the swift draw, the dead-aim bullet placed squarely between the rancher’s eyes at forty paces, proved that. He was a dangerous man, capable of any act to feather his nest, and he knew that I knew it. Knew what I was, just as I knew what he was. He’d been as watchful of me as I’d been of him since we’d had our conversation out in the barn.
Be more to my liking if I was here after Shock instead of Harold P. Baxter, alias T.J. Murdock. Shock was the sort I’d always enjoyed tracking down and yaffling-a proper match for my skills and my dislike of criminals. Murdock, on the other hand, seemed to be a decent family man. Likable. Intelligent. Nonviolent. His only sin was an incident eight years ago in Chicago, unavoidable and accidental by all accounts except one. If any man other than Patrick Bellright had been affected, Murdock and and his wife and daughter wouldn’t have had to flee for their lives, or to spend eight years hiding in a California backwater like this one.
Yes, and if any man other than Patrick Bellright had been affected, I wouldn’t be here ready and willing to tear their patchwork lives to shreds for a $10,000 reward.
Pure luck that I’d found him. Murdock might’ve lived the rest of his life at Twelve-Mile Crossing if Bellright hadn’t employed the Pinkerton agency; if I hadn’t been transferred from the Chicago to the San Francisco office; if I hadn’t had a penchant for back-checking old, unsolved cases; if Murdock hadn’t risked publishing sketches in San Francisco newspapers and magazines and I hadn’t spotted the similarities to Harold P. Baxter’s writings for the Chicago
There wasn’t much doubt what he’d do when I brought Harold P. Baxter back to Chicago to face him. He’d pay me my blood money and dismiss me, and a short time later Baxter would either turn up dead in a trumped-up accident or disappear never to be heard from again. An eye for an eye, that was Bellright’s philosophy. Hell, he was capable of killing Baxter himself and laughing while he did it.
But that wasn’t my look-out now, was it? I’d made my living for twenty years as a manhunter, and I’d been responsible for the deaths of several fugitives, by my own hand and by state execution. One more didn’t matter. That was what I’d told myself when I set out from San Francisco two days ago. A stroke of good fortune like no other I could ever expect in my life. $10,000. An end to twenty years of hard, violent detective work and hand-to- mouth living, a piece of land in the Valley of the Moon, maybe a woman to share it with one day. I was entitled, wasn’t I?
Sure I was. Sure.
The only trouble was, now that I was here, now that I’d met Harold P. Baxter and his family, doubts had begun to creep in. He was a fugitive, yes, but not from the law and likely not in the eyes of God. All the men I’d tracked and sent to their deaths before had been guilty of serious crimes, but Baxter was an innocent victim of fate and one man’s lust for revenge. Send him to a certain death and I would no longer be on the side of the righteous; I’d be a paid conspirator in a man’s murder.
$10,000. Thirty pieces of silver.
In San Francisco I’d convinced myself I’d have no trouble going through with it. Now I wasn’t so certain.
I dozed for a time, woke to add another log to the fire, dozed again. When I awakened that time, I saw that James Shock was no longer asleep on the nearby sofa. A visit to the privy out back? Or was he up to something? The way he’d been making up to Annabelle hadn’t set well with me; she seemed smitten with him. I wouldn’t put it past him to sneak into her room…
No, it was all right. Just as I was about to get up for a look around, Shock came gliding back into the common room, paused to glance my way, and then laid down again on the sofa. Wherever he’d gone, it hadn’t been to answer a call of Nature. He hadn’t put on his rain gear and he was still in his stocking feet.
I sat watching the fire, listening to the rain slacken until it was only a soft patter on the roof. The storm seemed finally to be blowing itself out. I flipped open the cover on my stem-winder, and leaned over close to the fire to read the time. Some past 5:00 a.m. Be dawn soon.
And before another nightfall I’d have to make up my mind about Harold P. Baxter, one way or the other.
Rachel Kraft
I was still sitting in front of the fireplace, my mind mostly blank as it always used to be after one of Luke’s beatings, when Sophie Murdock came through the door from the bedrooms. At sight of her, I sat up straight, an icy fear spreading through me.
“Joe? He’s not…?”
“No. Resting peaceably,” she said. “Missus Devane removed the bullet and dressed his wound. You can see him now.”
I stood haltingly, a sharp ache in my ribs where two days ago Luke had twice kicked me after knocking me to the floor, and followed the ferryman’s wife to a small guest room. Joe lay on a narrow bed, his eyes closed; Caroline Devane was pulling a quilt over him. She straightened, putting a hand to the small of her back as if it ached, and turned toward me.
While Mrs. Murdock gathered up some bloody towels and a basin of pink-tinged water, Caroline said: “He’ll sleep for some time, and I think he’ll be all right when he wakes.”
“I’m grateful for you helping him.”
“I’m glad I was able to.”
“Would it be all right if I sat with him?”
“Of course. I’ll be in the next room. Rouse me if he wakes.”
“Yes, I will.”
The women left the room, and I moved toward the bed. Joe’s brow was damp, his hair disheveled. In sleep, he looked more like a little boy than a grown man who had thrust himself between me and Luke’s long-barreled Colt. I took my handkerchief from my skirt pocket, wiped his brow, and then drew over a rocker from the other side of the room and sat close to the bed, studying his face.
It was a good face, strong if not particularly handsome, weathered by his work on the range. He’d taken me away from the ranch, forgiven me for stealing Luke’s money, and given me hope for a new and better life.
But did I love him? I’d wondered before if he were merely a way out for me. Now that I no longer needed him to defend me from Luke…
With a sense of shock, I realized what I hadn’t allowed myself to think before. I was now a wealthy widow. I didn’t have to remain in the delta; all that rich ranch land would bring a handsome price, and I’d be able to go anywhere, do anything.
Of course Joe would go with me. He’d want to, wouldn’t he? Surely he would. And after all he’d done for me, I couldn’t abandon him.
But Joe had ranching in his blood. It was all he knew, all he cared about. He’d spoken often enough of owning a place of his own, perhaps in the cattle country of eastern Montana. Was that what I wanted for myself, life with another rancher and in another hard and lonely place?
When I’d married Luke, all I wanted was love, a family to nurture, an untroubled life. Joe could offer me all of that. I’d told Annabelle Murdock that the delta was a harsh place that had bred a harsh man, but not everyone here was like Luke. His father had been a hard man who frequently beat him. Maybe it wasn’t the delta but the lack of love that had turned him cruel and bitter and led him to take out his frustrations on me.
Seeing Joe lying there so helpless, having put his life on the line for me-not for the money, for me-I thought that perhaps I had enough love to make a new life with him no matter where it was. And it would be a good life, an untroubled life, with a good and gentle man.
I moved the rocker closer to the bed, slipped my hand under the quilt, and entwined my fingers with his rough, calloused ones. And soon dozed…
“Missus Kraft?”
The man’s voice seemed to come from far away. I moved my head from side to side against the rocker’s high back, slowly opened my eyes. The first person I saw was Joe, still resting easily. Then, when I twisted around, I found myself looking at the peddler, James Shock.
