He avoided the rough road leading up to the house, knowing he’d leave far less sign in the buffalo grass and
rocks he crossed. An hour later he reached the dugout where Stockard had lived.
Jacob walked around the boarded-up shack. It was bigger than most, and the sheriff had been right; Jacob could
see a mile or more in every direction. He could understand why this would have been a good hideout for
outlaws back in years past. In fact, Jacob had a strange feeling their ghosts were still near, or at least something
was. He swore someone was watching him.
Jacob moved into the blackness of the roofline and froze, staring out at the land, waiting for something to move.
If he had been fol owed, they’d get restless and make a shift in position soon.
Nothing moved.
He crossed to the other side of the house. An old well and a few fal en-down buildings left eerie shadows. One
looked like it might have been a barn, the other maybe a tack shed. The skeleton of a corral was visible, but
nothing more.
Jacob took a long breath and unpacked his bedrol . Along with a sack of food and coffee, Marla had put in a
small lantern. Jacob lit it and tried to find the door of the dugout. He didn’t real y think he wanted to sleep inside with the spiders and bugs, but he would like to look around before he turned in for the night.
The door was boarded up so that it looked more like one of the wal s. It took him several tries and all his
strength to pry enough boards loose to squeeze inside. The house was only one room. Most of the furniture
seemed worthless or broken. A bed in one corner looked like it might have a village of insects living in it. There
were tracks in the dirt floor.
Jacob bent down, holding the lantern low. Rabbit, possum, and skunk, he’d guess. And one more. Dog. The dog
tracks were recent, not more than a few days old he’d guess. But, if there was a dog on the property, wouldn’t
the animal have barked when a stranger rode up? Maybe the four-legged trespasser was wild and had just been
passing through. If the dog had belonged to Stockard, it would have had to survive out here alone for three,
maybe four years. Jacob doubted, even with the cabin for shelter, that a lone animal would make it through one
winter much less three or four.
He fol owed the prints and found a hole big enough for an animal to pass through in one corner of the dugout.
He went back outside and picked up the trail. It was hard to tell with only the small lantern’s light, but Jacob saw
drops of what looked like dried blood mixed with the dog’s prints. Maybe the dog had caught a rabbit inside the
house and carried it out. That seemed unlikely, for dogs hunted like wolves, who usual y ate their prey where
they kil ed it.
He fol owed the paw prints into the rocks where they disappeared on the rough ground. Only now and then, he
saw spots of blood. To his surprise, they led to a small cave with a waist-high opening wel hidden by brush.
Jacob was about to decide to come back after daylight and explore, when he heard a low whimper.
He pul ed his gun and slowly crawled into the opening, shoving the lantern ahead of him. The cave opened up to
be almost as large as the dugout, with a ceiling too low for Jacob to stand upright. Old crates littered the floor.
Jacob guessed this must have been a hiding place for supplies back years ago. If old Stockard opened his home
to outlaws, like everyone seemed to think, maybe he wasn’t wil ing to share his store of food. With the cave so
close to the house, he could easily get supplies when he needed them and stil not share more then he wanted
to.
The whimpering came again. Jacob moved to the far corner of the cave and pushed a box aside with his foot.
He found a thin border col ie curled in a ball. The animal was too near dead to do more than whimper as Jacob
wrapped a dusty rag he found around him and carried the dog out.
Once he was back to the dugout, Jacob made camp out by the well. There was no shortage of boards to use for a
fire. Soon, Jacob had it blazing. He took care of his horse and set the food he’d brought on the wel , hoping to
keep it away from some of the critters nearby. Marla had packed several pieces of chicken along with bread and
coffee.
Jacob put on the coffee to boil and eased down a few feet from the dog.
The animal had been watching his every move, and snarled like he might bite if Jacob made any advances.
“Easy now, old fel ow.” Jacob kept his voice low. “I didn’t lug you out of that cave to kil you now.”
Jacob didn’t hurry; he gave the dog time. He had no idea what was wrong with the animal, but since the col ie
was or had been bleeding, Jacob figured it had to be an accident of some kind.
He moved a bite of chicken within the dog’s reach.
The animal snapped it up.
Jacob placed another piece an inch closer.
The animal ate again.
The fourth time the dog took the bite of meat from the ranger’s hand. “That a way to go, boy,” Jacob said low
and slow. “Might as well come to dinner.”
By the time the chicken was gone, the dog let Jacob touch him. It took a few tries, for blood seemed to be
everywhere, but Jacob finally figured out what was wrong.
The dog had been shot. Once in the leg, once in the neck. Both bul ets had passed though, leaving both an
entrance and exit wound. No bones were broken, but the neck wound stil bled.
Jacob pul ed some of the ointment from his pack that Mrs. O’Daniel had insisted he take to put on his knife
wounds. “If this didn’t kill me, it won’t kill you.”
By the light of the fire, Jacob smeared the salve on and bandaged the dog as best he could. Then Jacob drank his
coffee and leaned back against his saddle. He fell asleep with the dog resting his chin on his leg.
At dawn, the fire had disappeared, but the dog was still there. His eyes were no longer wild as his gaze followed
Jacob’s movements.
“How about I see what we have for breakfast?” Jacob asked as he rummaged through the supplies. “Rolls for me
and looks like a scrambled egg sandwich for you.” He held out the sandwich, and the dog took it, bread and al .
“Lucky thing you like it. I hate eggs, but I didn’t have the heart to tell Marla.”
He split the rest of his breakfast with the dog and poured water in his hand so the animal could drink. “I think I’ll
call you Fred. I never had a friend named Fred, and it always struck me as a good name.”
The col ie looked more sleepy than interested.
Jacob fed his horse, then began exploring the place again. With his skills in tracking, he could sometimes read
what happened at a place the way other people read the paper.
There were boot prints of a man who walked mostly on his heels and rocked when he paused. Three shel s were
a few feet outside the hole where animals had come and gone from the dugout, which told Jacob whoever shot
Fred had been standing less that five feet away. The dog must have run for the shelter and hid there until the
heel-walker was gone.
Jacob knew Harrison and Farrow had both been to the land in the past week. One of them had shot the dog.
Maybe out of fear. Maybe to keep him quiet.
“Well, whoever it was, Fred . . .” Jacob glanced back at the dog still lying by the fire. “He was a bad shot. Three
shells. He was so close I don’t see how he missed you completely once.”
The ranger remembered Harrison saying he didn’t much like guns. Which translated that he would probably be a
bad shot. On the other hand, Farrow didn’t strike him as being good at much of anything but talking.
Jacob continued his search. There were several places where someone had tried to get into the house, pul ing a
board or two loose. The bookkeeper wasn’t strong enough to carry Nell, so he might not have the strength to
pull the board free. Walter Farrow seemed to have spent his time lifting only a fork.
Jacob didn’t like the idea of even considering Harrison in the same category as Farrow. If Harrison had shot the
dog, he would have mentioned it when he made it back home. Nel wouldn’t have liked it, but she’d understand.
He moved into the shack and began to search for anything that might make this old place valuable. Trash was
everywhere. Stockard seemed to have the idea that stuff was easier to step over than burn. What few pots he
had were scattered about. Plates were piled in a bucket along with a few forks. Old newspapers and letters were
stuffed into cracks to keep out the wind.
Jacob picked up each piece of furniture, looking for something, anything that might be of interest. Maybe a key,
or a map, or even money tucked away where no one would notice.
Fred limped in and watched Jacob for a while, then limped out again. The dog looked near death last night, but
this morning it seemed like he might just make it.
Jacob pul ed the newspapers out of the cracks in the wal . Most were from five or more years ago. A few
crumbled in his fingers as he tried to unfold them. He found a couple of letters and envelopes. One had a return
address of a prison down near Houston.
Jacob took the prison letter outside, but when he opened it, all he found was a blank piece of paper. Turning it
over in his fingers, Jacob wondered if it had once borne ink marks but the rain and weather had soaked it too
many times.
Jacob tossed the letters in the campfire. He searched for another hour but found nothing of value. Harrison’s
assessment had been accurate about the ranch. Whatever Farrow saw in the place was beyond Jacob.
Grabbing the last pile of letters, he moved to the fire. Just before he tossed them in, Jacob spotted one envelope
with the return address still readable.
Zeb Whitaker.
Jacob’s hand shook slightly as if he’d heard the voice of a dead man cal ing him. Zeb Whitaker had been the old
buffalo hunter who’d claimed Nel ’s friends stole his saddlebags of gold. He’d been the man who ambushed Nel .
The ranger forced a smile. Zeb Whitaker was dead, had been for months. Even if this was his letter, he was
beyond hurting anyone.
Jacob opened the envelope. Empty. He checked another. Nothing. Old Stockard had saved the envelopes to use
for stuffing, but he must have burned the letters. Not that Jacob cared. Stockard and Zeb were both dead, and
the letters had been written years ago.
He tossed the mail into the fire. Nell didn’t need to be reminded of Whitaker or that he and Stockard even knew
each other.
Climbing up by the cave, Jacob sat watching for a while, but saw nothing move but a few rabbits. By
midafternoon, he knew he had to ride down to the bend in the river and see if Harrison had learned anything. If
possible, he planned to talk to the bookkeeper while Nell was in the water.
If he and Harrison both agreed the place was worthless, maybe Nel would sel it. Jacob didn’t know how to put
it into words to Nel , but the place had a bad feeling about it. She’d be better off letting Walter Farrow have his
uncle’s place.
By the time the ranger reached the bend of the river, Nel and the nurse were already shoulder deep in the
water. Jacob found Harrison standing on the far side of the wagon, watching the road from town.
“Afternoon,” Jacob said.
From Harrison’s smile, he guessed Nell hadn’t told anyone how she got hurt. Otherwise, all her little army would
hate him, too.
“How is it out at the Stockard place?” Harrison shoved his hat back.
“Lonely,” Jacob answered.
“I figured that.” Rand reached for the basket of food Marla had sent. “Marla said if you’ll bring this back
tomorrow, she’l keep you supplied.”
“Beats jerky and beans.” Jacob thanked him. “Any news?”
Harrison shook his head. “Got a telegram from the doctor who comes in to check on Nel . He said he’d be here in
two or three days. Other than that, nothing.”
Jacob leaned on the wagon guard. “Did you see a dog while you were out at the dugout?”
Rand shook his head. “Did you find one?”
Jacob nodded. “He was stil alive, but he’d been shot.”
They talked about all the possibilities for a while, then Mrs. O’Daniel yelled.
“I’ll stand watch if you want to carry Nell out,” Harrison offered. “It’ll give you a chance to say hello.”
Jacob hesitated, but he couldn’t very well say no without everyone wondering why. Maybe Nell would let him
carry her back to the wagon without screaming for him to never touch her again.
He tugged his boots and guns off and waded in. Mrs. O’Daniel greeted him warmly, but Nel didn’t meet his gaze
as he moved beside her and gently lifted her out of the water. It was a little late to say he was sorry, and Jacob
hated having an audience to talk to Nel . But if he didn’t say something, Harrison was bound to notice things
weren’t right between them.
“How’s Hank?” Jacob asked, figuring it would be a safe subject.
“I think he’s going to be all right,” Nell answered. She trailed her hand in the water, making a tiny wave.
“How do you know?”
Mrs. O’Daniel seemed to feel the question was directed toward her. “I opened the door to the attic room this
morning, and Wednesday was sitting beside his bed feeding her baby. The boy’s eyes were open, and he was
watching as if he were seeing the eighth wonder of the world.” Mrs. O’Daniel hurried ahead of them now that
they were in shal ow water, but she raised her voice to make sure Jacob heard her story. “Wednesday looked up
at Hank and smiled as though feeding her baby in front of him were the most natural thing in the world. And he