His eyes never leaving Jason’s face, Sky replied in a measured voice, “And if we took the law into our own hands we would be no better than him. If it was him that did it.” He paused, one hand rubbing over his unshaven jaw. “Brooke saw a man in the alley last night.” He pulled a paper from his vest pocket and handed it to Jason. “I wrote down his description. See what you can find out about him.”
Jason nodded.
Another thought hit Sky, and he gave Jason a sympathetic look. “You’ll have to find Fraser’s daughter, Alice. She is staying with the Rand family in Lewiston. We’ll bring the body down as soon as we can, probably tomorrow, maybe Saturday, but she should be told as soon as possible.” Sky didn’t envy Jason the terrible responsibility.
“Should we send a telegram?”
“I thought of that, but I don’t know. I thought it seemed a little cold and impersonal. But…” Sky shrugged. “What do you think?”
Jason thought for only a moment. “You’re right. I’ll tell her when I get there.” The look on his face showed that he did not look forward to the task. Sky let one hand fall to rest on his cousin’s shoulder, amazement filling him once again at Jason’s ability to about-face in his temperament so quickly. He had been coldly angry only moments ago and now he felt tender sympathy to the point of having to blink back tears.
Sky prayed the Lord would use this situation to reach him as they walked down the street toward Jed’s boarding house. Bill Currey, leading three fresh horses, met them just in front of the boarding house. Sky noticed that his hands shook badly as he handed the reins of the lead horse over to Jason. Bill had brought extra horses so Jason could swap his saddle from one animal to the next when the horse he rode tired out. Without a rider, even though the animal had to trail behind, it soon got its wind back. In this way, a man could almost cut his traveling time in half.
Jason nodded. “Thanks, Bill.”
“Sure. For ol’ Fraser I’d do just ‘bout—” He stopped short, rubbing shaky hands across his face. “I need me a drink.”
Jason clapped him on the shoulder before he mounted the saddle. “You’ll be glad you stayed away from the booze when this is over, Bill. It’s going to be the trial of the century, and you’ll want to be able to remember everything that happened.”
Bill gave a snort and waved him off with a quavery hand.
Jason threw Sky a grin as he swung into the saddle. And Sky reminded, “You’re going to have to exercise some self-control yourself these next couple of days.”
The smile left Jason’s face and he stared in thoughtfulness at the pommel of the saddle for a moment. Then, the leads of the two extra horses in one hand, he nodded in Sky’s direction and urged his mount forward.
As Sky watched Jason ride out of town, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned. Jed propelled an obviously terrified Chinaman down the sodden, muddy street in front of him. The young man held his hands wide at shoulder height, palms out, as Jed kept poking him in the ribs with a mean-looking 44 caliber, long-barreled pistol.
“What’s going on, Jed?”
“Thought you should see this here fella fer a minute. Carle was skirtin’ out at the edge o’ town like you said when he come upon him trying to hide hisself behind a bush. Take a look at this here,” he drawled. He pulled the man’s shirt away from his body. “That’s blood if ever I saw it.”
Sky let his eyes drop from studying the face of the terrified young man to the large brown patch of crusted shirt that Jed held out. Anger surged through him at the sight of the blood. The thought that this could be the man who had done such a despicable thing to Fraser clenched his fists at his sides. He took a deep breath to calm himself and forced his hands to relax. Jed calmly held the gun on the trembling youth, waiting for Sky’s response.
Sky turned back to the young man. “How did this blood get on your shirt?”
“I-I-I…” He stuttered to a halt shaking his head, fear radiating from his eyes.
“Were you in Fraser’s Mercantile last night after it closed?” The man shook his head. “No.”
“Did you kill Fraser?”
“No.” Again the shake of the head, but Sky heard fear in the man’s voice that made him wonder if he was telling the truth.
“How did this blood get on your shirt?”
“I-I-I…,” he started stuttering again, but when his eyes met Sky’s stare, he came to a lame halt. His hands, still at shoulder height, rose a little higher as he gave a slight shrug, turning his palms to the sky. “I kill pig two day past.” He shrugged again. “Maybe happen when I kill pig. I not know how blood came to be on me.”
His eyes never leaving the man’s face Sky reached down and pulled his knife from its sheath around his waist.
The Chinaman’s eyes widened. “No! Please. I not know how blood got there. I speak truth.”
Sky had wanted to see what the man’s reaction would be and he was not satisfied. The man was truly terrified. This didn’t help him because the man’s fear could be interpreted several different ways. The man might be innocent and petrified that he was about to be arrested for a crime he didn’t commit. On the other hand he might have committed the murder and now was honestly frightened that he would be found out.
Sky stood for a moment, the knife held casually by his side, studying the face of the Chinaman whose terrified eyes were locked on the glinting blade.
With sudden swiftness Sky reached out and grasped the bloody part of the man’s shirt. The man squeezed his eyes shut in fear, and Sky paused momentarily, realizing the man thought he was going to stab him. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said as with one smooth stroke he sliced a bloodstained piece off of the shirt to be sent in for testing. “What is your name?”
“Ping Chi.”
Turning to Jed, Sky said, “Lock him up.”
Jed prodded Ping in the direction of the courthouse with the barrel of his gun as he said, “Gaffney found some s’picious prints in the alley ’tween Fraser’s and my place.”
Sky stood, fingering the blood-encrusted piece of material for a moment before he turned toward the alley between the boarding house and the Mercantile. During the rains the night before the ground in the alley had become soft and muddy. The snow that had covered the ground earlier that morning had melted and Sky could clearly see the set of footprints.
He frowned. These footprints were little; barely over half the size of his own tracks and close together, indicating a person small in stature. The heel of the right boot had a crack across it.
Sky’s heart lurched in his chest as he realized he’d seen these tracks before. They were the same ones he had found in the barnyard on the day Brooke had gone to pick berries.
Sky glanced up at the window of their room speculatively. He stood thinking for a long moment before he turned back to study the tracks again.
He saw where the man had squatted behind a wooden barrel and then the tracks showed that he had turned and headed back down the alley toward the outskirts of town.
Brooke said she had seen the Mountain Man from the stage. He vaguely remembered the rugged man who had gotten off the stage that day with Brooke. His mind had been preoccupied with Brooke. But he did remember one thing. That man had been anything but small.
Brooke sat in a daze, unable to think of anything but the murder. Now another fifteen-year-old girl had no family. Terror pounded through her veins. She knew information that might help solve this crime but could not share it for fear of her life and Sky’s.
She wondered what would happen to the girl now. Who would take care of her? Would she be sent to live with one of her uncles? The very thought sent a new pulse of terror through Brooke’s body. Surely she owed it to the girl to help find her father’s killer. Could she do any less? But then Percival Hunter’s terrifying face swam before her eyes and she heard his threats repeated over and over. I could never do anything that would bring harm to Sky.
Percival had seemed so kind—so harml
ess—on the coach coming up from Lewiston. She shivered.
At a knock on the door she gasped, startled upright by the sound. “Who is it?” she called with a shaking voice.
“It’s me, Sky.”
She climbed slowly off the bed, pausing to eye herself in the mirror. She had quit crying, but her eyes were still swollen and puffy. Running fingers through her tangled hair, she moved to the door, pulled back the lock, and opened it.
“You all right?” he asked, eyeing her disheveled appearance.
She chose the safest topic of conversation. “He had a daughter, you know. She is fifteen.”
“Yes, I know.”
Brooke made no comment to this, only lay down on the bed. Turning on her side, her back to him, she tucked her hands under one cheek and stared at a knot on the wall.
After a long pause, Sky said, “We will be going to Lewiston early tomorrow morning. I want you to come with us.”
She turned and looked at him, a question in her eyes. “I can stay out at the farm. I will be fine.” But even as she said the word, she knew she wouldn’t be fine. Not ever again.
Sky fingered his black Stetson. “I would feel better if you were with me, and I knew you were safe. I don’t feel right about leaving you here when there could be a murderer loose somewhere.”
Brooke trembled as his words drove home. Did he somehow know she was holding out on him? That she had not told him the truth about the man in the alley? She tried to read his face.
No suspicion filled his eyes. She sighed in relief before turning back to the knot on the wall. She could feel the warmth of his gaze on her back as he waited for her response. Shrugging, she nodded, indicating consent. If he wanted her to accompany him, she would. She knew she would feel much safer with him than if she stayed out at the farm by herself.
13
Brooke sat in the pew, quietly taking in the scene around her. When was the last time I sat in a church? The Sunday before Mama and Daddy died, I guess. Sky sat next to her, his hat hanging from one knee. Head bowed, he had his hands clasped between his knees, and Brooke could tell he was struggling to harness his emotions.
Little groups of people turned in their pews, talking quietly among themselves. Brooke could imagine the gist of their conversations by their facial expressions and hand signals. “Who would do such a thing to such a fine man?” or, “That poor young child. What do you suppose she is going to do with herself now that her pa is gone?”
Brooke’s eyes fell on a group of surly-looking men toward the back on the other side of the church. Their conversation was punctuated with gestures that lent a sinister air to their invented dialogue. “Justice needs to be served here. We won’t stop looking for those killers until we find them! And when we do, they’re going to wish that they never laid a hand on Fraser.”
Sky had shared with her last night when they arrived in Lewiston that, unfortunately, many men were already convinced this crime could not have been committed by anyone but a group of Chinese. Already, talk of vigilante “justice” circulated. Sky feared the trial in Pierce City would merely be an excuse for revenge.
Suddenly Brooke froze. Her eyes riveted to a man who sat discretely in the back corner of the church. His hat was pulled low over his forehead, but he looked like the mountain man she had met on the stage except he was dressed impeccably. He wore a black suit with a string tie resting on the front of a crisp white shirt. His hair and beard were clean and neatly combed. No tobacco juice stained his beard. Brooke blinked, looked away, then looked back again. It was him—the mountain man cleaned up! It had to be. What was he doing here? And why had Percival insisted she say it was him she had seen in the alley that night?
She laid a hand on Sky’s sleeve, her eyes never leaving the face of the mountain man at the back of the room. Sky turned to her, then his gaze followed hers and came to rest on the bearded man seated in the darkened corner. Before either Brooke or Sky could turn back around, he glanced their way and their eyes met. No one smiled, but the burly man dipped his head in silent acknowledgment. He recognized them. Sky repeated the gesture, eyes wary, as he and Brooke turned to face the front. Brooke did not take her hand off Sky’s arm. Somehow this small point of contact gave her warm comfort.
Sky laid his hand over Brooke’s and squeezed gently. His thoughts turned back to the mountain man in the corner of the room. What was he doing here? Why had he been in Pierce City that night? Had it really been him Brooke saw in the alley on that dark rainy night?
He cast a glance at Brooke. She was withholding something; he could feel it. The more he thought about the morning after the murder when he had come in to tell Brooke of Fraser’s death the more he knew something must have happened to her during the time he had been gone to the Mercantile.
What, he did not know, and so far Brooke was not speaking up.
He should question her but felt reluctant to push her. He wanted her to feel safe with him—protected, not threatened. Still, something troubled her. He could tell by the erratic shifting of her eyes and the repeated fidgeting of her hands. For the last two days she had been jumpy, starting at the least little noise or jostle.
He glanced at her again. Even now he could tell by her frown that some memory frightened her. How could he encourage her to confide in him?
A door opened at the front right of the church. A woman wearing all black escorted Alice Fraser, also clothed in mourning, to the front bench. Brooke’s eyes darted to the closed coffin sitting in front of the pulpit, and then back to the girl. Memories of a very similar scene flashed through her mind. Only in her memories there were three coffins at the front of the room instead of one.
Heart constricting, Brooke watched as the young woman cast a furtive glance at the coffin and then, face paling, collapsed onto the front pew. Her small frame shook uncontrollably as sobs wracked her body.
Brooke’s free hand clenched in her lap. She shuddered, determined not to let the tears burning the back of her eyes slip down her cheeks. She knew how Alice felt. The utter incredulity of losing your entire family in one single blow. I miss you, Mama. And Jess, oh, how I miss you. Her sister’s smiling face swam before her eyes unbidden. She shook her head to dispel the image and turned to find Sky’s dark, concerned gaze on her. She tried to smile and reassure him that she was all right, but her face only contorted into a grimace as her years of suppressed mourning and the pressure of the last several days surfaced. She dropped her head and let the tears fall, pulling her hand back into her lap. She had never allowed herself to truly mourn her family. The accident had been such a shock that she had wandered around in a stupor for the two days between the time it happened and Uncle Jackson’s arrival. She clearly remembered the events that took place on the night he arrived.
Brooke had been staring at the ceiling when Mrs. Brodman, the next-door neighbor, had come into her room and sat down on the bed beside her.
“Brooke, honey, your uncle is here. He just came in on the stage.” She smoothed Brooke’s hair away from her face as she spoke.
Brooke blinked, momentarily shutting the water stain on the ceiling from her vision.
Brooke could still picture the expression on the woman’s face. One of worried concern, as though she thought Brooke might never be the same again. I never have been.
The kindly lady had helped her sit up. “Come on, now, come meet your uncle. He says he has never met you. He seems a very kind man. He is going to take care of you now.”
Brooke sat up, staring dully at the wall. She didn’t want to meet anyone. She didn’t want to go anywhere. She didn’t want to be taken care of. I just want to be left alone. God, why did You do this to me?
However, her neighbor wouldn’t be put off. So, leaning heavily on Mrs. Brodman’s shoulder, she shuffled one foot in front of the other until they reached the living room, where Uncle Jackson waited. He turned from the mantle where he had been eyeing a picture of the family, and his eyes scraped over her face and clothes.
&nbs
p; Brooke knew she looked terrible. She had not bathed or changed out of her clothes, even to sleep, in the last two days. Her curly strawberry-blond hair had not been combed in the same amount of time, and hung in great knots and tangles about her shoulders. There was a hard edge to Uncle Jackson’s countenance she didn’t like from the moment she laid tired eyes on him.
He spoke curtly. “Go clean up…dear.” The last word was thrown in almost as an afterthought as he cast a glance at Mrs. Brodman.
Brooke, mind numb, realized that, yes, she did need to clean up. The funeral was to be held in three hours. Mama wouldn’t want me looking unkempt.
Mrs. Brodman had helped her bathe and change into clean clothes, had combed her hair, and had braided it to a thick plait down her back. The black dress was a little too small for her. She hadn’t worn it since Mama had made it for her to wear to Grandpa’s funeral the year before, but it would have to do.
She sat through her family’s funeral, eyes dry, throat tight, still unbelieving and in shock. This could not be happening to her. She was having some horrible dream, and Mama and Jess would walk in the door from church any minute and chastise her for not having the lunch preparations done. She needed to wake up. Oh, if only she could wake up, what a relief that would be. But it was not a dream. One didn’t wake up from reality.
She made it through the funeral and even through the meal provided by the church afterward, although she couldn’t swallow a bite. When she and Uncle Jackson arrived home, she headed for her bedroom to curl up in a ball and never come out.
Her uncle, however, had other plans. He came in and jerked the covers off of her. “Get up and get me some dinner. I was too busy talking things over with your father’s lawyer to eat at the church.” He stalked out of the room. He obviously hadn’t liked what the lawyer had to say.
In a daze, Brooke got up and headed for the kitchen. He sat at the table reading The Chronicle.
Brooke rummaged in the cupboards for some food. She didn’t know what to give him. But she didn’t really care, either. Placing a plate of cold chicken and potato salad in front of him she pulled the pot of coffee that Mrs. Brodman had been kind enough to make from the back of the stove. Setting a cup down by him she began to pour. Her mind wandered. Was it only two days ago that I poured coffee for Papa into this very same mug?
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