And then they were out into the night.
Billy was thrown into the back of a wagon; his muffled scream elicited no response. Damn, that hurt! It brought tears to his eyes.
Then the wagon started forward.
Fuck you, Devil! He kept repeating it over and over in his head. Like a prayer. The way he’d heard that the Catholic monks did in their monasteries.
He heard the horses and wagon cross onto a hollow bridge, and the driver called “whoa” as he pulled to a stop. Was it no more than a couple of minutes that had passed?
Billy lost his senses—blinded by pain as they tossed him from the wagon and onto the bridge. Claws might have been tearing his wounds in all directions.
He was gasping, pulling at the gag in his mouth, sucking all the air he could through his nostrils.
Fear had finally come to claim him, his bowels loose, heart hammering.
The rope was cool as they placed it around his neck, and he flinched as they jerked the knot tight.
He was lifted. Heard a weird wail coming from his throat. Then they tossed him out, body flopping.
For a moment, he fell. Weightless.
He heard the pop as lightning flashed, blinding and eternal …
129
July 4, 1868
Sarah used the toe of her shoe to close the dampers on the cookstove in her kitchen, and winced as it pulled at the wound in her thigh. With a hot pad she shifted the fry pan to the side and dished out fried eggs mixed with bacon, thin-sliced potatoes, and bits of fresh red pepper and onion.
She tried not to limp as she carried the plates into the dining room. Butler sat, elbows propped on her table. A cup of coffee steamed in his hands as he stared out the window. Her dirt yard was illuminated by the slanted light of dawn, the distant horizon green.
“I do appreciate you staying here last night,” she told him as she eased into her chair. “The few times I woke up in the night, all I had to do was remind myself that you were in the next room. I think that’s the best night’s sleep I’ve had in years.”
“And this is the best breakfast I’ve had in years,” he told her. “Well, maybe right up there with the buffalo tongue stew that Mountain Flicker makes when the sego lilies are fresh.” His expression warmed. “I know she’d hate it here, but I wish she was with me.”
“You really do love her, don’t you?”
“Were I Sir Walter Scott I would write epic poetry about her.”
“I’m lucky enough when I can write a check without errors.” She had just picked up her fork when the banging came at the door.
“Oh, sit,” she told Butler. “If I don’t use this leg, it’s going to stiffen. Besides, it’s probably just one of the workmen arrived early.”
Still, as she hitched her way to the front door she reached back, reassured that the pocket revolver in her bustle was easily at hand. All it took was a jerk on the bow and the holster pocket opened to expose the pistol grip.
At the door, she undid the bolt and opened it, stepping back.
To her surprise, Dave Cook stood there, hat in hand, his coat open to expose his badge. “Mrs. Anderson,” he greeted. A tightness lay behind his eyes, his expression pinched.
“Marshal? Can I help you?”
“Is your brother here?”
“We’re just having breakfast. If you’d care to join…” She saw his expression harden. “What’s happened?”
“If you wouldn’t mind, Doc’s down at his surgery. He’s a bit banged up, but he’s going to be fine. It’s about Billy, ma’am. I’m afraid some of the boys formed a vigilance committee last night. His body was found this morning hanging from the Lawrence Street Bridge.”
The world seemed to sway. She could imagine the scene, had seen it before. Vigilantes liked using the Lawrence Street Bridge. The drop was far enough to break the neck, the railing sturdy enough to take the weight. In the morning the corpse would be seen by many, hanging limp, the head to the side, eyes bugged, tongue stuck out like a swollen plumb.
Not Billy!
She turned, feeling sick. “Butler! Hurry! We have to go.”
“What about breakfast?” he called.
“Leave it. Something’s happened to Billy!” She turned just long enough to grab her bonnet, and thrust Butler’s reprehensible hat into his hands as she hobbled her way out and down the stairs to Cook’s spring wagon.
“Tell me what happened?” she demanded as she climbed painfully into the seat and arranged her bustle. Butler had clambered into the back and was carrying on a disjointed conversation with his men.
“Butler, stop it!” she told him. “Now quiet the men and listen.”
Dave Cook slapped the reins, saying, “According to Doc, they walked into his office last night just after dark. Someone shoved a shotgun under his chin, and others gagged him and tied him up. Then they went in and carried Billy out.”
“Did he recognize any of them?” Sarah asked, a cold anger building.
“No. Doc said they were hooded when they came in.”
“And Billy?”
“It was quick and clean. I had him taken down first thing. He’s at John Walley’s. Soon as I saw to him, I hotfooted to Doc’s. Got him untied and had Doc Elsner check him out. He’s hopping mad and blaming himself.”
Cook stuck a finger under Sarah’s nose. “Wasn’t a damn thing he could’a done. Not unless he’d’a got his fool head blown off fighting with that shotgun.”
“God … not Billy,” Sarah whispered. “When does it ever end?”
“Right here and now,” Cook told her. “Sarah, you think about this long and hard! You know damn well that I’ve got contacts all over the territory through the Detectives Association. So I know what Parmelee did to you and your husband. Parmelee’s dead. I know Nichols was up to no good at your place. Your brother’s gone and killed him. But Billy sure as hell had no
