A child sprinting along the street collides with Humby and falls sprawling onto the floor in the street. Humby turns and shouts at the boy for not watching where he was going.
'Don't you know who I am?' he demands.
The boy mutters an apology. She is concerned for the boy but can't seem to move to help him. Then she feels a little tug on her hand. She looks down and sees a small piece of paper has been tucked in her palm. A little girl is running away up the street. The boy leaps to his feet and darts off as Humby readies himself to beat the him for his insolence.
She doesn't dare look at the note, but continues to play dumb and follows Humby into the office, tucking the piece of paper into the pocket in her skirts where the derringer normally sits. Such a little token, but her spirits are lifting already. There is someone here who noticed her. She doesn't care what the note says for now. It might even be an insult. It doesn't matter. Someone noticed. It's not over yet.
The Mining Company office has a 'Closed' sign hung in the door and the big room full of files and desks and cabinets is uncomfortably empty. A balding man in spectacles pops out from an office at the back.
'Welcome back Mr. Humby. Did your trip go well? Oh, I see it did go well.' He says, noticing Emily following quietly behind.
'Thank you Haskins. We'll be in my office.'
Emily follows past the little man and through the door into the rear office that has 'Jeremiah Humby, Mayor' painted on it.
'Haskins?' Humby calls out. 'Can you run an errand for me? Can you fetch me McLaren? I think you should find him at the saloon.'
'At this time of day sir?'
'He's at saloon most times of day, Haskins.'
Emily sits down in the leather chair behind the desk and watches Humby moving about the room. She is desperate for an opportunity to read what the note says but doesn't want him to know that she has it.
McLaren smells of whiskey when he arrives.
'Miss Nixon is here as my guest.' Humby says.
'Guest?' says McLaren stupidly.
'The sort of guest that had better not leave without my permission.'
McLaren smiles a leering, drunken sort of smile.
'We're going to be married just as soon as the judge gets here. I have some things to do before he arrives and I need someone to keep an eye on my fiancee.'
'I can do that.' McLaren grins.
'And you can wipe that grin off your face. Don't you think I'm leaving her here for your entertainment. She's mine and I'm marrying her. Nobody harms a hair on her head but me, do you understand? You're to keep watch, nothing more.'
McLaren frowns.
'Don't you trust me?'
'I trust you enough for this. She's going to be staying in here for now. I'm going to lock this door. You can keep watch at Haskins's desk out there.' He points at the large office.
Humby ushers McLaren out and directs him to the desk by the door. Without saying a word to her, he pulls the door shut. She hears the key turn in the lock.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
He takes a familiar route to the cabin, through the trees away from the main track. He is early. The note said 'at sunset'. He still suspects a trap, but he hopes to be early enough to turn the tables. If he can get the money then he can still leave Walkers Creek with a healthy profit.
The stolen horse labors over the steep, broken ground. His own horses and his equipment are all still back at the hotel. He will have to leave them behind if he is to escape the attentions of the sheriff and Humby. He can live without his things. He'll be able to buy new clothes and anything else he needs provided he has some money to take with him. If this money drop goes off the way it is supposed to then it'll be worth more than the value of all the stuff he is leaving behind.
Logan ties up the horse to the same tree that he'd tied his own horses to on the day he dynamited the house. The horse fidgets and shuffles noisily. He talks softly to it trying to calm it down. He misses his own horses, they are so much better for this sort of sneaking around. At least he hasn't had to walk here from the ranch, that would have really tested the ankle he hurt jumping from the window. The horse is a bonus. It has got him here nice and early and got him quickly away from Wilson and Humby. Of course, now that he is a horse thief, it could also get him shot.
He edges through the trees to get a look at the McLaren house. He sits quietly, watching for movement. There is no breeze in the airless heat of the day. Nothing moves, just a gentle shimmer in the air from the sun's heat on the ruins.
He wishes he had his rifle. If he could have just one of the things he has left behind, his rifle would be his choice. More than his own horse, his rifle. A pistol is no use at this distance. If someone were moving around at the house he'd have no chance of hitting them from here. With this gun, he's going to have to get closer.
He keeps looking down at the ground for clues, to see if the Mexican is here already. Each time he looks he curses at the abundance of tracks. Boots and horses. Tracks over tracks. The ground is so well trodden it could be a town's main street. The sheriff and his men have certainly been thorough. There could be a dozen men hiding around the cabin's ruin and they'd have left no different tracks to these.
He creeps as close as he dares in the shade of the trees. He can still hear the stolen horse shuffling and snuffling. If the Mexican is here then he can probably hear the horse too. There is no wind to take the sound away. Should he wait? Maybe he should start to circle the house and check the trees on the other side?
The sun is still high in the sky. It will be some hours before sunset. Perhaps the Mexican isn't here yet. He starts to think about the best spot for an ambush. The trees are too far from the house here. He needs to be closer. Damn that rifle.
An eagle soars high overhead in the silence.
He feels he has sat here a long while and seen nothing that suggests that he isn't alone. If there is anyone else here they are a lot more patient than he is. Slowly he starts to move along the tree line. Pausing from time to time to listen. Nothing. He reaches the point where the trees are closest to the house and peers out along the main track that leads back to Walkers Creek. Surely the Mexican wouldn't just come straight up that track? But maybe he has no reason to suspect that there'd be anyone here before him?
Was that a noise? Logan turns, scanning the trees behind him.
'You are early,' says the Mexican. Logan cannot see him but the voice is clear enough and from somewhere in the trees.
'So are you,' Logan says, after a pause.
'You creep about in the trees, Mr. Tanner. Why do you not go fetch the money?'
He doesn't remember telling the Mexican his name. This isn't happening the way it was supposed to. It is barely after noon and yet they are both already here for a meeting at sunset. An anonymous exchange and yet this Mexican is calling to him by name. Damn, why didn't he bring that rifle? He squints into the trees trying to make out where the Mexican is hiding.
'Go on, go take the money. It is in the chimney like the note said. I place it there already.'
'Why are you hiding?' Logan calls out. If he can't see the Mexican then it won't be wise to move at all. He needs to get this out into the open.
'I see you sneaking about, why would I not hide?'
'It seemed like we had a good arrangement when you hired me. There was plenty of trust between us then. Why not trust me now? Don't you think that if I'd come here to double-cross you I'd have brought a rifle?'
'Okay, I come out.'
There is a rustling in the trees and Logan hunts for the source of the noise, pistol raised at the ready. The flash of movement is much closer than he expects and he fires. The bullet hits a tree and sprays splinters. The sound of the shot echoes around the valley.
