She nodded jerkily. "I know, Jordy. It's just that so much has happened. It's so hard to think these days, and I keep finding out things I hadn't known..."
He reached out and gently touched her arm. "I know it's been hard for you," he said softly. "I want to help any way I can."
Anabel leaned toward him. That was all the encouragement he needed to slip his arms around her and embrace her. She rested her head against his shoulder for a moment, then lifted her face to his. West's mouth came down on hers, and as their lips met, she pressed her body against him.
As he leaned back against the sofa, she rested her head on his shoulder again. They stayed that way, comfortable with each other, for several minutes. A part of Anabel wished that she could remain sheltered in West's arms, protected from all the confusion she felt. She wished she could forget all the blows that life had dealt her in the last few weeks, put all the questions out of her mind.
But she couldn’t ignore all the changes that had come her way. Closing her eyes to the problems of the future wouldn’t make them go away. She sighed deeply.
Gently West began to stroke her hair. "What's wrong?" he asked quietly. "When I first came in here, I thought something was riding you."
Anabel hesitated, then replied, "Something...strange happened earlier tonight. I had another visitor."
"McGill?" West asked, bristling slightly.
Anabel shook her head. "No, it wasn't Lance. It was Elijah Jones."
West frowned as he tried to place the name. Finally, he said, "Isn't that the boy who works at the newspaper? The fella that's not quite right in the head?"
"Yes, that's him. But Elijah's just a little slow, Jordy. He's not as simpleminded as people think he is." Anabel was a little surprised to find herself defending Elijah. She had always felt uneasy around him and had as little to do with him as possible. She realized that his bringing the papers to her had been an uncomplicated, honest act and that she had been wrong about him all along. She was learning that things were not always as they seemed. Perhaps it was time she started giving people the benefit of the doubt more often. She went on. "He brought over some documents of my father's that he found at the newspaper office."
West shook his head. "That doesn't make any sense. Why would any of your father's papers be at the newspaper office? You know he and Miss Coleman didn't get along at all."
"I know." Anabel nodded. "I think Rachel Coleman got her hands on them somehow and probably intended to use them against my father."
"Stole them, you mean?"
"I didn't want to put it quite that harshly, but yes, that's what I mean."
West nodded thoughtfully. "What are these documents?" he asked.
"I'll get them and show them to you." Anabel went to the desk. As she opened the drawer and gathered the papers, she wondered why she was trusting West with this information. It had been so easy to share her troubles with him this evening, and she was tired of struggling alone. She knew that Jordy West was a strong, honest man who genuinely cared for her, just as Anabel cared for him.
Returning to the sofa, she sat down beside him and handed him the sheaf of documents. West took them, and as he began to study them his brow furrowed in concentration. After a few minutes, he said, "I don't know a whole lot about business, but these look like some sort of records. You say your father wrote them?"
"That's right. As far as I can tell, they give the details of some of the business deals my father and Lance were involved in. Surely since you work on the ranch you've heard of the Great Plains Cattle Company."
West shook his head. "I'm afraid not. This place is in Laramie. When we sell off stock, we either do it locally or drive it to the stockyards in Council Bluffs." He pointed a blunt finger at a column of numbers. "Besides, there's probably ten times the number of head listed here than we've actually sold since I've been working for Trident."
"But that doesn't make sense." Anabel's blond head moved next to his as she leaned over to point to other columns on the page. "You can see how much money the partnership has made, and how much they've spent on acquiring new range."
West nodded, and his eyes hardened. "I can see, all right," he said grimly. "This doesn't look too good, Anabel."
"What do you mean?" she demanded.
"I mean it looks to me like McGill and your father were mixed up in something crooked," he replied flatly.
Anabel stared at him for a long moment, and the look in her eyes turned icy cold. Finally, she said, "That's a lie. I won't have you accusing my father of such a thing, Jordy."
West's mouth tightened, and he shrugged his shoulders, obviously trying to keep a close rein on his temper. "I'm just going by what's written here," he said.
"My father wasn’t a...a criminal," Anabel insisted.
West nodded and stood up. "I hope not, Miss Anabel." He handed her the papers. "But if I was you, I'd hang on to those until all this gets straightened out. Whatever you do, don't give them to McGill. Could be he was behind it, and your father didn't know a thing about it. We don't want to tip our hand."
"Tip our hand?"
The young cowboy's anger had subsided, and he was able to smile at her again. "I reckon I'll be looking into this business. Don't you worry about a thing, Anabel. I plan on getting to the bottom of it."
"Would you, Jordy?" She stood up and slipped a hand into his.
"Sure. You just wait and see." He bent quickly and brushed his lips against hers. "Everything's going to be fine."
But after he was gone, doubts returned to plague Anabel, and she wished that Jordy West were with her again to hold her and tell her that everything would be all right.
When Lucas Flint and Jordy West had arrived back in Cheyenne earlier and split up just before entering town, the marshal had told the young cowhand that he planned to return to his hotel. West didn’t tell Flint what his plans were. For the past several months he had been slipping into town to see Anabel whenever he had a chance, and he kept his movements secret from everyone.
West recalled that Flint mentioned he was staying at the Ewers Hotel. After leaving the Yeager house, the young man headed for the hotel, riding through Cheyenne's back streets and alleys, mulling over what he had discovered.
Abilene's marshal suspected that Lance McGill was somehow involved with the rustling ring that was operating in the area, and what West had learned tonight lent weight to that theory. He knew for a fact that McGill and Mayor Yeager had been selling cattle to the livestock company in Laramie, more cattle than could have come from the Trident range. There was only one explanation for such a surplus of animals.
McGill was stealing them.
It was possible that McGill had been keeping Yeager in the dark about the rustling, just as West had suggested to Anabel. If that were the case, and Yeager found out about it, then McGill had another powerful reason to want his partner out of the way. The mayor might have threatened to expose his partner to the law.
West realized that in the short time he had known Flint, the man from Abilene had convinced him that Rachel Coleman was innocent. Now he saw that Flint's hunch about the rustling being connected with Yeager's murder had to be correct.
But there was no way of proving any of it, not even with the documents that Anabel now had in her possession. By themselves, they didn’t prove a thing except that McGill had sold some cattle—and ranchers did that all the time.
West found the Ewers Hotel and tied his horse in the alley behind the building. He went in through the back door, causing the clerk at the desk to look up in surprise when he stepped into the lobby from the kitchen.
"Is there a fella named Lucas Flint staying here?" West asked.
The clerk nodded and told him the room number. "I think I saw Mr. Flint come in a little while ago. He should still be in his room."
West nodded his thanks and went up the stairs to the second floor. A moment later, he knocked on the door of the room. Flint's voice called, "Who is it?"
"Jordy West."<
br />
Flint opened the door and stepped back to let West into the room. The young cowboy noticed that there was a gun in Flint's hand, the same walnut-butted Peacemaker that West had seen the lawman using so efficiently at Cue Ball. Flint went to the dresser, slid the pistol into the holster lying there with its coiled shell belt, and then turned to face his visitor. "Didn't expect to see you again so soon, West," Flint commented.
"I just found out something you might be interested in," West replied. Quickly, he told Flint about the documents Anabel Yeager had shown him a few minutes earlier, explaining also how she had come to have them. "I don't know where your sister-in-law got them, but from what I saw, they sure seem to indicate that McGill was behind the rustling, just like you thought."
"Or McGill and Yeager," Flint said. He thoughtfully rubbed his jaw. "Still, if Yeager wasn't supposed to know and found out accidentally, that would give McGill a reason to get rid of him."
"That's what I thought."
A grin stretched across Flint's face. "You didn't tell me you were coming into town tonight. Just happened to run into Anabel Yeager, and she happened to tell you about all this, eh?"
West flushed and stared down at his boots. "I think Miss Anabel's a fine woman," he said.
Flint slapped his shoulder and laughed. "You could be right, Jordy. I appreciate you letting me know about this."
"What are you going to do?"
Flint considered that briefly, then said, "I've got to go to Laramie and try to find out some more about this Great Plains Cattle Company. If I can prove that McGill and Yeager were mixed up in something crooked, I might be able to get the judge to postpone the hanging while the matter is under investigation."
"Even if they were behind the rustling, that doesn't mean Miss Coleman didn't poison the mayor," West pointed out.
"I know. But right now, all I'm after is time to cast some doubt and find the real killer."
Both men knew all too well that the time Flint spoke of was running out. In only a little more than two days, Rachel Coleman would be hanged.
"How long do you think it'll take me to ride to Laramie and back?" the marshal asked. "You know the country around here better than I do."
West nodded and smiled. "I reckon it'll take us about two days if we get a good start early tomorrow."
Flint cocked an eyebrow. "Us?"
"Like you said, I know the country. And you're liable to be riding into trouble, too. You might run into Dax Ladell and his men again."
Flint studied the young man for a moment. "It hasn't been twelve hours since we first ran into each other, Jordy. In that time, because of me, you've been shot at a couple of times and beaten by a bunch of hardcases who wanted to stomp you into the ground. You don't owe me a thing. How'd you wind up on my side of this fight?"
West grinned. "Hell, you're in the right, aren't you?" He stuck out his hand. "I've never had much of a chance to do anything except punch cattle, Marshal. Lots of folks can do that. I figure this is my opportunity to do something a little more worthwhile."
Flint took West's hand and shook it firmly. "Glad to have you with me," he said sincerely. "Like you said, though, there's liable to be some gunplay."
"I'm up to it," West said with a short laugh.
"What about your job?" Flint asked. "Doesn't McGill take exception to his riders traipsing all over the country and not taking care of their work?"
"I wouldn't worry about that," West assured him. "McGill can fire me if he wants to, that's up to him. Besides, the more I find out about Lance McGill, the less I want to work for him."
And the less likely that Anabel Yeager would give in to her fears and uncertainties and let McGill buffalo her into marrying him, West added silently to himself.
11
Wednesday morning dawned gray and overcast in Cheyenne. Dark, leaden clouds shrouded the Laramie Mountains, and the craggy peaks were lost in a swirling mist. As K. W. Newcomb glanced out of his hotel-room window, he thought it was the perfect day for the mood he was in.
Keeping one eye on the weather, he dressed slowly. If it began to rain, he wouldn’t be able to put the finishing touches on the gallows. Of course, he had planned to complete the work with over a day and a half to spare so that even if a storm delayed him today, Rachel Coleman's execution would probably still take place on schedule.
Newcomb secretly hoped that nature would somehow sense the injustice of the situation and take steps to stop it, at least for a while.
When he left the hotel after breakfast, however, Newcomb discovered that the wind was out of the south. It was carrying the clouds past Cheyenne, taking them harmlessly to the east of the town. Newcomb looked up, saw the overcast shredding and blowing away, and spotted patches of blue sky. He grimaced.
The hangman started walking toward the courthouse but along the way decided to detour slightly to the sheriff’s office. When he entered, he found Dedrick sitting at his desk, sipping a cup of coffee.
"Mornin'," the sheriff grunted as Newcomb closed the door behind him. "Care for a cup of coffee?"
Newcomb shook his head. "No, thanks. I just had breakfast at the hotel dining room."
"Jeremy tells me you came by and had quite a little talk with the prisoner last night."
Newcomb stiffened. "The boy told me he didn't eavesdrop. I figured I could believe him."
"You figured right," Dedrick grunted. "He's my nephew, and besides that he's a damned good deputy. He didn't listen in, he just said that you were back there talking to Miss Coleman for quite a while." The lawman eyed Newcomb speculatively. "If you don't mind my asking, what is it with you, mister? Is it that she's a woman, and you've never hung a woman before?"
Newcomb bristled. "Judge Stephens called me in because I'm the best there is at my business, Sheriff. Hanging a woman is going to cause quite a stir. Over the next couple of days people are going to be coming into Cheyenne from all over the territory to see it. The judge doesn't want anything to go wrong."
"That doesn't answer my question," Dedrick pointed out.
"I've always done my job the best way I know how.
I'll do my duty as the judge and jury decreed it. But that doesn't mean I'm convinced Rachel Coleman is guilty. I don't think that lady ever deliberately hurt anybody."
With an exasperated sigh, Dedrick placed his palms on the desk and shoved himself to his feet. "You and that damned Flint!" he snapped. "I heard he was in the Golden Gate district a couple of nights ago, asking all sorts of questions about rustling and Lance McGill and God knows what else. You'd think that a man like Flint would have faith in the legal system." Dedrick's pointed look made it clear he thought the same thing about Newcomb. "He came by here awful damn early this morning and talked to his sister-in-law for a few minutes. Didn't look too happy when he left."
The hangman shrugged. "I don't imagine he is. Flint isn't convinced of Rachel's guilt, and neither am I. I intend to go over to Judge Stephens's office today and review the records of the trial with him. Maybe the jury overlooked something in the testimony."
"I was there, Newcomb," the sheriff said firmly, glaring at him. "It was a fair trial, and all the evidence was brought out. I don't know what else any of us could be expected to do."
Newcomb met the sheriff's stare, then said abruptly, "Can I talk to Miss Coleman again?"
"Sure, why not? She's probably finished her breakfast by now, so I'll need to get her tray, anyway."
Dedrick unlocked the cellblock door and stepped into the hall. "Got a visitor for you again, Miss Rachel," he said.
Rachel glanced up from the copy of the Eagle she was reading. When she saw Newcomb, she folded the paper and put it on the bunk, then came to the bars to greet him. "Good morning, Mr. Newcomb," she said pleasantly.
Sweeping off his hat, Newcomb nodded and said, "Miss Coleman. I trust you're feeling well this morning."
"As well as can be expected," she replied.
"I'm going back to the office," Dedrick said warily. "Bang
on the door when you're finished, Newcomb."
"Your deputy was a little worried that I might decide to give the prisoner a gun, Sheriff," Newcomb said. "Maybe you'd better search me."
Dedrick laughed harshly. "Jeremy's still a boy in some ways, Newcomb. You know I'd shoot any prisoner who tried to escape. You're not stupid enough to risk such a thing."
"True enough." Newcomb inclined his head in agreement.
Once Dedrick had left with the breakfast tray, Newcomb put his hat on the three-legged stool and extended a hand through the bars to Rachel. She hesitated for a moment, then took it. Newcomb rested his other hand on top of hers. "I'm going to do everything I can to prevent this travesty of justice, Miss Coleman. I promise you that."
Rachel smiled thinly. "You mean you'll do everything you can legally. If nothing has changed by nine o'clock Friday morning, you'll carry out the sentence of the court, won't you, Mr. Newcomb?"
Her cool, slightly mocking voice cut him like a knife. "I've always done my job," he replied. "I...I don't know if I can do anything else, ma'am."
"I can respect that." Rachel nodded. "I've always done my job, too. It's important to me." She slipped her hand from his grasp, turned to the bunk, and picked up the paper. "That's why it bothers me to see Thatcher make such mistakes," she said, pointing to the page. "Here, look at this. The print is crooked, and three words are misspelled in this edition. Would you do something for me, Mr. Newcomb?"
"Of course, dear lady."
"Would you speak to Thatcher and tell him that I expect more attention to detail from him in the future? No matter whether I'm here or not, the masthead of the Eagle will always say 'Founded by R. Coleman.' I want that to appear only on a newspaper I could be proud of."
Newcomb drew a deep breath. "Certainly, I'll speak to the young man. But couldn't you tell him yourself? Surely he comes here to see you."
Rachel shook her head. "He did at first. Now, he's so depressed and frustrated by his inability to help me that I don't think he could stand to see me. He hasn't been by in several days."
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 108