Page 4 of Come the Spring (Claybornes' Brides (Rose Hill) 5)

  Norton cut him off. “Luke got shot up when the robbery was going on, and he wasn’t even inside the bank at the time. He was just passing by on the boardwalk, which was another piece of bad luck all right. Still, the doc had him mending. He would have recovered—the doc said so—and he did see a couple of faces through the crack in the shades of the bank. He would have made a good witness when those no-good bastards got caught.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Luke got his neck sliced like a bow tie, that’s what happened to him. His wife got cut too. They were both sleeping in their bed, but I think maybe one of them woke up. You should have seen that room, son. There was more blood than paint on those walls. I ain’t never gonna forget it. Their little boys saw it too. The oldest, just ten last month, found them. He ain’t never gonna be the same.”

  The story struck a nerve deep inside Cole. He leaned against the side of the desk, his gaze directed outside, as he thought about the children. What a hell of a nightmare for a child to see. What would happen to that little boy now? Or the other ones? Who would take care of them? How would they survive? Would they be split up and shipped to various relatives, or would they take to the streets, the way he had when he was a youngster? Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Ryan on a black horse riding at a gallop down the main street. He hoped the marshal would catch the monsters who had made those children orphans. In one night, their lives had been changed forever.

  He turned back when the sheriff spoke again. “There was no call to kill those two, no call at all. You know what Ryan said?”

  “No, what’s that?” Cole asked.

  “That it was a miracle they didn’t kill those little boys. If one of them had come into the room while they were butchering, they would have killed him for sure … the others too.”

  “What’s going to happen to them?”

  “The boys?” The sheriff looked bleak, disheartened. “My Josey and me offered to take them all, but the relatives back east said they’d give them a home. I think they’re gonna farm them out between them. That doesn’t seem right to me. Brothers ought to stay together.”

  Cole agreed with a pensive nod.

  “I got my own opinion why they killed Luke’s wife. Want to hear it?”

  “Sure.”

  “I think they were sending folks a message.” His voice dropped to a whisper of confidentiality as he continued. “Word gets around fast, and anyone who might see something or hear something in the future is gonna think long and hard before stepping forward. Witnesses don’t survive. That’s the message.”

  “They’re bound to make a mistake one of these days.”

  “Son, that’s what everyone is hoping will happen. I’m praying it happens soon, ’cause a lot of good people have died, and not just men, but women and children too. Those men are gonna burn in hell for what they’ve done.”

  “They’ve killed children?”

  “I heard about one little girl that got killed. She was in the bank with her mama. Of course it could just be speculation. I asked Ryan about it, but he got a real strange look in his eyes and went out the door without answering me, so I don’t know if it’s true or not. The marshal sure has his hands full,” he concluded with a shake of his head. “Are you thinking about heading back to your ranch?”

  “Right now I’m headed for Texas to bring some steers back. The regional office better be on the way or—”

  Norton wouldn’t let him finish. “I got a little favor to ask you.” He put his hand up to ward off any interruption and hastily added, “I know I don’t have the right, since I went and knocked you over the head. Still, I’m compelled to ask.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “Hold on to your badge until tomorrow before you make up your mind. It’s already going on dusk, so you don’t have to wait long. In the morning, if you’re still determined to give the badge back, then I’ll be happy to tell you the fastest way to get to the regional office. With that fancy compass, you won’t have any trouble finding it. Now, don’t shake your head at me. At least consider it, and while you’re at it, answer another question for me.”

  “What?” Cole asked with a bit more surliness than he intended.

  “Why do you suppose Ryan went and shoved you the way he did before he took off?”

  “Frustration,” Cole answered.

  The sheriff grinned like a big cat sitting in a tub of cream. “You wanted to hit him, didn’t you? I saw you make a fist, and—yes, son, I did—and I saw something else happening too, but never you mind about that. You showed considerable restraint,” he added. “And Marshal Ryan did apologize—I heard it with my own ears—but now I’m wondering to myself if he was apologizing for shoving you or maybe something else he’d done.”

  Before Cole could ask him to explain what he was chattering on about, the sheriff pushed the topic around to the badge again.

  “Will you stay on tonight? I’ll treat you and Josey to supper at Frieda’s fancy restaurant, and if you ride out now, you won’t get far before dark hits. If I were you, I’d want to spend one more night sleeping between clean sheets before I headed out on such a long trip. Come morning, I’ll give you the directions you’re wanting and you can be on your way lickety-split. Course you’ll probably want to go on over to Rockford Falls first. It ain’t too far away from here.”

  Cole raised an eyebrow. “Why would I want to go to Rockford Falls?”

  Norton chuckled. “To get your compass back.”

  Five

  The town of Rockford Falls was reeling with shock. In the past two days, they had lost eight of their finest citizens and one who wasn’t quite so fine but who mattered to all of them just the same.

  Influenza was responsible for two deaths. The epidemic had been gathering strength during the past week, striking down half the population. The old and the young were hit hardest: Adelaide Westcott, a spry seventy-eight-year-old spinster who still had all of her own teeth and who never had a cranky word to say about anyone, and sweet little eight-month-old Tobias Dollen, who had inherited his father’s big ears and his mother’s smile, both died within an hour of one another of what Doc Lawrence called complications.

  The town mourned the loss, and those who could get out of bed attended the funerals, while those who couldn’t leave their chamber pots for more than five-minute intervals prayed for their souls at home.

  Adelaide and Tobias were buried on Wednesday morning in the cemetery above Sleepy Creek Meadow. That afternoon, six men were brutally murdered during a robbery at the bank. The seventh man to die and the last to be noticed was Bowlegged Billie Buckshot, the town drunk, who, it was speculated, was on his way from his dilapidated shack on the outskirts of town to the Rockford Saloon to fetch his breakfast. Billie was a creature of habit. He always started his day around three or four in the afternoon, and he always cut through the alley between the bank and the general store, thereby shortening his travel by two full streets. Because he was found cradling his rusty gun in his arms, it was assumed by Sheriff Sloan that he had had the misfortune to run into the gang as they were pouring out of the bank’s rear exit. It was also assumed that the poor man never stood a chance. Everyone knew that until he had his first wake-up drink of the day, his hands shook like an empty porch swing in a windstorm. Six hours was a long time to go without whiskey when your body craved it the way Billie’s did. He wasn’t shot like the others, though. A knife had been used on him, and judging from the number of stab wounds on his face and neck, whoever had done it had thoroughly enjoyed his work.

  As luck would have it, no one heard the gunshots or saw the robbers leaving the bank, perhaps because more than half the town was home in bed. Folks who wanted to get out for some fresh air waited until the sun was easing down to do so. Those few strolling down the boardwalk certainly noticed Billie curled up like a mangy old dog in the alley, but none of them gave him a second glance. It was a sight everyone was used to seeing. They figured the town drunk had simply

passed out again.

  Yet another precious hour passed that could have been used tracking the killers. Heavy clouds moved in above the town and rumbles of thunder were heard gathering in the distance. Emmeline MacCorkle, still weak and gray-faced from influenza, was nagged by her mother to accompany her to the bank to find out why Sherman MacCorkle thought he could be late for supper. Sherman’s wife was in a snit. She caused quite a commotion banging on the front door of the bank, drawing curious glances, and when it wasn’t promptly answered, she dragged her daughter around to the back door. Neither Emmeline nor her mother looked down at the curled-up drunk. Their disdain evident, they kept their noses in the air and stared straight ahead. Emmeline had to lift her skirt to step over Billie’s feet, which were sticking out from the filthy tarp she thought he was using as a cover. She did so without giving him so much as a fleeting glance. Once they had rounded the corner, her mother unlatched her grip on her daughter’s arm, flung the door open, and marched inside shouting her husband’s name. Emmeline meekly followed.

  Their blood-curdling screams were heard as far away as the cemetery, and folks came running to find out what was happening. Those who saw the grizzly tableau inside the lobby, before Sheriff Sloan could get there and seal the doors, would never be the same. John Cletchem, the photographer the sheriff summoned to take pictures for posterity, became so sick at the eerie sight, that he had to keep running outside to throw up in the street. Two of the victims, Franklin Carroll and Malcolm Watterson, had been shot simultaneously and had fallen into each other. They were both still on their knees and appeared to be embracing, with their heads drooping over each other’s shoulder.

  Daniel Ryan had a near riot on his hands when he rode into town at five minutes past one the following afternoon. Because of a torrential downpour, the journey had taken longer than expected. Sheriff Sloan met him in front of the bank, gave him the details, and then unlocked the door and followed him inside.

  The bodies hadn’t been removed from the lobby. If Ryan was sickened by the sight before him, he didn’t show it. He slowly walked around the scene and stared down at the dead from every possible angle. There was only one telltale sign that he was affected. His hands were in fists at his sides.

  In a strangled whisper, Sloan said, “I didn’t know if I should let the bodies be taken out or leave them alone for you to see. Did I do the right thing?”

  Before Ryan could answer him, the sheriff continued. “There was another body found in the alley next to the bank. His name was Billie, and he was the town drunk. They used a knife on him, and before I could tell the funeral men to leave him be, they carted him off and put him in the ground. I had pictures taken of these poor men, but Billie was already gone, so I didn’t get any pictures of him.”

  The stench was getting to him. Sloan held a handkerchief over his mouth and nose to block the smell. He couldn’t make himself look at his friends, but stared at the ceiling instead. “I don’t want the families of these men to see…” Sloan couldn’t go on. He gagged, spun around, and clawed at the doorknob. Ryan had to turn it for him. The sheriff ran outside, doubled over in front of the crowd that had gathered, and threw up in the street.

  Returning to his inspection, Ryan squatted down next to one of the bodies to get a closer look at a bullet he’d spotted half buried in the floorboard. He could still hear Sloan’s retching outside when the door opened again, letting in another blessed whiff of fresh air. Cole came striding inside. Ryan turned to him and waited for a reaction.

  Cole wasn’t prepared for what he saw. As though he’d just run headlong into a stone wall, he staggered back and whispered, “Ah … Lord.”

  “Are you going to run, or are you going to stay?” Ryan demanded.

  Cole didn’t answer. Ryan’s eyes were blazing with fury now. “Take a good look, Cole. Any of these men could have been one of your brothers. Tell me, how often do they go into a bank? Or your mother? Or your sister?” he taunted in a voice that lashed out like a whip.

  Cole shook his head and continued to stare at the two corpses on their knees leaning into one another. He couldn’t look away.

  “Don’t you dare tell me this isn’t your problem,” Ryan said. “I’ve made it your problem by getting you appointed marshal. Like it or not, you aren’t walking away from this. You’re going to help me catch the bastards.”

  Cole didn’t say a word. He was fighting the urge to join the sheriff outside, yet at the same time he could feel his anger fueling to a rage. No one should have to die like this. No one.

  He wouldn’t allow himself to be sick. If he turned his back on these men and ran outside, he would be committing a blasphemy. He couldn’t reason his reaction. He just knew it would be wrong for him to be repulsed by them.

  He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts, then slowly moved away from the door and walked around the circle of dead. Ryan watched him closely.

  Another minute passed in silence, and then Cole said, “I don’t know how many of them were in here, but I’m pretty sure several men did the shooting.”

  “How do you figure that?” Ryan asked.

  “Powder burns and the angle of the bullets.” He pointed to two of the bodies and whispered, “The bullet came through the back of this man’s head, went out through his forehead and into the neck of the man facing him. The same thing happened with those two. They were playing a game,” he added. “Trying to kill two with one bullet. You already figured that out, didn’t you?”

  Ryan nodded. “Yes.”

  “The robbery was yesterday. Why weren’t these bodies buried?”

  “The sheriff thought he should leave them here for us to see. I have a feeling he hasn’t been a lawman long.”

  Cole shook his head again. “There’s a funeral cart outside. These people need to be buried.”

  “Then order it done,” Ryan challenged.

  Cole turned to go outside, but stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “Whenever I’m away from the ranch, I work alone.”

  “You don’t work alone any longer.”

  “I should warn you. I do things different … Some of it won’t be legal.”

  “I figured as much,” Ryan replied.

  He followed Cole outside and stood by him on the boardwalk while Cole ordered the crowd to back away so the funeral cart could be pulled closer. The body collector, a moonfaced man with hunched shoulders, stepped forward. Cole told him that he wanted the bodies covered with sheets before they were carried out.

  The reporter for the Rockford Falls newspaper objected to the order. “We want to see them,” he shouted. “Why do they have to be covered with sheets?”

  Cole wanted to punch the ghoulish curiosity seeker. With effort, he resisted the impulse and said, “They wouldn’t want to be remembered this way.”

  The reporter wouldn’t let up. “They’re dead,” he shouted. “How do you know what they want?”

  A woman in the crowd started crying. Cole looked at Ryan, waiting for him to answer, but the marshal ignored him and kept his gaze directed on the men and women in the street.

  “Yes, they’re dead,” Cole shouted back. “And now the law becomes their voice. Get the damned sheets.”

  Ryan nodded his agreement. He pulled the compass out of his pocket and handed it to Cole. “You just became a lawman.”

  Six

  It took over an hour to remove the six bodies. Because of the heat, rigor mortis had set in rapidly, and the owner of the funeral parlor had a hell of a time getting the two men who had died on their knees wrapped up and carried out.

  The men who were assisting him whispered while they worked. Cole wasn’t certain if they kept their voices low out of respect for the dead or if they were just plain spooked, but one of them started gagging and had to run outside when the funeral director worried out loud that if the families wanted to bury the men that day, he would have to either build two special coffins to accommodate the bent knees, or cut off their legs. One day’s delay would ensure

that the troublesome rigor mortis would have worn off. And if he sealed the coffins tight, no one would notice the smell.

  The floor near the center of the lobby where the bodies had knelt was black. Blood had seeped into the dry wood, and it was there to stay. Not even lye would remove the stains.

  Ryan questioned Sloan for a while before he searched through the president’s office and behind the tellers’ counter. He collected the papers, put them in a box he’d found, and carried them over to an old, ink-stained desk in front of the windows. While Cole roamed around the bank, trying to figure out exactly how, why, and when it all happened, Ryan sat on the edge of the desk and began to read.

  Sloan stood by the door, fidgeting.

  Ryan finally noticed him. “Is something bothering you, Sheriff?” he asked, without looking up from the document he was scanning.

  “I was thinking I ought to get another posse together and go looking for the gang again. We had to disband last night when it got so dark. The trail’s going to get cold if I wait much longer.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Ryan said. “Why don’t you take charge and see to it.”

  “I figure I should pick the men I want to ride with me, like I did yesterday before you got here.”

  Ryan shrugged. “You know these people better than I do. I don’t want to hear you did anything stupid though, like stringing someone up because you think he might have been involved. If you catch anyone, you bring him back here.”

  “I can’t control an entire posse. Folks know what happened here. Someone might—”

  Ryan cut him off. “You will control them, Sheriff.”

  Sloan nodded. “I’ll try.”

  “That isn’t good enough. No one takes the law into his own hands. You got that? If any of your friends thinks otherwise, you shoot the son of a bitch.”

  Ryan expected Sloan to leave, but he stayed where he was. His face turned bright red, and he shuffled from foot to foot as he stared down at the floor.