Still, for all the dangers, there were moments out here when the land seemed almost peaceful enough to heal a man.Caleb understood why Doc Burnett had stayed.Why Sheila, raised among polished stone and crowded streets, might someday come to love this country too.
Then at the peak of a hill, he spotted the hint of a trail.It snaked along the opposite side of a valley that ran to the south and west, in the general direction of Elkhorn.He nudged his buckskin and made his way across the basin.
As Pirate carried him up the rise on the far side, he found the trail.It was more of a rocky ledge than a trail here, but he turned north, following it.And then he saw it, the first sign.
Any tenderfoot, green as a slip of barley in spring, would have seen it.Caleb dismounted and walked toward it.A broken branch, no thicker than a man’s little finger.It hung loose, the inside nearly white, fresh and damp to the touch.It was not the work of a bear or any other animal.It was cut with a knife.There was no doubt it was done intentionally by someone passing by.
Caleb searched the ground.Not far ahead, the trail moved onto softer ground.Hoofprints.And not just two or three.He counted seven riders.Crouching low, he searched among the marks for the one he knew.He studied the prints and sorted them in his mind.Four riders had passed quite recently, perhaps within a couple of hours.
And then he found what he’d hoped for.
Today, earlier than the others, three riders had come through here, as well.And one of them was riding a horse with a shoe bearing the gash he’d been looking for.
Caleb hurried to where he had left Pirate, climbed back up the saddle, and followed the trail.Not far along, he spotted another cut branch.Beneath it, the prints showed the distinctive mark.
The man he wanted had passed this way, and he’d left signs for others to follow.
But why?
Caleb’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.Men hiding from the law did not usually leave trails a blind mule could follow.Unless they wanted somebody to find them.Or unless someone among them was trying to send a message.
ChapterTwenty-Six
Sheila clungto the branch of the half-submerged tree until she thought her chattering teeth would alert the men to her presence.
Her hands were almost numb as she pulled herself up and over the trunk.Staying low, she crept up the bank of the river until she could see Dodger and the sheriff and the others.They were standing by the pool not far from where Wendell’s body lay, still and unmourned.
The men didn’t appear to be concerned with her escape any longer.They were talking among themselves.Or rather, the sheriff was talking, and they were all listening.Dodger’s back was to Sheila, but she could tell the sheriff was firing questions at him and Dodger was answering.
Suddenly, the discussion appeared to change.She couldn’t hear what was being said, but it looked like plans were being laid.At one point, Dodger sketched something in the soft earth with his knife as the others looked on.The sheriff looked around and gave orders to the other men, pointing to whatever it was Dodger had depicted.
Watching them from the safety of the brush and the riverbank, Sheila waited, hoping they wouldn’t search for her again.She didn’t know if she could bring herself to go back in the water.
The sheriff straightened up and spat on the ground.He showed not one flicker of interest in Wendell, or in the fact that Dodger had killed him in cold blood.
Sheriff Horner was no good.Certainly no better than Dodger.She’d known it the moment she passed him on the sidewalk in Elkhorn.
He barked a few more orders, finishing with Dodger, and the men started climbing onto their horses.
As the others gathered the extra horses, Wendell’s murderer stood over the dead body and turned his gaze in a complete circle.She knew he was looking for her.When he paused, staring in her direction, Sheila’s heart began pounding so hard, she was sure he could hear it.
Seconds ticked by, feeling like hours.She didn’t dare move.
Finally, Dodger turned his attention to his victim.Shoving Wendell’s body over with his foot, he crouched, removed the gun belt, and went through the coat pockets.She guessed he was checking for any valuables.
Sheila didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until Dodger finally stood and swaggered to his horse.He stuffed Wendell’s guns into one of his saddlebags and swung up into the saddle.
As the five men rode off, Dodger and the sheriff in the lead, Sheila thought of Wendell’s promise about letting her father and her go.None of those words mattered now.The men disappearing along the trail were cutthroats and villains.
She stayed hidden there for a long time, filled with uncertain imaginings of Dodger riding off, doubling back, and catching her.How long she remained crouched behind the brush on the riverbank, she had no idea.But finally, bolstering her courage, she forced herself to move.
The moment she did, her stomach heaved, and she emptied its contents on the ground.
Shock, fear, hurt all welled up inside of her.Her body felt flushed and hot, in spite of her cold, wet clothing.She moved a few feet away, dropped to one knee, and tried to force air into her lungs.Her stomach was empty, but she could not be rid of what tasted like poison in her mouth.
The paralyzing attack of helplessness didn’t last long.Slowly, she felt herself growing calmer.The wind stirred the treetops, and she heard the cry of a hawk or an eagle.It came from somewhere far away, reminding her that she was still exposed and vulnerable.She’d been left here on foot, unarmed, unlearned in matters of survival.But she needed to move, or she would surely die.
But beneath the fear, something else had begun to harden inside her.Anger.Cold and steady.Before her very eyes, Dodger had murdered a man without the slightest hesitation.Sheriff Horner had stood over the body as calmly as if he were discussing weather.Whoever that naïve, sheltered woman was who had boarded the train in New York, she was gone.Sheila understood now, without a doubt, that this world held men capable of almost anything.
