take off your jacket and vest. For the rest of the journey, it is only going to get hotter.”
“Thank you, but I’ve no intention of taking fashion suggestions from someone whose idea of proper dress includes wearing a pistol on his hip,” Bixby said.
Matt smiled. “Like you said, Mr. Bixby, it was just a suggestion.”
“Have you eaten, Mr. Jensen? We are about to take our lunch. Would you care to eat with us?” Cynthia invited.
“Thank you, I have had my lunch,” Matt said.
“Very well. Come, Hendel, let’s find the dining room,” Bixby said.
“I’ve eaten as well,” Hendel said.
“You have? And when did that happen?” Bixby asked, surprised by Hendel’s response.
“While I was seeing to our luggage.”
“Very well, you can wait here. Come, Cynthia.”
Bixby and Cynthia left. Then Hendel indicated the bench next to Matt. “May I join you?”
“Yes, of course,” Matt said.
“To be honest, Mr. Jensen, I wasn’t sure you would be on this train.”
Matt smiled. “I considered waiting for the next one,” he admitted.
“Why didn’t you?”
“I need to get there and get my business done,” Matt replied. He decided not to add that he thought his presence might lend support to Hendel.
Hendel sighed. “Well, for whatever reason, I’m glad you are still with us. I confess that I have enjoyed our conversations during the journey, and it has helped pass the time in an enjoyable way. I just wish it could help Cynthia as well.”
“I think your being here helps her,” Matt said.
Hendel smiled self-consciously. “I hope it does,” he said.
Later that afternoon, shortly after they boarded the train and left Denver, Matt saw Hendel lean across the space between the seats to speak to Cynthia.
“Mrs. Bixby,” he said. “While we were in Denver, I bought something that might make the rest of the trip somewhat easier for you.”
“Oh, Mr. Hendel, you didn’t have to do anything like that,” she said.
“Oh, but I wanted to,” Hendel said. “You and Mr. Bixby have been so good to me that I wanted to do something.” He reached down into a bag and withdrew a book. “This is
“Oh, yes, I know the book,” Cynthia said enthusiastically. “I’ve read some of the poems and I love them. I’m sure I will enjoy the book, and I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Take pleasure in the book,” Hendel said. “That is all the thanks I will need.”
The sun was a great orange ball, poised on the eastern horizon, and Delshay and the others waited just over the crest of a ridge that overlooked the house. Despite its overstated name, Rancho Grande was barely a ranch, with no more than fifteen head of cattle.
Delshay could smell the aroma of cooking bacon and baking biscuits and he felt his stomach rumble in hunger. The back door of the little house opened and a man came outside, wearing a pair of trousers with suspenders. As he walked toward the outhouse, he loosened his suspenders and let them drape down to either side.
Using a bow, Delshay stood up, drew the string back, then let the arrow fly. He and the others watched it flash quickly through the air. It hit the man in the back, right between the shoulder blades. The arrow did not drop him, though, and he spun around with a surprised and pained expression on his face, reaching around, trying to grab the arrow, trying to pull it out. Looking up, he saw Delshay and the other Apaches standing no more than fifty yards away.
“Martha! Injuns!” He shouted. He started back toward the house but, with the need for silence gone, Delshay and the others opened up on him with rifles. He went down before he made it to the back porch.
From inside the house, they heard a scream.
Jumping up, Delshay ran toward the house with the others close behind.
“Mama, what—” The young boy’s call was cut off by the sound of a gunshot.
Delshay leaped over the body of the rancher, then ran up the steps and burst through the kitchen door. He stopped in surprise at what he saw. There, lying on the floor, was a boy who looked to be about six or seven. His eyes were open, but unseeing. There was a hole in his forehead, from which a small trickle of blood oozed.
A woman was sitting on the floor next to the boy. Her eyes were wide in fright and she was holding a pistol to her temple.
“Woman, why did you kill the boy?” Delshay asked.
The woman didn’t answer. Instead, she pulled the trigger and blood, bone, and brain sprayed out from the entry wound. Her arm dropped to her side, the pistol clattered to the floor, and she fell over against the body of her son.
“She killed herself,” Chandeisi said, stating the obvious. “She killed herself and her child.”
