Susan clasped the lawyer’s arthritic hand. For now, at least, Purvis’s offer was like the answer to a prayer. But with Bull’s future and her own hanging in the balance, it was too soon for relief.
“One thing,” she said. “Whatever happens with Bull, promise you won’t tell him where to find me. As far as he’s concerned, I’m just gone. That’s all he needs to know.”
“And Jasper?”
“I’ll tell him, of course. Same promise.”
Purvis gave her a nod. “Understood.”
* * *
On the following Thursday, the grand jury convened in an upstairs room of the Blanco County courthouse to determine whether Virgil Tyler should be indicted and bound over for trial.
The hearing lasted less than forty minutes. In light of the strong evidence—Ham Prescott’s pistol, Ferg’s fingerprints on the brass casings, and proof that there’d been no phone call to the Prescott house on the night of the shooting—the prosecutor requested that the charges be set aside.
Bull walked out of the courthouse a free man.
He followed Ned Purvis to the lawyer’s old brown station wagon and climbed into the passenger seat. The sense of unreality lingered, like the dregs of some otherworldly dream. He’d never gotten used to the idea of being in jail. Now that he was free, his most powerful emotion was not so much relief as a smoldering rage.
“Let’s go,” he told Purvis.
“Go where?” The lawyer waited, maybe wondering whether Bull would bring up Susan. But Susan was only a bittersweet memory now. He knew that she’d found Ham’s missing gun. He owed her for that. But he’d ordered her to leave, and she’d taken him at his word. The fact that she wasn’t here waiting for him was enough to let Bull
know that she’d already gone.
“You can drop me off at the Rimrock,” he said. “When I get my legs straight under me I plan to buy you a good steak dinner and a bottle of the best whiskey in Texas.”
“You know where to find me,” Purvis said. “Meanwhile, no need to worry about payback. I’ve already billed the county for my services.”
Bull had called Jasper from the courthouse to give him the good news. The cowboy was waiting on the porch when he climbed out of Purvis’s wagon.
“So what now?” Jasper asked as Purvis drove away.
“Right now I’m going to take a shower and wash off the jail stink,” Bull said. “After that, I’ve got a score to settle.”
Jasper gave him a worried look but said nothing. It was as if he sensed that his boss was in a dangerous frame of mind and needed to be left alone.
Twenty minutes later, showered, shaved, and dressed in clean work clothes, Bull walked out to his truck, climbed into the cab, and drove off toward the Prescott Ranch.
* * *
Ferg poured himself a brandy and walked into the parlor. It was midafternoon, about three. Edith had gone to Lubbock with her mother to shop for maternity clothes. Old Joe, the cook, was napping on the back porch. Garn was sitting in the corner with his nose in some kind of book.
Looking at his son, Ferg mouthed a curse. If he didn’t know better, he might’ve suspected that somebody else had knocked up Edith and fathered the kid. Garn had no interest in ranching. He disliked cattle, hated chores, and was an indifferent rider. All he wanted to do was read and wander around by himself. But never mind. A fertile woman like Edith would give him more sons, stalwart boys, born to rope and ride, and strong enough to carry on the Prescott legacy.
The sound of a vehicle caused him to glance out the front window. His pulse lurched as he recognized Bull’s pickup.
Ferg had gotten a call from the prosecutor’s office after the grand jury decision, so he should’ve been prepared for a visit from Bull. But he hadn’t expected it to happen so soon. He wasn’t ready.
From below the porch came the slam of a metal door as Bull got out of the truck. “Garn,” Ferg said. The boy looked up from his book. “Mr. Tyler is coming to see me. I want you to answer the door and send him back to my office.”
Garn shrugged, laid down the book, and rose out of the chair. As the doorbell rang, Ferg hurried back down the hall, opened the office door, and slipped into the throne-like leather chair that had been his father’s. He could hear Bull’s voice in the parlor as he opened the desk drawer on his right, checked the .38 revolver that Ham had kept right in front, and made sure it was loaded. He wasn’t sure what Bull had in mind, but if it involved violence, shooting an armed assailant in his own home would be justified under the law.
He slid the drawer partway shut, leaving enough space for his hand, as Bull appeared in the doorway.
“Ferg.” Bull wasn’t packing a weapon. He didn’t need one. The ramrod stance, the slitted gaze, the firmly set jaw, the lightning hands poised to strike at the slightest provocation, all whispered danger. Ferg shrank into the chair. He glanced at the gun in the drawer, sensing that it wouldn’t do him any good. Bull was like a panther, sleek and taut, reining back his fury by sheer force of will.
“What do you want, Bull?” Ferg asked.