by telling of hearing the gunfire.
“Did you go back to see whether or not Malcolm was dead or alive?” Matt asked.
“Oh! No, sir,” Dewey said with a quick intake of breath. “I should have, shouldn’t I? I’m sorry, it’s just that I was so scared.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Matt said. “More than likely he wasn’t alive, and it wouldn’t have done him any good if you had gone back. In fact, it might have just put you in more danger.”
“Mr. Jensen, I was wondering if you would let me deputize you while we go out to look for Malcolm,” Gilmore said.
Matt shook his head. “No need to deputize me,” he said. “I’ll just go with you as a private citizen.”
“Sheriff! Sheriff!” someone called coming in through the front door at that moment. Seeing Matt, Hendel stopped.
“Hello, Mr. Hendel,” Matt said.
“Mr. Jensen, oh, I am so very glad to see you here.”
“You know this fella, do you, Jensen?” Sheriff Williams asked.
“Yes, we came out together on the train and then on the coach. He works for Mr. Bixby.”
“Oh, yes, the man who is going to own the biggest ranch in Arizona,” Sheriff Williams said, his voice disclosing a bit of derision.
“What brings you to the sheriff’s office, Mr. Hendel?” Matt asked.
“It’s Mrs. Bixby,” Hendel said. Then quickly he corrected himself. “Of course, I mean Mr. and Mrs. Bixby,” he said.
“What about them?”
“They are missing,” Hendel said. “They rode out just after breakfast. I was certain they would be back by now, but they still haven’t returned.”
“Rode out?” Sheriff Williams asked. “What do you mean by ‘rode out’?”
“They rented a rig from the livery and rode out on Picket Post Road to look over land that Mr. Bixby intends to buy,” Hendel explained.
“Picket Post Road? That’s not good,” Sheriff Williams said.
“What do you mean ‘That’s not good’? Is there something about Picket Post Road that I should know?”
“There’s been some Indian trouble along Picket Post,” Sheriff Williams said.
“Oh, God in heaven,” Hendel gasped, putting his hand over his chest. “Something has happened to her—uh, them,” he corrected. “I just know it.”
“We’re about to go out and take a look,” Matt said. “I’ll make a special effort to find her.”
“I’m going with you.”
“Mr. Hendel, that might not be such a good idea,” Matt said. “There’s going to be some hard riding ahead of us and—no disrespect intended—the last thing I will need is to have to have someone slow me on the trail.”
“Mr. Jensen, I am quite capable of sitting a horse, sir,” Hendel replied, his tone petulant.
Matt laughed and held his hand out. “You have convinced me, Mr. Hendel. I’d be glad to have you come along.”
“Thank you,” Hendel said.
Cynthia mounted the horse they brought for her, and rode with the Indians back to a small encampment. Riding a horse was not a routine thing for a young woman from the city of New York, but she had taken riding lessons and it was something that she had always enjoyed. She was thankful for that, because her skill as an equestrian was serving her well now.
After riding hard for about an hour, they reached an Indian encampment, consisting of about fifteen or so structures. The encampment surprised her, because she thought all the Indians were on large and well-controlled reservations. This small village, if that was what it could properly be called, consisted of no more than a few small, temporary-looking structures. Two of the Indians took her into one of them, where they pushed her down onto the ground, then left her alone.
For some strange reason, she found being left alone to be more frightening than when she was in the midst of them. She sat there, wondering what was gong to happen to her. The shock that had allowed her to take her fate so calmly before was now wearing off and she felt the fear building. But if, as Delshay had suggested, it was her lack of fear that had kept her alive before, she knew that she could not give in to the cold terror that was beginning to overtake her.
After she sat alone for almost an hour, the Indian who had identified himself as Delshay stepped into the little structure. This was the Indian who had spared Jay’s life—the one with whom she had discussed Shakespeare. It was odd that he had actually quoted Shakespeare, while knowing nothing about the writer her English teacher had called “the Great Bard.”
Despite the relative youth of the Indian, there was about him an aura of dignity and authority.
“What is your white man name?” Delshay asked.
“My name is Cynthia.”
“Now you have an Indian name.”
“Yes, Mountain Lion Woman,” Cynthia said.
