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 along. He said he’d pass on my description, but I convinced him it might be better firsthand, and besides, I might recognize one of them if he was in Carson City or anywhere along our trail.”
“Being the only living witness sets you in the path of danger, miss.” The sheriff tugged on the corner of his mustache and frowned.
“I know it.” Trace looked annoyed. “That’s why I didn’t want her to identify herself. I just hoped she could look around and see if she recognized anyone.”
“Can you describe them to me, miss?”
Deb did so to the best of her ability.
The sheriff said, “I’ve heard of attacks on wagon trains, but not for a long time. There were rumors that someone, or something, was a guardian of that trail. A few bodies were found and that fed the rumors and the attacks ended. This is a bad business, and I don’t like to see it starting up again.”
Deb held her breath and did her best to keep a blank expression on her face. A guardian of the trail? That’s what Trace had done. Could a man be wanted for murder when he stopped a murder?
“I’ve heard of such things, too,” Trace said. “If those outlaws are taking back up an old profession, then where have they been all this time? Did they move on and set up their ambushes somewhere else? They haven’t paid for their crimes yet, and now they’ve taken up their ugly ways again.”
The sheriff turned thoughtful. After a moment, he said, “I am sheriff of Carson City and I really don’t go looking for trouble far and wide. I can be on the lookout here in town and these parts, but following the trail and protecting wagon trains that pass through here . . . well, once they’re out of town, that’s way outside my job.”
Trace nodded. “I understand, Sheriff. I appreciate you doing all you can. We’ll be on our way now. I’m going to ride on hard tonight and catch the wagon train that just rolled through Carson City.”
They all stood to go, and the sheriff said something Deb didn’t hear because she was a few paces ahead of Trace. She stepped outside, where a large rough-looking man knocked into her hard enough she’d’ve fallen if she didn’t still have a firm hold of the door.
“You’d do well to look where you’re going next time.” The gruff man shouldered past her and hurried on.
She watched him walk away, a big man with a rude attitude. Sometimes big men, she knew, pushed those smaller around—it made them feel strong to barrel through any barriers with little care about what or who those barriers were. Something about him bothered Deb. Her eyes were drawn to him for some reason she couldn’t quite understand. He glanced back at her, almost as if he could feel her stare. His cold eyes narrowed, but he turned forward again and forged on and around the corner of the building and out of sight.
She decided it was probably just his ill manners. It was such a contrast to the men at Trace’s ranch who were so kind and generous to her and Gwen. Studying on it a bit, she realized he reminded her in some ways of some of the men back east who took advantage of her hard work and gave her father all the credit.
Trace stepped out of the diner and rested a hand on her shoulder. “Is something wrong?”
With a shake of her head, Deb said, “No, just almost ran into a man. So I stopped to let him pass. I’m looking at everyone with suspicious eyes, wondering if he might be the one I saw attack our wagon train. But that man’s too tall, too heavy. The man I saw had a narrow face; he was skinny.”
“You want to go after him, take another look?” Trace looked at her too long, as if he saw something in her expression that worried him. Then his eyes followed the boardwalk. “Where’d he go?”
“Around the corner of this building. No, it’s not the man I saw. And we need to ride, don’t we? The weather could go from chilly and light snow to a blizzard with snow a yard deep.”
Finally, his hand on her lower back, he urged her forward. “We need to catch that wagon train and warn them, hopefully before we lose the light.”
She shoved aside the strange feeling the big man had given her and shifted her attention to the ride ahead.
They were on horseback and galloping out of town within minutes.
Raddo clenched his fist in fury. He leaned against the corner of the building listening to the woman who had been watching him and realized someone had survived their attack. Not just survived, she’d seen Dalt. And now that wagon train they needed so bad was going to be warned and on edge.
Twenty-five wagons. It’d be the biggest group they’d ever tackled, more than double the next largest one. If he told Dalt and Meeks about the witness, they’d get stubborn and refuse to attack the train. Dalt out of a ruthless desire not to take too big a chance, and Meeks because he loved the killing but was a coward at heart. He liked to see men die under his guns, but he didn’t want them to be awake for it.
And now here they’d planned on attacking
in silence. Slitting as many throats as they could before anyone knew they were even there. Meeks had agreed, but if the train was warned and on edge, both men would refuse to do it.
Raddo considered for a long moment if they would be right. He should probably listen to them and call everything off. But a stubbornness welled up inside him. He didn’t want to admit he couldn’t handle bigger trains. He also knew he couldn’t let that woman live. He’d never left a witness alive before.
The wind whistled through the narrow alley between the two buildings, and the chill reminded him of the one they’d called The Guardian.
Some called him a ghost. And if ever men might come back to haunt a place, it’d be a man murdered and left to burn and rot in the middle of a dead wagon train.
The Guardian was why Raddo had gone straight. Well, that and Luth striking it rich and helping all the men claim mines.
Raddo ground his teeth as he stomped off to find his much smaller band. Luth was a powerful man now, and he wouldn’t like knowing Raddo had gone back to his old ways.
But Raddo wasn’t wealthy, and that could be laid right at the feet of his big brother who’d claimed the most prosperous mines for himself and left Raddo with the dregs.
He didn’t need to follow the woman he’d nearly run down. He knew they were heading out to warn the wagon train. He was tempted to act fast, gather the men, and go after her. They could stop her and her saddle partner from passing on their warning.
But were they too close to Carson City? A wagon train moved slowly. It wouldn’t be a good distance from the sheriff yet, who had a reputation as a tough man who paid no attention to a crime committed long miles and many days down a trail, but would come hunting hard at a killing close to his town.
Raddo knew where to find Dalt and Meeks—in a saloon, right where Raddo had been heading when he’d had his lucky run-in with the woman.
Did they dare try and take her before she reached the wagon train? Or was it better to not let Dalt and Meeks know about this? They were already fretting about taking on such a big train. Now add a wagon train that’d been warned and was on alert?
They’d turn yellow and quit for sure if they tried to get the woman and failed.
He tossed different ideas around, not sure what to do. They did need to get out of town, though. If she’d described Dalt well enough, someone might point him out to the sheriff.
Dalt thought he should get more men, and maybe that was the safer bet. Raddo didn’t like sharing, but he’d rather share than die.
Lots to decide, but one thing was for certain. That eyewitness couldn’t be allowed to live. And the man who rode with her knew enough he needed to go, too.
It’d give them one less thing to worry about.
CHAPTER
20
Trace was worrying about Deb more every minute. Not a whimper out of her. Her spine was straight, but her knuckles were white, gripped on the saddle horn. He’d seen her head bob forward a couple of times for a second before she snapped upright again.
The woman was done in for a fact, and it was approaching dark in the short days of late October.
If he didn’t find that wagon train mighty soon, he was going to have to call off their ride and find them a place to camp. And he was mighty sure she wouldn’t like it. Something about properness, which he’d heard of in some of the books he’d read, but really had no idea what it meant exactly. He only knew Deb knew, and she seemed to give it some importance. He watched her, prepared to catch her if she fell off the horse. He could probably carry her until he found the wagon train. He wondered if that was proper enough for her. Well, she’d be asleep and maybe she’d never really figure out what had gone on.
And then as the last of the sun sank behind the mountain and the dusk faded to dark, he saw ahead several blazing fires that outlined a circle of covered wagons.
With a sigh of relief, he swung down off his horse. “Deb, c’mon down. We’re near the train now.” He eased her to the ground and held on, not sure her knees would wobble. “Hello, camp!”
She jumped at his shout and shook her head. He felt her steady herself.
Trace heard rifles cocking. It didn’t bother him; he wouldn’t respect men in the wilderness who weren’t wary.
There was a right way and a wrong way to approach a wagon train. He didn’t know how salty this bunch was, but he let them hear him and see him for as long as they wanted.
“Come on in slow,” someone called.
The two of them walked in, leading their horses. Hands in plain sight, his pistol in his holster with the thong over the trigger, his rifle visible in the saddle’s scabbard.
He reached the first man and asked, “Are you the wagon master?”
The burly man, with overlong dark hair and a beard shot full of gray, narrowed his eyes. Then after long seconds, he nodded his head. “You folks need a meal?”
“We’d appreciate it, sir.” Trace offered his hand.
“Goff Eckley. Call me Goff. I’m the leader of this group. We’re a friendly bunch.” The man thrust his own hand forward.
Trace didn’t believe it was all that friendly, though, considering five men had come out with the boss, and all had their guns to hand.
“I want to talk to you, pass on a warning.” Trace’s eyes slid along from man to man. “Are you the sentries and scouts? I reckon the whole train needs to know, but I’d prefer they hear it from you.”
With a tip of his hat at Deb, Goff asked, “Would you like to join the women and get a meal, miss?”
“She stays with me. She’s a survivor of a wagon train massacre, just a few days’ ride from here on the south fork of the California Trail.”
That got their attention.
All six men holstered their guns and stepped closer.
“Tell us what’s going on.” Goff crossed his arms tightly across his chest.
Trace made it a short, harsh story, sparing them nothing. Deb described the man she’d seen and the men she’d heard.
“We’ll need to double the sentries.” Goff looked at Trace. “I might have more questions. You folks go on and get a meal while we make some plans.” He pointed to a fire visible between two wagons. “That’s my fire. I’ve got plenty.”
“We’d be obliged if we could stay the night too, Goff.”
The man nodded. “I’d take you along as another sentry if I could talk you into it.”
“I’ve gotta be moving. I’m hoping to find these men and have them in jail soon. Maybe before you even get to the trail through the Sierras where they prey on folks.”
Goff nodded and turned, drawing his men into a tight circle.
“It’s a lot bigger group than we had,” Deb said. “Would those men dare to attack this large of a group?”
“It makes me sick to think they’d consider murder on this scale. But once they’ve begun killing, they may be cold-blooded enough to think five is the same as ten is the same as fifty.”
Trace shook his head and guided Deb to the fire the trail boss had pointed to as his own. There was a good-sized pot of stew bubbling on the fire, and they helped themselves.
“They’re a salty bunch.” Trace looked back at the wagon train as they rode away from it. “They’re gonna be ready for trouble.”
“I worried they might not take us seriously.” Deb rode at Trace’s side the next morning. She ached in every muscle right to the bone, but she’d kept quiet about it and mounted up.
She looked back at the wagon train, just starting to roll. A wagon train managed about ten miles a day, while a rider on horseback could push to one hundred. She and Trace wouldn’t make that because they had to stop along the way, but even so, they’d leave those folks far behind.
“I know a few of them didn’t. They just don’t believe a wagon train as big as theirs would be attacked. What more could we have done?”
Trace shook his head. “It helped that you told them what happened to you, Deb. I’m sorry you had to relive it.”
<
br /> “Do you ever get over it? The sounds of the killing and the ugliness of what you find after?”
“I still carry it around in my head.”
“When you talked about ‘a voice crying in the wilderness,’ you were speaking about yourself, weren’t you?”
Trace jerked one shoulder almost sheepishly. “That verse reminded me of myself, John the Baptist out in the wilderness, except of course he got folks to come out and listen to him, so he couldn’t’ve been all that far out in the wilderness. Not like me. But it fit, me out in the wilderness, and the crying, well, I was powerful unhappy about my situation, so that’s how it struck me.
“But I was also struck by how John wasn’t really alone out there because he had God with him. My pa was a believer, but we never went near a church or talked much about faith or owned a Bible. That Bible I found was an anchor to hold on to. It reminded me God was with me in the wilderness.”
“I keep thinking our lives will quiet down some,” Deb said. “And I’ll be able to read in the evening, aloud to the children and to Gwen maybe. That would be a true pleasure.”
Trace’s lips quirked.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
He smiled wider. “I was thinking maybe you oughta read to all of us. To me and the men, along with Gwen and the little ones.”
“If the men ever quit working until all hours of the night, I’d be glad to. I’d enjoy it very much, except . . .”
She hesitated to say it, but it made sense.
“Except what?” Trace asked.
“It occurred to me that it’d probably be the most sensible thing for me to ride fast to fetch Gwen and the children, and join up with that wagon train back there. We’d get to California before winter after all.”
She was surprised how hard that was to say. She should be relieved to get back on the trail. She would move out and let Trace have his house back. Yes, they’d talked of knowing each other better, but her plans were to stand on her own. And she wanted that. She was strong enough and it burned in her, the desire to prove to the whole world—even a world that would never know—that she had always been the one in charge.
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