full wall as his canvas.
As always when he sketched, he was oblivious to the passage of time. He worked quickly, pausing only to scour the floor for another rock when the edge on one dulled.
“You got rats over there or scorpions or what?” he heard Ira ask after some time had passed. “What’s all that scratching?”
Trey grunted. “I like to draw. I’m using a rock on the wall.”
More time passed.
“Kind of a sissy pastime for a full-grown man.” The boy snorted with derision.
“I guess that depends on your way of seeing things. Me, I use my drawing as time to study on things that might be upsetting to me—like somebody killing my best friend.”
The kid had no comment. Trey kept working on the sketch, but his strokes were more like vehement stabs at the adobe surface.
