Stands a Calder Man (Calder Saga 2)

When he shook it, Lilli’s hand tightened on Webb’s arm. He didn’t even look at her as he slipped out of her hold. “You stay here, out of the way.” He vaulted over the porch railing to the ground and started to make his way along the crowded street to the wagon in front of Ellis’s store.

“It don’t look worth ten dollars to me.” Hobie Evans made as if to give it back to the man, but just before the drylander’s outstretched hands reached it, Hobie let go. The clock’s chimes dinged as it fell to the hard ground. The woman cried out at the sickening sound of s

plintering wood. “It sure as hell ain’t worth ten dollars now.” Hobie laughed as the man bent to carefully pick up his broken clock. Lilli’s shoulders sagged. It was too late; the damage was done; and Webb wasn’t even halfway there yet. “It’s no good, mister,” Hobie sneered. “Just like you’re no good. We don’t want your kind around here. We never wanted you. This land’s gonna be cursed until all of you leave. So git!”

A bottle was thrown at the wagon. Lilli heard it crash against the side and break. Pieces of glass struck the horses. One of them reared and Webb grabbed at the bridle, hauling the animal down. No one seemed to notice him except the two little girls huddled together on the wagon seat. All the attention was focused at the rear of the wagon, where the drylander was setting his clock on the tailgate, trying to keep the broken parts together.

“Did you hear me?” Hobie challenged. “Nobody wants your trash. So climb in your wagon and git! And take your junk with you!”

It was all too much for the drylander. The one thing he had of value to sell was now broken. He turned on Hobie Evans, trembling and near tears. Without warning, he hurled himself at the cowboy. Hobie easily sidestepped the blind charge, clasped his hands together in a single fist, and brought it down on the man’s back, driving him to the ground.

“Damned fool tried to attack me,” he declared with a laugh, as if he’d just swatted down a pesky mosquito.

Webb had the horses settled down and had taken a stride toward the rear of the wagon when an explosion shocked everyone on the street into stillness. Hobie was lifted up on tiptoes, his mouth opened in stunned disbelief as his hands clawed at his arched back. His legs began to fold under him, but he managed a half-pivot to look for the unknown assailant who had shot him. Lilli covered her mouth with her hand when she saw the small red hole in the middle of his back.

Thirty feet away, Franz Kreuger stood poised with his rifle to his shoulder, a faint white trail of smoke curling from the barrel. As Hobie crumpled into a heap on the dusty ground, his two comrades back-pedaled, slinking away before the rifle was turned on them. But Kreuger kept it reined on the dead man.

His eyes had the look of a ‘crazed man, pushed over the brink by too many battles with opponents he couldn’t beat—the drought that had ruined his farm and the disease that had taken his children and made an invalid of his wife. Hobie Evans finally represented something he could destroy. His life could be taken as the drought had taken the life from his land and the disease had claimed the last breath of his children.

Everyone recognized his demented look and no one took a step toward the dead man or the man with the rifle, afraid that he might become indiscriminate about his next target. Webb knew something had to be done and fought the coldness in the pit of his stomach. When he started to move toward Kreuger, a hand clamped itself on his shoulder to stop him. His head jerked to the side as Doyle Pettit moved silently up on his left.

“You’d better stay out of it, Webb,” he murmured and eyed Kreuger with a steady coolness. “He’d just as soon shoot you as look at you.”

From the other side of the street. Sheriff Potter was threading his way through the crowd with a double-barreled shotgun in hand. Doyle Pettit left Webb and angled over to join up with the law officer.

With a brassiness that Webb couldn’t help but admire, Doyle walked jauntily to Kreuger with a bright-eyed, innocent look fixed on his handsome face. His hands were thrust in his pants pockets, casually pushing his jacket open to subtly prove he was unarmed. Hobie had been unarmed, too. Kreuger’s side glance at Doyle was full of suspicion, but Doyle stood there, looking at the crumpled body in the dirt.

“He was a mean one, wasn’t he?” he said in a light, dispassionate voice.

“He deserved to die,” Kreuger declared. “No one should take pleasure from other people’s suffering. He should have been killed long ago. I have said over and over that we must all stick together and help each other out. But we are letting people like him drive us from our lands. It is time we stopped them.”

Doyle appeared to give a lot of thought to the embittered declaration the man made. “You know, Kreuger, I think you’re right.” He nodded. “We’ve got to stick together in this. You and me and the sheriff should sit down and come up with a plan. That Hobie Evans has given the sheriff nothing but trouble from the beginning. Isn’t that right, Sheriff?” The question invited Potter to come forward.

The sheriff kept the shotgun pointed at the ground, not making any threatening motions toward Kreuger. The weapon was easily explained away by Doyle, since Potter had only heard the gunshot and had not known what kind of trouble to expect or from whom. Within minutes, the two were guiding Kreuger up the street toward the sheriffs office. Doyle Pettit kept Kreuger talking and listened attentively to everything he had to say.

Two cowboys came forward to carry Evans’s body over to the smithy’s shop, who also did double duty as a coffinmaker. Lilli was white and trembling when Webb returned to her side. He immediately guided her away from the milling throng into the roadhouse and found a quiet table in the corner. With the excitement of the shooting, it was several minutes before he managed to have the waitress bring coffee to their table.

Lilli held Chase’s arms down to keep him from grabbing the cup of hot coffee while she took a sip of it. It seemed to steady her nerves.

“Are you okay?” Webb asked, and she nodded.

“I think I’ve always known Kreuger was capable of killing someone in cold blood,” she murmured. “But seeing it—” She shuddered expressively, not needing to finish the sentence.

“It’s over now.” His hand closed over hers.

“Is it?” She looked up at him, her blue eyes wide with doubt. “Or is it just the beginning?” Webb didn’t answer, stunned by the quiet conviction in her voice. “I’ve heard all the stories about long dry spells that have driven people berserk. Kreuger has always advocated violence. He’s shown he’s willing to commit it. What’s to stop him now?”

“The sheriff has him in custody, Lil. You don’t have to worry about him anymore,” he insisted.

“I wished I believed that,” she murmured, because the knowledge didn’t reassure her.

The door to the roadhouse opened and Simon Bardolph walked in. He was halfway to an empty table when he spotted Webb and Lilli sitting in the corner. He changed course to join them.

“You saw it?” he asked as he pulled out a chair to sit down. There wasn’t any need to refer directly to the shooting. It was the only topic being discussed in town.

Webb nodded. Simon leaned both elbows on the table and wiped at his face, smoothing the shaggy hair behind his ears. “I’ve just been over to look at the body so I can write up the death certificate. I knew Kreuger would snap sometime. Too many things have been piling up on him.”

“Has Kreuger sold out? Is he leaving?” Webb asked.