“You . . . you’re crazy.”
“Am I? Sheriff Wilkes, why don’t you ask Mr. Wolford if he sent his men to kill Linus Peabody?”
The shotgun was still trembling in Wilkes’ hands, but it seemed to be from fear. “I don’t want any part of this. I’m supposed to enforce the law—”
“Then arrest Vincent Wolford. Arrest him for murder and see to it he’s tried, convicted, and hanged. And if you do that, then maybe, just maybe, there’s still some hope for this country after all.”
“Mr. Wolford?” Wilkes said, clearly uncertain what he should do.
“What does it matter?” Wolford suddenly cried. “Of course I sent my men to get rid of that stubborn old geezer! He’s just a Rebel! We beat them! We won! We can do anything we want to them!”
“There’s still supposed to be some law—”
“Not for Rebels!”
“We’re still Americans,” Luke pointed out. “Isn’t that one of the so-called reasons you Yankees fought the war in the first place?”
Wolford let out a shriek of rage and hatred and pushed himself up from the boardwalk with his left hand. His right flung up the little pistol. “Go to hell!” he screeched.
“You first.” Luke lifted his thumb. The revolver roared and bucked in his hand, and the bullet smacked into Wolford’s forehead, hammering the back of his skull down on the planks. The gun fell out of Wolford’s hand, unfired.
Luke expected to feel a double load of buckshot smash into him, ending his life.
Instead, he realized that other than the echoes of his shot dying away, the street was quiet.
He looked over at Wilkes. The sheriff had lowered the shotgun. Maybe it had something to do with the crowd of townspeople surrounding him. They had been drawn by the shots and the screaming, and probably had heard Wolford’s confession. It was possible a lot of them didn’t like the way Wilkes had been doing the Yankees’ bidding. He had to be worried the crowd would turn on him, if he shot Luke.
“The . . . the soldiers will be coming from their camp,” Wilkes stammered out.
“When they get here, you can tell them some criminals have been executed,” Luke said.
“There was no trial—”
“More than they deserved. Wolford got to speak his piece.” Luke nodded at the crowd. “All these people heard it.”
“There’s gonna be warrants sworn out on you—”
“Fine.” Luke tucked the Colt Navy away, but kept the Griswold and Gunnison in his hand as he stepped down carefully from the boardwalk. The horse he had ridden into town was only a few steps away. It looked like he wasn’t going to be able to return the mount to Thad Franklin after all. If he could, later on he would send some money to the man to pay for the horse.
“I thought you couldn’t walk,” Wilkes remarked.
“It seems that I can,” Luke said again.
“Old Peabody and his granddaughter . . .”
“They’re all right. Emily was wounded, but I don’t think it’s bad.”
“Then Wolford’s men didn’t murder anybody after all.”
“Not for lack of trying,” Luke said. “And there’s no telling what other crimes they’re guilty of, or how many men they’ve killed.”
“You’re the killer,” Wilkes said, his voice shaking. “A cold-blooded killer!”
“In that case, Sheriff,” Luke said quietly, “I think you’d do well to stay out of my way.” He put his foot in the stirrup and swung up onto the borrowed horse. Or stolen horse, if you wanted to look at it that way, he thought.
Part of him couldn’t believe he was still alive, or his legs were still working. But that was the case, and he had learned to deal with things the way they were, not the way he wished they could be.
Wilkes was right. The law would probably come after him. He could never go back to the Peabody farm. It would bring down more trouble on their heads, trouble they didn’t need.
One thing had to be left perfectly clear before he rode away. Raising his voice so he addressed the townspeople as much as the sheriff, he said, “Emily Peabody and her grandfather had nothing to do with what happened here tonight! I did it on my own, and the law has no reason to bother them for this or anything else! I’m counting on the good people of this community to make sure that’s understood!
“We don’t even know your name, mister,” one of the townies called out.
“It’s Smith. Luke Smith.”
With that, Luke jammed his heels into the horse’s flanks. People scrambled to get out of his way as he galloped out of the settlement. The darkness at the edge of town swallowed him.
It swallowed Luke Smith . . . because Luke Jensen was dead. He had died the night the Confederate gold was stolen. His ma and pa, Kirby, and Janey would never know he was a failure and a fugitive.
The swift rataplan of hoofbeats in the night faded and then was gone.
BOOK THREE
CHAPTER 24
1870
An icy wind clawed at Luke through the sheepskin coat he wore as he brought his horse to a stop in front of the squat roadhouse. Settlers’ homes and most businesses on the almost treeless Kansas plains were built of sod because it was too expensive to have lumber freighted in. Any grass on the thatched roofs was dead. It was late autumn.
He was glad he’d found the place perched on the bank of a narrow creek with ice forming along its edges. No other human habitation was in sight for miles around on the open plains. At least he’d have somewhere to spend the night out of the frigid weather.
His legs sometimes gave him trouble when it was cold. Usually he got around just fine, as if he’d never been injured, although it had taken months to regain his full strength. The wound in his shoulder was minor and had healed quickly, but his legs had given him trouble for a long time. Every so often the old ache was there, deep in his muscles, and it was worse when the temperature dropped.
Other old aches bothered him more, like the knowledge that he had failed the Confederacy and his friends, and the fact that he had ridden away without saying good-bye to Emily.
At least he knew she and her grandfather were all right.
A few months after leaving Georgia, he’d been tending bar in a little East Texas town when none other than Sheriff Royce Wilkes had walked into the saloon where Luke worked. Former Sheriff Royce Wilkes was more accurate, because as it turned out, Wilkes had been run out of town, just like when he’d been a deputy.
Luke dismounted and tied his horse at the rack with half a dozen others. He glanced at the gray sky. Sleet or snow would probably fall later, but for now there was just the cold wind and the fading light. He shuddered in the cold, remembering that long-ago meeting with Wilkes.
