Come the Spring (Claybornes' Brides (Rose Hill) 5)

“Was there something else?” Ryan asked.

“It seems to me … and a lot of folks in town … that I ought to be in charge of this investigation.”

Ryan cast Cole a quick glance to see how he was reacting to the sheriff’s claim.

“How do you figure that?” Ryan asked.

“I’m the sheriff in Rockford Falls, so this is my jurisdiction, not yours. Like I said before, I ought to be in charge and you two should be taking orders from me.”

“You think you could do a better job?”

“I maybe could.”

“You can’t even look at the stains on the floor,” Ryan said. “What makes you think you can—”

“It’s my jurisdiction,” Sloan stubbornly insisted.

Ryan’s patience was all used up. “Marshal Clayborne and I are here by special appointment, and I don’t particularly care if you’ve got a problem with that or not. Stay out of our way,” he ordered harshly. “Now, go get your posse together.”

Cole listened to the exchange without saying a word. He waited until the sheriff left, then crossed the lobby to the windows and opened one. A clean, sweet breeze, tinged with the scent of pines, brushed over his arms and neck. He took several deep breaths to rid himself of the metallic smell of blood inside the bank, and then turned around and leaned against the ledge.

He stared at Ryan’s back. “It rained hard last night and most of this morning,” he remarked.

“Yeah, I know. I got soaked.”

“There isn’t going to be a trail this afternoon. It’s been washed away.”

Ryan glanced over his shoulder. “I know that too. I just wanted to get rid of Sloan.”

Cole folded his arms across his chest and leaned back. “The men who did this are long gone.”

Ryan nodded. “Wires were sent to every lawman in the territory yesterday. By now all the main roads are being watched. There are also men at the train stations and the river. The bastards will still get through the net, though. They’re slick, real slick.” He let the paper he’d been reading drop down to the desk and turned around to face Cole. “You know what I used to be worried about?”

“What’s that?”

Ryan’s voice lowered. “That they’d stop and I wouldn’t be able to catch them.”

Cole shook his head. “They aren’t going to stop.” Nodding toward the bloodstains, he added in a whisper, “They’re having too much fun.”

“Yeah, I think you’re right. They’ve developed a real taste for killing.”

“How many banks have they robbed?”

“This makes almost a dozen.”

“They’ve gotten away twelve times?”

“They’re either very lucky or very smart.”

“Where and when was the first robbery?”

“It happened late spring two years ago. They robbed a bank in Texas—Blackwater, Texas, to be exact. That’s how they got their name.”

“The Blackwater gang,” Cole said.

“Yes,” Ryan said. “Anyway, they went in during the night with kerosene and burned the building to the ground when they left. No one saw anything.”

“Was anyone killed?”

“No,” Ryan answered. “Then, two weeks later, they hit another bank in Hollister, Oklahoma. Once again, they went in during the night, but they didn’t use kerosene.”

“Did they tear up the place?”

Ryan shook his head. “They were nice and tidy. They didn’t touch anything but the money, and they didn’t leave any evidence behind.”

“How do you know the two robberies were related?”

“Gut feeling mostly,” Ryan said. “There were a couple of similarities. As I said before, they went in during the night, and in both cases, government money had just been deposited for the army salaries at the nearby forts.”

“Where was the third bank?”

“Pelton, Kansas,” Ryan answered. “They changed the way they did things with that robbery. They went in at closing time, just like they did here. There were seven people inside. Two were killed. The shooting started when one of the employees went for his gun. He died gripping it in his hand, but he didn’t get a shot off.”

“So you did have witnesses?”

“Yes, but they weren’t helpful. They said the men wore masks and that only one did all the talking. They said he had a southern drawl.”

“How many men did they say came into the bank?”

“Seven.”

“And they were after army payroll again?”

“Yes.”

Cole filed the information away. Then he asked, “Where did they strike next?”

“They went back to Texas,” Ryan answered, “and robbed a bank in Dillon.”

“That’s your hometown, isn’t it?”

Ryan looked startled. Cole quickly explained. “I did a halfhearted search for you when you took the compass from my mother.”

“What else did you find out?”

Cole shrugged. “Nothing much. Was anyone killed in the robbery in Dillon?” he asked, switching the topic back to the more pressing matter.

“Yes.” His voice turned harsh, angry. “Too damned many.”

Cole waited, but Ryan didn’t give him any particulars. When Cole prodded him for details, he became agitated.

“Look, it’s all in the files. I’ve gone through them at least a hundred times, but maybe when you read the reports, you’ll find something I missed. The bank in Dillon was the last one they hit that year. They lay low in the fall and winter months, then start in again in the spring and summer months. It’s sporadic, yet consistent,” he added. “Last year they moved north and became even more violent, and this year, all three banks they’ve robbed have been in Montana Territory.”

“Probably because there are so many places to hide.”

“Yes. I think so too. They’ve stayed away from the big cities.”

“Sheriff Norton told me about the witness you had in Middleton.”

Ryan nodded. “Luke MacFarland was his name. He happened to be walking past the bank during the robbery. He told me he heard gunshots, but that he was already looking in through the space between the window and the shades because of something else he heard.”

“What was that?”

“Laughter.”

Cole wasn’t shocked. “I told you they enjoy their work. It’s going to get much worse unless you stop them.”

“Unless we stop them,” Ryan corrected. “You’re in this now.”

“Yeah, I guess I am. Did Luke tell you how the people inside died? Did they make them kneel down?”

“No, they were taken into the back room and killed there. The kneeling … that’s new. So is the knife.”

Ryan reached up and began to rub the knot in the back of his neck. “Damn, I’m tired.”

Cole could see how exhausted Ryan was. “You shouldn’t have slept outside in the rain. You’re too old for it.”

Ryan smiled. “I’m only a year older than you are.”

“How do you know my age?”

“I know everything there is to know about you.”

If Cole was surprised by the comment, he didn’t let it show. “Why didn’t you protect your witness in Middleton?”

“I sure as hell tried to protect him. Honest to God I did, but another robbery was reported over in Hart-field, and I left to check it out. Marshal Davidson was put in charge of Luke MacFarland and his family.”

“Besides telling you that he heard laughter, what else did Luke say?”

“He could only see two men through the seam. One of them took his mask off, and Luke got a glimpse at his profile. He didn’t think he could point him out in a crowd, though. He did say he was tall, lean.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“What was Marshal Davidson doing while his witness was being killed?”

“He’d already gotten hit. He’s going to recover, but it will take a long time. The doctor dug three bull

ets out of him.”

“They wouldn’t have left him unless they thought they’d killed him.”

“Yes, that’s what I think.”

“Sheriff Norton told me how MacFarland and his wife were killed. A knife was used on both of them. He thinks they murdered his wife to send folks a message. He says you’re going to have a hell of a time getting anyone to admit he saw anything. Word travels fast in the territory.”

“Did Norton happen to tell you anything about his background?”

“No, he didn’t. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. Have you ever heard of a gunslinger named the Laredo Kid?”

“Sure,” Cole answered. “He was a legend when I was growing up. Everyone knew what a daredevil he was … crazy, but fast with a gun. Real fast. He’s probably dead by now. Did Norton kill him?”

Ryan smiled. “The Laredo Kid isn’t dead. Fact is, he became a sheriff.”

“Norton is …?” Cole was incredulous.

“I swear it’s true.”

“He should have been killed years ago. There’s always someone faster with a gun waiting to prove himself. He’s lucky he’s still alive.”

“I agree, especially with that wife of his cooking for him. Did she make you eat her fried chicken? It damn near killed me.”

Cole burst out laughing. He was surprised how good it felt. The tension in his gut eased up a little. “She tried,” he admitted. “But I didn’t touch it.”

Ryan also relaxed, until he looked at the bloodstained floors again. It was a sobering sight.

“You’ve had time to look around. Tell me what you think happened.”

The laughter was gone from Cole’s eyes when he answered. “I’ll tell you what I know didn’t happen. None of them fought. There aren’t any signs of a struggle. Hell, they were as meek as sheep. There are guns in all three cash drawers behind the windows,” he said with a tilt of his head toward the tellers’ stations. “They’re loaded, but they haven’t been touched. Now, you tell me something, Ryan. Why did you come after me? There are better men out there to wear this badge.”

“I wanted you.”

“Why?”

“It’s complicated.”

“That’s an excuse, not an answer.”

Ryan sent the chair flying backward when he stood up and leaned against the desk. Both men ignored the crash that followed as the chair struck the wall; their gazes were fixed on each other.

A long minute passed in silence before Ryan made up his mind. “All right, I’ll tell you why I chose you for the job. A long time ago I started getting curious about you when I heard about the trouble you ran into down near Abilene and how you handled it.”

“I’m sure the story was exaggerated.”

“No, it wasn’t. I checked it out. You knew what they were going to do to that woman, and you—”

“Like I said,” Cole interrupted, “the story was exaggerated.”

“You shot through her to get him.”

“I shot through her arm, that’s all. The bullet didn’t touch bone. She only got a nick.”

“But that same bullet killed him.”

“He needed to die.”

“I can give you at least twenty other examples.”

“I’m good with a gun. So what?”

“You want the best reason of all?”

“Yes.”

“You think like they do.”

“Like who?”

“The bastards who came in here and killed all those people.”

“Son of a bitch!” Cole roared. “Do you think I could do something like this?”

Ryan diffused his anger. “No, I don’t think you could do something like this. I said you think like they do. You can get into their minds, Cole. I’ve tried, but I can’t do it.”

“You’re nuts, Ryan.”

“Maybe, but I need a man who won’t hesitate and who doesn’t mind bending the law in certain situations. I also have to trust him, and I trust you.”

“How do you know you can trust me?”

“All the stories you say didn’t happen. I rode with your mother on the train to Salt Lake, and she told me all sorts of saintly things about you only a mother could believe. Does she know how ruthless you can be?”

Cole refused to answer the question.

Ryan plunged ahead. “She thinks you’re headed in the wrong direction. That’s why she gave you the compass.”

“The compass you kept for over a year.”

Ryan shrugged. “She also told me the compass was to remind you to stay on the right path. The way I see it, I’m helping you do just that.”

“I’m not ruthless.”

“When the situation calls for it, you are. I also heard about Springfield.”

“Ah, hell.”

“Are you going to help me or not?”

Cole had already made his decision. The sight of those bodies would stay in his mind for a long, long time, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep at night unless he helped find the men who had committed this atrocity. He simply couldn’t walk away.

“I want to get all of them,” he whispered. “I’ll keep the badge, but as soon as this is over, I’m giving it back.”

“You might decide to stay on.”

“Maybe,” was all he would allow. “Are there any special rules for marshals? I never was one for rules,” he warned.

“Marshals are assigned to territories, but you and I are the exception because we’re on special duty. As for the rules, you don’t need to worry about them. It’s all common-sense stuff anyway. Marshals can’t be tried for murder, you know.” He told the lie with a straight face.

Cole laughed. “That rule will come in handy.”

Ryan stood up and rolled his shoulders to work the stiffness out. “Why don’t you go through this box while I go in the back and look through the drawers again.”

Ryan had already headed toward the president’s office when Cole called out to him. “What am I looking for?”

“The names of the people who did their banking yesterday. Sloan told me that the president insisted his tellers keep accurate records. They were ordered to write down the name of every customer they helped.”

“Once we make the list of the names, then what?” Cole asked.

“We talk to all of them because one might have noticed something out of the ordinary.”

“Has that ever happened before?”

“No, but we still have to ask. Those bastards are going to slip up one of these days. Maybe one of them came into the bank earlier to look it over.”

“That’s wishful thinking, Ryan.”

“Yeah, I know, but we still have to go through the routine. We have to cover all the possibilities. From the looks of all these stacks of paper, there were quite a few customers yesterday. It’s going to take us the rest of the day to go through them.”

They divided the stacks between them. Ryan went back into the president’s office to work there. Cole stayed out in the lobby. He searched through the top drawer of the ink-stained desk for a notepad and pencil so that he could make his list, found what he needed, and put them on the desktop. He was on his way to get the chair Ryan had kicked over when a glimpse of blue on the floor under the desk’s kneehole caught his attention.

“We’re going to have to go through everything in here at least three times,” Ryan warned. “Just in case we miss something the first and second time around.”

“We’ll be here a week,” Cole shouted back as he bent down on one knee and reached inside the kneehole. He pulled out a pale blue bag with a blue-and-white satin string.

He opened it and looked inside. There wasn’t anything there, just blue satin lining. Cole stared at the thing for several seconds, then called out, “Hey, Ryan, do you know who works at this desk?”

“Yes,” Ryan shouted back. He was seated at the president’s desk, methodically going through the contents in the top drawer. “I’ve got the name written down in my notes.?

??

“Do you remember if it is a man or a woman?”

Something in Cole’s voice caught Ryan’s attention. He glanced up, saw him down on one knee, and called out, “A man sits there.”

“Was he one of the men killed?”

“No. He was home sick yesterday.”

Cole stuck his head into the opening. “Well … well,” he whispered.

“Did you find something?” Ryan shouted.

“Maybe,” Cole answered. “Then again, maybe not.” He stood up and turned to Ryan. “Do you happen to know how often this place gets cleaned?”

“That’s the first question I asked Sloan, since we also have to go through the trash. According to him, MacCorkle was obsessed about keeping the place spotless. He had it cleaned every night and inspected every nook and cranny in the morning. All the trash in the bins is from yesterday’s business.”

“You’re positive it was cleaned Tuesday night?”

Ryan stopped what he was doing and walked back to the lobby. He spotted the wad of blue fabric in Cole’s hand.

“Yeah, I’m sure. Why? What have you got?”

“A possibility.”

“A possibility of what?”

Cole smiled. “A witness.”

Seven

Three women had been inside the bank between the hours of one and three o’clock in the afternoon on the day of the robbery. Cole and Ryan knew that was fact, not speculation, because of Sherman MacCorkle’s taskmaster rules. Just as the sheriff had told Ryan, the president of the bank had demanded that every transaction—even change for a dollar bill—be recorded by name on a piece of paper and filed in the cash drawer. If the figures on the papers didn’t balance with the money in the drawer, the teller had to make up the difference. MacCorkle had also insisted that each day’s tallies be separated into the morning and afternoon hours. The receipts for Wednesday morning’s transactions were still on MacCorkle’s desk in three neat piles. There was also an open filing cabinet behind MacCorkle’s desk filled with documents, loan applications, mortgages, and records of foreclosures. Every piece had a date on top.

God love Sherman MacCorkle for being such a stickler for details.

With all the interruptions, it took until evening to sort out all the names. In all, twenty-nine men and women had come into the bank that day. Eighteen had taken care of their business during the morning hours, and none of them were women. The bank had been closed for lunch from noon until one o’clock, and that afternoon, eleven people had come inside, and of those eleven, three were women.