“B’cause,” Paul Winslow replied, “they’re both dead.”
The room went utterly silent, intruded upon only by the heavy breathing of an insensible Ben Forrester, and a last-ditch spatter of grease in its cooling pan.
Their hunger was slaked. Time now for the story. Sensing the drama of the moment, Hannah rose to replenish empty cups as the tale began.
Chapter Sixteen
LUCKILY, BOTH THE SHERIFF and his two deputies were manning the jail when Ben had burst through the door early last evening. In his usual steady, no-nonsense terms, he described the attack on his wife and the probable reason for it. Then he had coolly announced that he was leaving to track down the perpetrators—those dastardly Putnam brothers—and the local constabulary could be either with him or agin him.
There could be only one side in this case, and that was the side of the law. Of course they would be with him.
Putting his younger officer, Colton Bridges, in charge of things on the home front, Paul Winslow and Austin Blakely had collected their weapons, looked to their supply of ammo, and then joined their mayor. This meant a determined trek across town, along the outer, less respectable edges, to the Prairie Lot.
Where, coincidentally enough, no one could say to just what unnamed locale the brothers had disappeared.
“Not a clue,” snarled the barkeep named Clunker (probably for his habit of “clunking” miscreants over the head with a shortened two by four). He was a tough, burly man who resembled a Neanderthal more than any modern homo sapiens, and his attitude would not encourage some chance patron to disobey the slightest order. “The boys stop in when they need to, to check on things and collect the till. Otherwise, I run the joint.”
That was true, reflected Ben, who had stood back for a few moments to let Sheriff Winslow conduct the interview. On the infrequent occasions of his own personal visits to the saloon / gambling parlor / dance hall and girlie joint—which he now recalled with a shamed blush to his cheek—he had watched while Clunker’s hard right arm had administered the Prairie’s particular brand of justice wherever he felt it necessary.
“So they’re not here now. And they haven’t been here all day,” Winslow summed up.
“That’s what I said,” agreed Clunker in a bored tone. His slopping of a dirty wet rag across the bar counter almost missed the sheriff’s striped shirt sleeve.
“Ahuh. You don’t mind if I have a look around, just to make sure you didn’t—ah—miss ’em—somewhere along the way?”
Clunker’s expression mirrored that of a bull about to charge: narrowed eyes, flaring nostrils, flattened mouth. One could just about visualize the horns beginning to sprout. “You do whatever it takes to get you outa here, alcade. Havin’ you and your toadies underfoot is bad for business.”
The search was quick, efficient, and thorough. And, except for the startled cries of those interrupted in their professional duties behind closed doors, and a couple rumbles of outrage, without incident.
“All right. Where to next?” the sheriff had asked, after, with a considerate tip of the hat, he removed himself and his toadies from the Prairie’s dank interior.
Dusk was starting to wrap itself down around the town. It was a quiet, weekday night, and those enterprises which kept normal hours were turning out lamps and locking doors before heading home at day’s end. Enough street side activity—wagons either hauling merchandise or emptied of merchandise, voices raised here and there from those lawfully occupied, occasional hearty laughter; but no riotous crowds, thank goodness, or flying bullets—kept Turnabout from looking ghost-like in the rising silver moonshine.
“Why, we head out to the place they’re wantin’ to mine, o’ course,” replied Ben, surprised by the very question. “They got a shack in the area that seems to be their hidey-hole. We’ll prob’ly catch ’em there.”
Austin was impressed. “Speakin’ from personal acquaintance, are you?”
“You might say.” Ben’s wide mouth turned down with disdain. “Remember the dog occurrence, when you near ran me into jail? I came out to make sure they weren’t keepin’ any other critters in distress on their property.”
Choosing their mounts from the stable corral, saddling and bridling, adding a few extra provisions from Norton’s stores, and they could be on their way toward Juniper Creek, and beyond.
A steady trot can consume a number of miles in record time, and is easier on men and horses than an all-out, full-blown gallop for too long. Upon their arrival, several hours later, at the isolated property, Ben found himself wishing he’d had the foresight to bring along a jar of hot, bracing coffee.
The cabin looked derelict and deserted, backed up against the smooth-flowing waters that curved and curveted for a goodly distance. Not in good repair, by any means. Walls leaned, shake shingles held an overgrowth of moss, one porch rail was splintered and another missing entirely.
“Huh,” muttered Ben, as they approached. “Figured the Lot to be makin’ a good profit for them boys. Maybe Clunker is robbin’ ’em blind.”
“Maybe,” posited the sheriff, “he’s more owner than the Putnams.”
No light shone through the spotty windows, no smoke from cooking fires curled up from the stone chimney, no movement drew attention anywhere. Most telling, no horses stood about in the makeshift corral.
“Either not here,” noted the deputy, “or layin’ low.”
Paul Winslow leaned one forearm across his saddle horn, taking a long measuring look around the property. “Any other place you wanna try for, Ben?”
Thus entailed, their guide considered for a moment. “The Putnams have been after me to approve their copper minin’ venture. I turned ’em down flat, and so did the council. But, this far out in the country, they might’ve already started work. Let’s have a look at where they wanted to prospect.”
“Far from here?”