was no trick of night vision. When the rider reached the muddy embankment lane, he swung in and slid his mount down and across the yard.
He drew rein when he spied me, veered over to where I stood, and dismounted. He wore a heavy poncho and a scarf-tied hat that rendered his face all but invisible. All I could tell about him was that he was big and that his voice was rough-toned, thickened by liquor and an emotion I took to be anger.
“My Lord, what are you doing out on such a night?”
He ignored the question. “Who’re you?” he demanded.
“T.J. Murdock, ferrymaster here.”
“My name’s Kraft. Afternoon stage comes this way, bound for Stockton. You ferry it across before the storm broke?”
“No, it arrived too late for safe passage.”
He made a hard, grunting sound. “Passengers still here, then?”
“Yes. Until morning likely.”
“Rachel Kraft one of them? Woman, twenty-eight, roan-color hair braided and rolled, pretty face?”
“Yes.”
“And a man with short, curly hair and a thick mustache?”
“He’s here, too, yes. Is Rachel Kraft related to you?”
“Damn right she is…my wife. Where are they?”
“Inside with the others. Mister Kraft, why…?”
He wheeled the horse, spurred it hard toward the house. I hurried after him through the muddy puddles. He jumped down, left the animal where it stood with no thought to its care, and literally ripped at the door latch. I was only a few paces behind him when he bulled his way inside the common room.
The guests were all still at table, lingering over coffee and dried apple pie, Shock picking on his banjo. Rachel Kraft’s reaction to sight of her husband was to let loose a keening wail. Joe Hoover stood up fast, nearly upsetting his chair on the near side of the table. Everyone else froze. I shut the door against the rain and wind as Luke Kraft swept his hat back off his head. When I stepped around him, I had a clear look at his face and what I saw stood me dead still. It was blotched dark red from drink, cold, and the clear mix of fury and hate that brewed inside him.
Rachel Kraft’s expression was one of bloodless terror. “Oh, my God…Luke!”
“Didn’t think I’d find you this fast, did you? You and that son of a bitch you run off with.”
Hoover said: “Leave her be, Kraft.”
“Like hell I will. You ain’t getting away with what you done. She’s coming back with me, her and the money both. Right now, storm or no storm.”
“You can have the money and welcome, but not Rachel.”
“Shut up, Hoover. No damn’ thieving wife stealer’s gonna stand in my way.”
“Listen to me…”
Kraft swept the tail of his poncho back, snaked a hand underneath. It came out filled with a long-barreled Colt sidearm. Rachel Kraft cried out again. Nesbitt stood up, doing it slowly, with his hands in plain sight. None of the rest of us moved an inch.
“There’s no call for that, Mister Kraft,” I said, with as much calm as I could muster. “There are women in here.”
“Only woman I’m interested in is my wife. Rachel, get on over here.”
“No, Luke, please…”
“I said get over here. Now!”
“She’s not going back with you,” Hoover said.
“You gonna stop me from taking her? Go ahead and try. I’d just as lief put a bullet in you.”
“She’s had all the beatings she can stand. I’ve seen the marks you put on her.”
“Yeah, and I know what the two of you was doing when you seen ’em. Rachel! Do what you been told!”
She obeyed this time. Her legs were unsteady as she rose to her feet and started toward him.
Hoover stepped in front her, pushed her behind him, and held her there with one arm. His jaw was set hard. He’d struck me as mild-mannered, but there was plenty of sand and iron in him. The thought crossed my mind that he was more in love with Rachel Kraft than her husband ever could be.
“You can’t have her, Kraft.”
“I’m taking what’s mine, all of it.”
She said through her fright: “Luke, Joe didn’t steal the money. I did. He didn’t know anything about it until after we left…”
“Shut up. I won’t tell you again…get on over here!”
Hoover took a step forward, still holding the woman behind him. “Suppose we keep this between you and me…”
Kraft shot him. Just that quickly.
The sound of the gunshot was nearly deafening in the low-ceilinged room. The bullet struck Hoover in the chest, threw him around, grunting, and down to the floor. Shocked gasps and cries rode the dying echoes of the shot. Rachel Kraft screamed, took one look at the blood streaming from Hoover’s chest, and fainted.
The sudden violence, the acrid fog of powder smoke in the air, seemed to have no effect on Nesbitt. He said to Kraft: “You shot an unarmed man, mister. If he dies, that’s murder.”
“Bastard stole my wife and three thousand dollars out of my safe.”
“That’s no cause for gunplay.”
“You saw him start for me. Self-defense, by Christ.”
“Everyone here will testify otherwise.”
Kraft pointed his weapon at Nesbitt. What he’d done seemed to have had no effect on the rage and hatred that controlled him. “That’s enough out of you. You and Murdock pick up my wife and carry her outside and put her on my horse. Tie her down if needs be.”
I said: “Be reasonable, man. You can’t take her out in this storm…”
“Don’t you start in on me, mister, unless you want a bullet, too. We’re leaving here as soon as I…”
The rest of what he’d been about to say was lost in another report, not as loud but just as sudden and shocking. A bloody hole appeared in Kraft’s forehead; he had time for one amazed gasp before his knees buckled and he fell headlong, his weapon coming free of his grasp. I tore my gaze away from his settling body, put it on the shaken, gabbling group around the table.
The peddler, James Shock, said: “That
In his hand, smoke adrift from the muzzle, was a small, nickel-plated revolver.
Caroline Devane
Mr. Nesbitt and I were the first to move after James Shock’s pronouncement. He went to kneel beside the man named Kraft while I hurried to Joe Hoover’s side. Young Hoover was alive, barely conscious and moaning, blood pumping from the wound in his chest. As I knelt quickly beside him, I heard Nesbitt say that the drunken rancher was dead. Others were moving about, too, by then, Mrs. Murdock attending to Rachel Kraft.
Hoover’s wound, fortunately, was high on the left side of his chest, below the collar bone-a location where there were no vital organs. There was considerable blood, but it was not arterial blood. Serious, then, but perhaps not life-threatening if the bullet could be removed, the wound cleaned and properly treated to reduce the threat of infection.
Mr. Murdock said: “How badly hurt he is?”
I told him my prognosis.
“Sounds like you’ve had nurse’s training.”
“I have,” I said. I looked past him at his wife. “We’ll need hot water, clean towels, a sharp, clean knife. Have you any disinfectant?”
“Only rubbing alcohol.”
