Strange, Molly reflected dismally. She had never till this very moment realized what dire, threatening stories those youthful fables actually were.
Were there coyotes wandering about in these nomad’s reaches? Or creatures far worse, terrifying to perceive in the light of day?
Blinking, shaking the matted mane of her curls, Molly worked to regain perspective. Mustn’t let her imagination run off with her. Miserably uncomfortable she might be, and victim of whatever destiny awaited her, but she was not wandering afoot, lost and lone, through these terrifying woods.
From somewhere, far away, came the soul-shattering yip and yowl of a wolf. Another joined in, and then another.
Molly started, much as the restive horse had done.
“Sit quiet,” snapped Quinn. “You only make things worse.”
A city girl born and bred, but for those five years spent in that distant nowhere land, she was quivering. “You heard that? You heard?”
“Of course I heard, you simpleton. I’m not deaf.”
“It isn’t safe here,” she whispered, peering about wide-eyed and breathless through the gray gloom. “There’s nowhere to hide. The place is dangerous, and we have to get out, now, before something truly horrific happens—”
“I said, be silent, you worthless she-devil!” Enraged, and possibly as shaken by the sinister otherworldly aspect of their surroundings as his hapless passenger, Quinn raised one hand to shake her, then to strike.
He didn’t get the chance to follow through.
From across the raging torrent of water once known as Juniper Creek, a mighty baldcypress, ninety feet tall and forty feet wide, gave up its life.
They watched, spellbound and transfixed in place, as it fell toward them, almost in slow motion, cutting a huge swath through forest and brush. The conifer slammed to the ground like a giant funeral shroud of wet heavy branches, dark, destructive, death-dealing, enveloping all hopelessly trapped within its savage grasp.
There was time for one agonized shriek from the horse’s throat, matched by a feeble, unbelieving squeak from Molly’s.
Then all was silent.
Chapter Nineteen
AS THE COUNTY’S TOP lawman, Paul Winslow had organized and participated in enough pursuits involving criminal activity to be well prepared for just about any contingency. Oh, there were the odd occurrences for which one could never be entirely ready: someone needing transport and no mount available, perhaps; or a fly-by-night miscreant holed up and demanding recompense.
During one recent year that had seemed fraught with possible disasters, for instance, the sheriff had worked with a whole crew of neighbors to rescue a small boy from the depths of an old well, solved an arson case involving the barn of a distant rancher and his disgruntled employee (soon to be seen surveying the world from one of Turnabout’s finest jail cells), halted a bank robbery in mid-theft (bringing in two additional temporary residents for the cell next door), and aided the driver of an overturned buckboard to cut loose a rambunctious team and crawl free from entangling paraphernalia.
Just a few of the ordinary, routine events accepted as being part of an officer’s responsibility.
Correction. A dedicated officer. Which Paul certainly was.
Thus, his great gelding Diablo was, as always during these emergency excursions, loaded down with plenty of supplies: a good strong lasso coiled and tied; his Winchester tucked into its scabbard; a trusty lumberman’s axe and good clean hunting knife, each safely sheathed; both saddlebags filled with Camellia’s biscuits and the Mason jar of coffee, a pouch of pemmican and one of beef jerky, and medical provisions (which he hoped never to use); the bedroll wrapped up with an extra blanket, a pair of wool socks, and one of his heavy shirts; the kerosene lantern whose handle hung from the saddle horn, and much miscellaneous.
Experience had taught him that you never knew what sort of sticky problem you might be running into, and it was best to be equipped with every item the brain could imagine.
They were tired, these men who were slogging through the mud in pursuit of an alleged kidnapper; and their horses were tired. It is no easy task fighting off rain and debilitating muck and worry all at once, even while attempting to anticipate the kidnapper’s next move.
Near the turnoff to the old Rutledge place, Paul halted. All three, grateful for the few minutes’ respite, dived into their saddlebags for Camellia’s warm coffee and slightly dried-out biscuits while they considered just which route from here Hennessey might have taken. Sustenance, at any rate.
“One horse,” was Ben’s terse comment. Silvery drops of rain collected along the brim of his sombrero and dripped off the edge. His face, lined by unease and roughened by afternoon stubble, appeared as grim as the others felt.
“I noticed. Goin’ slow, too; packin’ double weight. Tracks mostly washed away by now, but you can catch sight here and there of what he’s up to. See, there—Hennesey headed away into the grass, to throw us off his scent.”
“Turned there, then,” Austin observed. “Not much of a road. Any idea where it leads?”
Paul brushed away a leaf that had plastered itself to his chin. “Nowhere in particular, far as I c
an recall. Maybe farther into the timber.”
“To what destination?” Ben’s voice, after he had swallowed half a jar of in about one gulp, went sharp and thin. “Where would he wanna hole up, in this kinda weather, with Molly still in bad shape?”