'Alec Browder was in earlier today to see the Dooleys,' Brant said, fixing a piercing stare on Danner.
Frowning, Danner settled slackly in a chair at the end of the battered desk. 'How long was he here?'
'Half an hour. I don't like it, Jeff—Browder showing an interest in that pair. They're up to something. Ears Dooley raised the devil all yesterday and most of the night—was still acussin' this morning. But it's been three hours since Browder was here and Ears hasn't said a word since then.' The old man paused to catch his breath. 'I went back there twice and Ears was just sitting and grinning.'
It was beginning to fit into place, Danner thought. Outside of a few petty thefts by drifters, only five robberies had occurred since the Colonel had hired him. Each time he'd caught the bandits, and each time they'd been men close to Browder. But all had taken their prison terms without implicating Browder. A cunning brain like his could have planned the Spaulding robbery. Tuso had just enough brass to have executed the plan, as well as the Dooleys, and could have failed to understand the foolishness of leaving the empty shells behind.
Idly, Danner rubbed the back of his neck, then stopped as a new thought occurred to him. 'Dan, you've lived in this area most of your life, haven't you?'
Brant nodded.
'Did any of these people around here serve in the Rebel army?'
'Nope.' Brant shook his head. 'The grangers all came from Minnesota back in '58 and the ranch folks mostly drifted in from Nebraska and Iowa the next year. Them that served was all Union men. A few families come in after the war, but as far as I know, all were Unionists.'
'How long has Tuso been around?'
'Six or seven months. He—say—' Interest brought the old man forward in his chair. 'Are you holding out on me, son? Do you know something I don't?'
Danner shrugged, then showed the pin-fire cartridge to Brant, explaining its significance. Brant's eyes danced with excitement.
'That's it, boy! There's your evidence, if you can find that gun! And you think Tuso has a pin-fire?'
'Maybe.'
Then the excitement faded from the face of the old sheriff. 'But if Tuso was the fourth man, the Dooleys would know about it, and would be gunning for him instead of teaming up with him under Browder.'
'Not necessarily,' Danner said. 'They honestly think I killed their brothers. The fourth man, whoever he is, must have convinced them I got to their brothers before he did. That way, he avoided blame himself, and avoided splitting the proceeds from the robbery. I can't tie Sam and Ears in with the Spaulding job, but I've got them cold on the grand-theft charge. So even Browder won't be able to use them again. After sweating in jail for a few weeks, Ears might open up and name the fourth man in exchange for a lighter sentence.'
'Huh,' Brant snorted, dropping gloomily back into his chair. 'Don't be too sure. Browder controls that courthouse crowd. Every public official except me was elected with his backing. The only reason he didn't bother to get rid of me was because I'm too old to be a bother. If he wants the Dooleys out of jail he'll manage it.'
'Not legally, and I think he's too smart to try it any other way.'
'What are we going to do about it?'
'Wait and see.'
From the cell block the muffled voice of Ears Dooley demanded a fresh bucket of water. Brant sighed, hesitated, then moved slowly into the cell block. Danner paced to the front window and watched traffic flow along the main street. The cell block door opened, then closed, and the uncertain tread of Brant's boots moved to his desk.
'Jeff, you've let the people around here crucify you ever since that Spaulding robbery and it's going to get worse. Why don't you tell them about this shell case?'
'I'm not interested in what people think.' Danner turned to face the old peace officer. 'And I certainly don't want to show my hand until it will help catch that fourth man.'
'Well, at least put a piece in the paper about having a lead—something—anything. Then some folks won't think—'
'Let them think what they want to.'
'Dammit!' Brant exploded. 'You've been like a son to me. I don't want folks to—'
'My friends know better, others don't matter.'
'What friends outside of myself?' Brant snorted. 'Billy McDaniel and Lona?'
'Few men can claim as many real friends.'
With a shake of his head, Brant gave up. The ringing of a work train pulling into the yards reminded Danner of the passing time. He mustered up a half-smile for his old friend. 'I've got to go see the new boss man.'
Brant nodded to him and Danner left the courthouse. It was close to noon when he cut across to the north side of the street. A cluster of buggies and wagons nestled about a little grassy park near the depot. Farm families gathered here for lunch during Saturday trips to town.
Danner had walked almost beyond the park before he heard a feminine voice call to him. Turning, he searched an assortment of calico-clad women gathered under the shade of a tree. Then Lona Swensen moved toward him. Taller than most women, she walked proudly erect. Her corn yellow hair reached to her shoulders and it was gathered in the back by a metal clip. As Danner approached her, he detected a faint disapproval on her rather wide full lips. With a sinking sensation Danner wondered how he'd displeased her this time. He was tempted to take her into his arms, but she must have sensed his intentions because she shook her head faintly.
'People are watching,' she said softly, her large eyes widening.
She's right, Danner thought. She's always right—and most always annoyed about something. He tried to smile at her, but she wasn't even looking at him now. Instead, she moved away. He followed her to a blanket spread out under one of the cottonwood trees. Lona sat nearby, staring at him closely now. She possessed the flawless features of her Swedish ancestors, complemented by huge eyes of a dark blue hue. Her normally full lips were drawn out in a thin line.
'Father was in town yesterday and heard you were back. I—I stayed up late last night waiting for you to come out for a little while.'
'I was out on my feet when I hit town.'
'I understand you spent more than an hour with that Richfield woman.' Her voice held soft reproach, but she looked away now, nervously toying with a cameo brooch at her throat —his Christmas present to her last year.
The absurdity of her jealousy almost brought a smile to Danner's lips. He found himself comparing this tall and fair woman with the small and dark Melinda—two women so unalike physically and so much alike inside. Each was a paradox of warmth and coldness, each was strong-willed, but lately, neither was often pleased with anything he did. He observed her covertly now and could almost see her mind coldly calculating something. Her life was carefully planned and most of her displeasure with him resulted from some action of his that threatened those plans.
The noon train rumbled in from the west, deposited a single passenger—a drummer—and clanged on its way to Junction City.
'Would you like some lunch?' Lona interrupted his thoughts. No sign of her displeasure remained now. There was serene pleasantness about her. Danner nodded, feeling a return to the moments of contentment that he and Lona had once achieved together.
From her father's wagon she brought a basket lunch and spread it on the blanket. The food was good. Lona prattled on with small talk. Danner relaxed, willing to do most of the listening. At times like this his loneliness fell away and he felt like a young boy again—without care.
More wagons pulled into the park and the street became even more crowded. While repacking the basket with the empty dishes, Lona started to say something, hesitated, then went on quietly.
'The Jensen place is for sale.'
Danner considered the statement. Another one of her calculations, he thought. Lona's shoulders tensed slightly, but her voice remained even and controlled.
'It has three hundred and twenty acres of good wheat land, already planted, and a house that could be fixed up into a nice home.' She wasn't smiling now and she kept her gaze on her lap, once again fidgeting with the brooch.
She never gives up, Danner reflected, not without some regret.
'I'm no farmer, Lona, you know that.' He fished his pipe from his pocket and began packing the bowl. Lona
