Authors: Christine Michels
"Yes," Delilah agreed. Except that in Red Rock she would once again have to face Sheriff Matthew Chambers. Her heart gave a little thud at the thought.
She'd managed to say a regally, cool farewell to the handsome Sheriff when he'd left the ranch, and she was certain nobody suspected the intimate moment that had passed between them. But in the days that followed his departure, Matt was never far from her thoughts. She'd see a thundercloud on the horizon and be reminded of the deep grey hue of his eyes. She'd see one of the hands washing up and be reminded of Matt's muscular chest. She'd see Stone's serious mien and be reminded of Matt's solemnity.
The horse's hooves clopped noisily over the planks of the bridge and Delilah returned to the present. Children were playing boisterously in the schoolyard to her right, with the exception of a couple of girls sharing the seat of a swing suspended from a huge tree limb. Above them, a boy shimmied along the branch obviously planning to take them unawares with some prank. Delilah smiled wistfully. The carefree days of youth numbered entirely too few.
Looking away before she got absolutely maudlin, Delilah stared ahead at the bustling little town and absorbed the ambiance. The sound of lounging drovers arguing as they leaned on the hitching posts in front of Wilson’s Saddlery. The sight of two ladies, children in tow, rushing into Lowden’s Mercantile to get their shopping done. The smell of fresh baked bread and rolls emanating from Mrs. Swartz’s Bakery.
"That's Mr. Cobb, the banker," Eve said abruptly, lifting her chin in the direction of a man emerging from the Red Rock Savings and Loan. A man sporting grey muttonchops closed the door of the bank and made his way down the boardwalk with a swift but small-stepped gate that seemed a bit effeminate. He wore black trousers and matching suit jacket worn over a light grey vest and striped shirt. A gold watch chain dangled from the pocket of his vest. His ensemble was completed by a black bowler hat and a walking stick.
"How long has he been in the West?" Delilah asked.
Eve considered. "About two years now, I believe. His wife and children are still in Boston. She followed him here shortly after he took over operation of the bank but, rumor is, she refused to live in a town that was so lacking in refinement. So she went back East and nobody here has seen her since."
Rattlesnake Joe pulled the wagon to a halt in front of the mercantile. Eve and Delilah reined their mounts to a standstill and looked at each other. Neither was ready yet to say good-bye.
"Well," Eve said, "I guess I'll see you in a couple of weeks."
Delilah nodded disconsolately, and then inspiration struck. "Why don't I come into the store with you for a few minutes. I'm sure I could use a couple of things myself."
Eve's face brightened at the idea. "Would you? It'll be like old times.” In the days after their father's death, they had done all their shopping together, sharing the decisions about what to purchase with their hard-earned money.
She smiled. "Certainly.” Dismounting, she tied Jackpot to the hitching rail and removed Poopsy from her saddlebag perch, settling the small dog firmly in the crook of her arm and receiving a moist warm lick to her nose for her troubles. Eve waited for her on the boardwalk, and they entered the store.
Had she been blindfolded, Delilah would have known the instant she entered the mercantile. It smelled like general stores everywhere, of coffee and tea, tobacco and cigars, huge slabs of homemade cheeses and smoked hams. Pickle barrels and bushels of dried beans, peas and corn crowded the aisles along with wooden slatted baskets of last season's potatoes, carrots, turnips and onions. On the darkly varnished wooden counter next to three large jars of colorful penny candy sat a basket of eggs. A sign advertised them at fifteen cents a dozen.
Eve greeted Mr. Lowden and began going over her shopping list with him. ". . . Twenty pounds of flour, ten pounds of sugar, some matches. . .” Delilah allowed their voices to fade into the background as she examined a bolt of bright blue cotton fabric. Wistfully, she allowed the cool fabric to slide over her fingers. It would be so beautiful when fashioned into a gown. For an instant, she pictured the dress she could make with it, pictured herself attired in something other than black. She had always loved cheerful clothing.
Then, realizing what she was doing, Delilah jerked her hand away from the fabric and moved on. Wearing such clothing was impossible for her. She could not afford to give up her widow's garb. The thought of losing the barrier it presented to unwanted male attention terrified her.
Unwittingly, her thoughts turned to Matt. The impediment of her widowhood seemed to mean little to him. She didn't know what she was going to do about that.
"Mrs. Sterne!"
Delilah started at the unexpected male voice and turned. It took an instant before she recognized its owner. "Why hello, Mr. Pike. How are you?"
"I'm doin' all right, ma'am. Thank you kindly for askin'. I didn't expect to see you in Red Rock."
Despite the light of avid curiosity she perceived in the man's eyes, Delilah wasn't about to explain her presence to the bounty hunter. "Nor I you, Mr. Pike."
"Well, ma'am, I gotta go where the leads take me. When I showed the posters around, somebody said they thought they mighta seen that Towers fella in these parts. So, here I am."
~~~* * *~~~
As he rode back into town after another fruitless search of mountain canyons and valleys, Samson noticed a distinctive appaloosa tied at the hitching rail before Lowden’s Mercantile. Delilah was back! He felt a small thrill of anticipation—totally unlike him—but considering the way she'd invaded his thoughts lately, perhaps he should have expected it. Still, he couldn't allow her presence to distract him from his duties. This evening would be soon enough to let Delilah Sterne know that he hadn't forgotten her. After all, he had a firm duty to observe every move she made while gambling at the Lucky Strike.
In the meantime though, as soon as he stabled Goliath, he wanted to find old Jeb and have a chat. There was nobody quite as efficient as that old man at making observations. And since he spent darned near every waking hour lounging in front of either the mercantile or the barber shop, it stood to reason that he might have seen something that would help Samson.
It was almost an hour before Sam made it to Henry Newton's barber shop, where he found Jeb Potter sitting on a chair out front. He'd been sidetracked by a conversation with Mayor Ralston Jack who'd wanted an update on the new dealer now employed at the Lucky Strike. Seems his wife had heard from Mrs. Schwartz, who had heard from Mrs. Williamson, who had heard from God knew where, that Samson was actually going to allow another professional gambler to set up shop. The ladies were naturally concerned. Particularly when it was learned that the new dealer was, in fact, an attractive young woman.
"How's it goin', Sheriff?" Jeb asked as Samson approached.
"Not bad, Jeb. Not bad.” He took up a leaning position against the wall next to Potter's chair. "Anything exciting been happening in town?"
"Can't say as I'd call it excitin'. Intrestin' maybe."
"What's interesting?"
Jeb shrugged his skinny shoulders and smacked his toothless mouth. "New guy in town," he said without preamble.
"He heeled?"
"Yep. Has that look about him. Seems like he's fixin' to stay, ‘cause he checked into the hotel."
Samson bit off a piece of hard candy and studied the street. "Lawman?"
"Mebbe," Jeb acknowledged. "More 'n likely a bounty hunter.” Jeb spat a stream of brown tobacco juice into a tin can at his side, and Samson received the distinct impression that Jeb would have just as soon his target had been the bounty hunter's boot. Jeb had lost one of his two sons to a bounty hunter in a case of mistaken identity, and never had got over it. The old man considered bounty hunting to be nothing more than legalized murder. "Call's hisself Pike," Jeb added with distaste.
Samson nodded. He was afraid of that. Still, there was nothing he could do about it except continue to do his job and pray for the best. "You hear anything more about this rustlin'?"
"Hear'd old Simon Earl lost hisself another twenty head. And the Bar K fifteen head or so."
"Yeah. I heard that too.” Samson squinted at a man coming out of the hotel. He wore dusty denims, a buckskin vest, a battered felt hat, and a pair of boots that looked like he'd probably been wearing them ever since bears grew teeth. The man paused to give the street a thorough examination, pulled a cigar from his pocket, lit it with a wooden match that he struck with his thumbnail, and then started walking toward the saloon. He had the gait of a man who'd spent a lifetime in the saddle. He also wore a set of matching pistols in holsters that had been secured to his thighs with rawhide thongs.
Had to be the bounty hunter.
As if in verification of his unspoken conclusion, Potter said, "Here comes that Pike feller now.” He indicated the man across the street with a motion of his grey-whiskered chin.
Samson nodded. "He been askin' questions yet?"
"Not that I kin tell."
Samson shrugged. "Well, I guess we'll know soon enough why he's here."
"Yup.” The door of the barber shop squeaked and the banker emerged, his hair and greying muttonchops once again neatly trimmed.
"Afternoon gentlemen," he said, touching his walking cane to the brim of his hat as he went by.
"Hiram," Jeb said with a dip of his chin.
Samson shook his head inwardly. Potter knew that Cobb hated to be addressed by his given name. But it was Jeb's way of reminding the pretentious banker that he regarded him as an equal—whether Cobb reciprocated the opinion or not.
"Cobb," Samson, too, nodded in acknowledgment of the banker's greeting.
As Hiram Cobb moved on, a companionable silence fell. That was another thing Samson had always liked about old Jeb. He didn't feel the need to fill every silence with useless chatter. They watched the people scurrying along the boardwalk, each intent on their own tasks. Mrs. Vanbergen, the laundress, was rushing along the opposite side of the street with an armful of white linens; her portly figure as she steamed along reminded Samson of a train's engine. Amy Sweet, dressed in men's clothing and smoking a cigarette, pulled her buckboard to a halt in front of the store; her youth and whatever natural beauty she might have possessed were camouflaged by her determination to be accepted as any man's equal. Doc Hale slammed the door of his office and, black bag in hand, hurried off down the street. Sight of him reminded Samson that the Doc had told him to have the stitches Delilah had given him removed within the next week. After demanding to know who had stitched his ribs, Doc had proclaimed Delilah's handiwork more than satisfactory and told Samson his ribs would heal just fine.
"That little lady you were so took with is back," Jeb commented out of nowhere.
"Oh. What little lady might that be?" he asked mildly, though he knew damn well who Potter meant.
Jeb snorted, not even dignifying Samson's question with a reply.
Samson decided it was time to get to the subject at hand. "Jeb, you know these hills better than most. That so?"
Potter nodded. "Seen most every piece o' them. Been here nigh on twenty years, Matt."
"So, if you were rustlin' cattle, where would you hide them? Especially if you were concerned about gettin' them out to market again fast?"
Jeb frowned. "There's lots o' good hidin' places. You'd be figurin' on them drivin' them out at night?"
Samson nodded in confirmation. "Yep. Any ideas?"
"Gimme a minute," Jeb demanded cantankerously. Then he started thinking out loud. "Le'see, you'd want somethin' that not just anybody could stumble across. Where d'you figure they'd have in mind ta take 'em?"
Samson shook his head. "Could be either Helena or Butte. They be wantin' someplace with a train though is my guess. Get the cattle out faster, less chance of questions."
"They'd be wantin' to use whatever range country between here and there that they can. That'd narrow it down some.” He frowned and stared intently at the dusty boards beneath his feet as he chewed thoughtfully on the wad of tobacco in his cheek. "Brokenback Canyon mebbe. It'd prob'ly be the best place ta hide 'em 'fore herdin' 'em out."
Samson shook his head. "I thought of that, but there isn't any way into Brokenback except above the falls, and there's no way around them. There sure isn't any way they're gonna drive a herd of cattle over them."
Jeb spat again before arguing. “‘Course there's a way into the canyon below the falls. It ain't easy ta find, an' a lot of folks don't know 'bout it no more. The ones that do can get downright panicky usin' it cause its real deep. It's fair wide but, once you get through a short tunnel, the walls is real high and sloped inward. Makes some fellers feel like the walls is closin' in. But, if they didn't try to drive more 'n a ten or fifteen head through at a time, it could be done."
Samson's gut told him this was it. Had to be. "How do I find it?"
After Jeb had explained, Samson wasn't surprised he'd missed it. The narrow access canyon began as what looked like a cave entrance concealed by a natural rock formation. In actuality, according to Potter, it was a natural tunnel. From his description, it was located very near where Samson had lost the trail the day that Jaimie Cox had been murdered, which probably explained how the men had been able to disappear.