He shrugged off his worries. There would be no travelers in the predawn hours. And Raddo and his men had scouted the trail; they’d picked out several prime spots where they could hide and wait for the train—getting in place ahead of time so they could be on hand for the raid. Meanwhile, they’d be on the lookout for sentries. And when they attacked, they’d work silently for as long as they could.
He nodded to himself. They were ready. Besides, it was so late in the season that these folks qualified as fools, so he, Meeks, and Dalt oughta be able to take ’em without much fuss.
CHAPTER
19
Deb and Trace reached Carson City by midafternoon.
Trace rode up to a livery stable. He stripped the leather, and Deb tried to help but was slowing him down. Once he’d seen to hay and a bait of oats, he said, “Now it’s our turn to eat.”
“We’re in a hurry, Trace.” Deb did her best not to limp. She didn’t want to admit how painful dismounting was. She’d never ridden this long and hard before. The ride to Trace’s place from the massacre didn’t count because she’d gotten off and walked several times.
She wondered if he would’ve taken time to eat if she wasn’t with him. “Let’s just eat the jerky and biscuits I brought.”
“Nope. We’ve got to talk to the sheriff and ask some questions of others. And the horses need a rest. We pushed them getting here.”
“Are you all right?” He stepped up onto the boardwalk in front of the diner, then turned with worried eyes toward her.
She must’ve limped after all. “I’m fine.” She forced her knees to lock while she nodded cheerfully. She hoped he didn’t notice her clenched jaw.
He looked doubtful but swung the diner door open and let her go in ahead of him. “We ate a light breakfast on the trail. Now my belly’s so empty it thinks my throat’s been cut. We’ll eat fast.”
After a meal that was touched by hunger’s magic seasoning, they went hunting the sheriff. They found his office, but he wasn’t in. Carson City was the territorial capital and flush with money from the Comstock Lode, so it had a good-sized number of deputies. One of them knew where the sheriff was and pointed the way. After being questioned, the deputy also told them that a wagon train had just passed through town.
Leaving the jail, Trace said quietly to Deb, “We’ll ride after them. We have time before they reach the dangerous mountain passes.”
“You sound calm, but your eyes are dancing around like you’re panicking.”
“Well, I feel an almost frantic need to ride after those folks and warn them they might be in danger. But I’ve got a few things to finish here first.”
They found Sheriff Moore coming out of the barbershop. He was a portly man with a tidy gray mustache and white hair barely visible below a battered Stetson. He wore a black leather vest with a silver star pinned over his heart.
The sheriff’s eyes locked on Trace with only a quick glance at Deb. The man ambled toward him until he was close enough. “You folks lookin’ for me?”
Trace jumped right in. “I’ve come to report a crime and warn of another that might be comin’.”
The blue eyes hardened. “What happened?”
“One of the wagon trains was attacked. Folks got massacred. It was a smaller train that broke off from a larger one and then got waylaid. Near everyone was killed.”
“Indians?”
“Nope.”
Sheriff Moore nodded.
“Some survived the attack,” Trace went on, but then he hesitated. Deb suspected he didn’t want to say that she was one of the survivors. “Right now the men who done it think everyone in the wagon train was killed.”
The sheriff frowned deep enough to turn down the corners of his mustache. “I’m headed for the diner and coffee. Let’s walk.”
“We just ate,” Trace said, “but we can sit with you and tell you our story.”
Deb walked by Trace’s side nearest the buildings.
Trace fell into step beside Sheriff Moore. “Maybe we should talk a bit before anyone overhears us. The outlaws drove off a small herd, horses and cows, and they might be trying to sell them. I never saw these murderers, so I can’t trust the man at the next table right now. I have no notion of who the killers are except I can read signs.”
Moore came to an abrupt halt. “You tracked ’em?”
Trace told all he knew as they walked slowly toward the diner.
“You can describe the tracks over coffee. Not much chance anyone will know what we’re talking about. It’s quiet in there this time of day anyhow.”
“Why? It’s gettin’ on to time for an afternoon coffee break.”
“Yep, but Charlie, who runs the place, is the worst cook in town, and he seems to take pride in that.”
“How does he stay in business?”
The sheriff shrugged. “The place is cheap to run. Pretty sure he’s feeding us whatever he shoots the night before. With deer that’s okay—mostly—but he’s served up some mighty odd stuff. I don’t care what Charlie says, wolverine tastes just plain bad. Here’s some advice. The coffee’s barely drinkable, but it beats most everything else. And if you value your life, don’t let him talk you into a piece of cake.” The sheriff shuddered, then gave Trace an unexpected grin that made it easier to sit and drink burnt coffee and tell him all they knew.
“Where are these witnesses you spoke of?”
Deb hesitated. She knew Trace hadn’t mentioned her because he wanted to protect her. She looked around the diner and it was empty. No one to overhear. Charlie didn’t even seem to have stayed in the place. Chances were he himself went out for coffee.
“It’s me.”
Trace hissed and rested his hand on hers. “Deb, no.”
She forged on. “That’s why he brought me
