“Sheriff Willis took the man into custody, pending investigation. The young fella said he’d gotten that money from the man he sold his buggy to.” He glanced at a paper that had fallen out of the bag with the banknotes. “About six feet tall, dark, curly hair, between twenty and twenty-five years old, and sounded well-spoken and educated.”
Clay’s skin prickled. What in heaven’s name was Emma Draycott’s intended involved in?
“From what I was told, the gent balked at Willis holdin’ him. Convinced the sheriff that the money was given to him for the rig he’d sold. About that time, Willis took ill too, so from what I recall, the other deputy was s’posed to take the young man out to look for the fella who bought the rig. Only the young gent got away and disappeared.”
“Do you know what this young fella looked like?” Perhaps redheaded with muttonchop whiskers?
“Sure. I scoured the countryside for him. Light brown hair, bordering on blond. About your height. Had a dark mole along his jaw over here.” He touched his right cheek. “And he was wearin’ shabby clothes, but he had a pair of new, fancy boots.”
That didn’t fit the Mundy character. “Did you ever find the gent?”
Varden nodded. “About two months later. Dead. Body was dumped under some thick brush. Only way I could identify him was the clothes and boots. Thing is, he was shot in the head just about exactly how the fella we fished out of the Platte was.”
“Where’s the other deputy now?”
“Got fired when he let our man escape. He’s moved on now. Went further west.”
It figured. “Did you ever find the fella who bought the buggy?”
“Nary a sign of him. And I searched all over.”
Clay looked at the rest of the banknotes, then at Keough and Varden. “The description of the man who bought the buggy could easily fit the fella I’m looking for, Stephen Dee Richards. These counterfeit notes are exactly like those he was passing in Ohio. And your two-dollar note from the fella in the Platte is the same. Please keep your eyes open. If this man’s as dangerous as the picture I’m gettin’ of him, he needs to be locked up and kept far from polite society.”
Particularly Emma Draycott.
Chapter 11
Dobytown, Nebraska
The next day
Hey, mister!”
A sharp whistle accompanied the unexpected call, echoing between the abandoned adobe buildings that comprised what used to be a thriving little outpost. Or so Stephen had been told. All that remained now were the earthen buildings that had once housed dens of iniquity dedicated to liquor, gambling, and prostitution.
Pity. He would’ve enjoyed sampling the former town’s offerings.
He scanned the silent settlement as he watered his horse and the spare he’d traded John’s mount for earlier that week. Across the way, a man stepped out of the shadows of a nearby structure.
“Didn’t I see you with John Crawford a few days ago?” the man called.
“Pardon?” Stephen turned to face him more fully. He brushed his coat pocket with his forearm, feeling the weight of the Blue Jacket pistol for reassurance.
“John Crawford. I thought I saw you ridin’ with him three days back. Closer to the river.”
Stephen looked the man over. “I think you must be mistaking me for another.”
The man shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, my friend.”
“My partner. John Crawford. In his midthirties. About so tall …” He indicated a man Stephen’s own height. “A land speculator from Colorado.”
Stephen shrugged at the younger, shorter man. “Doesn’t sound familiar. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I’ve got to be going.” He prepared to mount up.
“I saw you both ridin’ west along the road. You were talkin’ like you were old friends.”
“Are you calling me a liar, sir?”
The man grew antsy. “I didn’t say that. I’m just tryin’ to sort out where my partner got off to is all.”
“Glad to hear it. I’m just as likely to shoot the next man who says I’m lying.” Stephen grinned.
The man sobered. “No offense intended.”
Forcing a laugh, Stephen held his hands wide. “I’m just having a bit of fun. I don’t even have a gun.”
The fella laughed, timidly at first, then more freely. “Right.”
“Sorry. Probably a bad joke. I’ll make it up to you. If you’d like some help searching for this … John Crawford, I’ll accompany you. I haven’t anywhere special to be just now. Have you got a horse?”
“That’s kind of you. No, I don’t.”
“I happen to have two. You’re welcome to ride my spare, if you’d like.”
Within moments, they headed out, and his new traveling companion peppered him with questions and comments. The more the man prattled, the more on edge Stephen grew. His was a tongue that would wag, for sure. As free of a talker as he was, he might just go to the local law enforcement to report John’s disappearance. If he’d seen Stephen riding with him, others likely had too.
For miles they rode side by side, but as soon as he found a desolate spot where the road took a slight turn, Stephen slowed so that John’s partner drew ahead slightly. The rider didn’t notice, blathering as he was.
Stephen offered a few grunts to encourage the idiot’s yammering, all while drawing the Blue Jacket from his pocket. Leveling the small pistol, he took aim at the base of the man’s skull and fired. He laughed as the man slumped forward, suddenly silent.
Mount Pleasant, Ohio
Emma’s heart toiled with questions as she stared at the envelope in her hand. How had she let Hester talk her out of mailing it to Stephen? She’d said she wanted to help, but rather than agreeing to Emma’s plan, Hester encouraged her not to hide things from her family. In fact, she’d pressed Emma to reread Stephen’s letters to see if she couldn’t understand what might have her father questioning Stephen’s fitness as a husband.
The directive had upset her. Hester had always been her biggest supporter, the one who believed in Stephen as much as Emma herself. Why was she taking Papa’s side, saying there might be something to his concerns? And what did those have to do with anything? It was her life. Her choice. If she made a bad one, it would affect only her—but how could marrying Stephen be wrong? He’d gone to church for as long as she’d known him. He was smart and—
She laid the unsent letter aside and removed Stephen’s earlier missives from their hiding place behind a broken panel of her writing desk. Looking through them with a critical eye, she sought what might have her father up in arms. As she read, little questions niggled at her. Why wouldn’t Stephen mention the names of his possible partners?
“What do their names matter? None of us know these people anyway.”
What type of business opportunity was it?
“He promised to tell us everything once he has things going.”
Emma leafed to a new letter and scanned it.
Why had Stephen taken a job working with the doctors if he had the inheritance to set them up nicely?
“Probably because he didn’t want to spend that money on himself. He was selflessly saving it for investment into his business and our marriage.”
She shuffled to another letter. Over and over, she interrogated herself as Papa might on points that could seem questionable. Yet she could answer every one. Satisfactorily. Why couldn’t Papa accept those answers? The more she considered, the more her heart hurt.
As she leafed to the bottom of the stack, she found a scripture from Clay Timmons mixed in.
Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee.
ISAIAH 26:3
I pray, Miss Emma, that God’s peace blankets you today and every day.
A gentle tug pulled at her heart, and she set that page aside. Behind it, another of Clay’s scriptures.
A man’s heart deviseth his way, but the
LORD directeth his steps.
PROVERBS 16:9
Miss Emma, let the Lord direct your steps, and you will never go astray.
Clay
“Oh stop!” How was Clay the one offering her the perfect heavenly perspective—or challenge, as it were—rather than Stephen?
Kearney, Nebraska
Before Stephen could knock, the Harlsons’ door swept open, and Jasper grinned at him.
“Thought I heard someone ride up. I was wonderin’ about you! Been an age since you last came around.”
“Good to see you, Jasper!” Stephen extended his hand, but his friend pulled him into a bear hug.
Jasper released him with a good-natured shove. “Good to see you too!”
Mary stepped into view, a basket of laundry on her hip. “Stephen! Come in!”
The welcome from both was heartfelt, like he belonged.
Jasper’s attention drifted to the two saddle horses. “What happened to that fancy setup you bought last time you were here?”
He shrugged. “I sold it. It’s easier getting around on horseback. Brought a nice sum, though.”
“It ought to. You had to’ve paid a pretty penny for it.” Jasper jutted his chin at the pair of saddle horses. “You’re travelin’ light enough you can manage from a saddle, I reckon. C’mon in.” He stepped out of the way as Stephen entered. “Where you been?”
“Iowa. Took a job for a while, but I got tired of it. Figured I’d drift some. Visit my friends.”
“What kind of a job?” Mary folded a shirt from the basket.
Stephen paused, a laugh bubbling out of him. “You sure you want to know?”
The woman’s expression grew curious. “You rascal. Take a seat, and do tell.”
He plunked down at the end of the table, taking a moment to look at their eldest, Daisy, as she eyed him. He waved, and the youngster smiled shyly.
“Where are Mabel and Jesse?”
“Napping. They’ll be up anytime now.” Mary motioned toward the other room. “So … where were you working?”
“I took the glorious position of gravedigger for the Iowa Lunatic Asylum.”
The woman cackled at that, though when he didn’t join her, it petered out. “You’re not joshin’, are you?”
“I’m not.”
She cringed. “Why would you do that? Jasper woulda let you ride with him and his partners.”
“I woulda,” Jasper agreed. “All you had to do was ask.”
“As you’ll recall, it was still too cold for you to rob trains when I left. Besides, I found the work … satisfying.”
Again, Mary cringed. “Odd way of putting it.”
“It was solitary work. Nobody bothered me.”
“Bein’ so close to dead people didn’t give you the frights?”
“They were quiet, didn’t give me any trouble.”
“You and your stories.” Jasper guffawed. “Hey, we got a fresh pot of coffee. You want some?”
“I’ll get a cup.” Stephen rose and tugged on one of Daisy’s braids as he walked toward the potbellied stove.
“How long you plannin’ to stay?” Mary called.
“All depends on the two of you. A few days, at least.” He pulled a mug from a nearby cabinet and poured the hot brew.
Jasper crossed to lean against the wall, within Stephen’s peripheral vision. “Stay as long as you want.”
“I appreciate the hospitality.” He tasted his coffee then headed to reclaim his chair. On his way, he tugged Daisy’s braid again, and the girl playfully shoved his hand away.
Mary paused in the middle of folding one of the small garments. “Have you been fighting, Stephen?”
“Fighting?” Where had she gotten such an idea?
“Looks like blood on your shirt there.” She wiggled a finger toward his left side.
A small, red-brown splotch marred his once-white shirt. Surprise lashed his mind, and he glanced up, speechless. Then he smiled.
“Must be from the two men I killed.”
The room went utterly silent for the space of a breath. Then Jasper burst out laughing and Mary followed suit. Even little Daisy giggled.
“The men you killed!” Jasper shook his head. “That’s just rich.”
Stephen also laughed, enjoying the memories of planting bullets in John’s and his partner’s heads.
Juniata, Nebraska
Clay braced himself for PJ’s teasing. It always devolved into that when he returned from a trip—and it usually didn’t take long. He wasn’t in the mood for it tonight.
As Clay entered, PJ folded down a corner of the newspaper he was reading at the table. “Howdy.”
Clay dropped his saddlebags beside the door and hung his hat and gun belt on the pegs. “Howdy.”
“Uh-oh. I know that tone.” PJ laid the newspaper aside. “Didn’t go well?”
“Depends on how you define well.” He crossed to the stove, poured himself a cup of coffee, and dropped into a chair across from his friend.
PJ arched a brow.
“Got a list of unsolved crimes to study in towns between here and Kearney. Can’t say if any of them are Stephen Richards’s doing or not. But once I got to Kearney proper, I stumbled on a proverbial gold mine.”
“Oh?”
He laid out his findings, about the body found in the Platte as well as the gent murdered months ago. “In both cases, there was some of the same counterfeit banknotes Richards was passing in Mount Pleasant, so they must’ve had some kind of dealings with him before their deaths. Both men were shot in the head.” He tapped the center of his forehead.
“The fella in Ohio was stabbed?”
“In the gut.”
PJ took a swallow of coffee. “And a whole litter of kittens with their heads crushed.”
“Yeah.”
“And you think Richards did all these things?”
His belly knotted. “I fear he might’ve.”
“Sounds like one bad hombre.”
Clay huffed. “And unless something’s changed, Emma Draycott still intends to marry him.”
An odd grin crossed PJ’s face, though he schooled his expression. “Any luck trackin’ him?”
“No. The Kearney deputy and I rode to where the body was found along the Platte. We searched for where he was dumped, but we lost the light. Of course it rained overnight, so any tracks we mighta found got washed out.” He lifted his mug again but set it down, a little too hard. Coffee sloshed over the edge. “This Richards fella is like a ghost. How am I ever supposed to find him?”
“Don’t the Bible say somethin’ about that?”
“About finding ghosts?”
“No.” PJ rolled his eyes, then fetched a towel to sop up the spilled coffee. “About secrets bein’ made evident, if memory serves.”
“There’s any number of verses about that.”
“Then keep prayin’, and hold on to those. He’ll out himself eventually.”
Clay closed his eyes and rubbed fiercely at the ache forming behind them. PJ was right—but how many had to die before then?
Something rustled, and he looked up as PJ slid an envelope toward him.
“This came for ya.”
He glanced at the postmark. Mount Pleasant. Written in a woman’s pretty script—but not Emma’s. Disappointment wound through him. Nor was it Cynthia’s swirly scrawl. Alice Draycott’s, then.
“Thanks.” He set it aside.
“You gonna open it?”
“Do I need to right now?”
PJ shrugged. “You’re kinda down in the mouth at the moment, like this case is gettin’ to ya. Anytime you get a letter from the Draycott clan, it puts you in a better mood.”
“Oh, excuse me for bein’ upset that there’s a crazed lunatic roamin’ the countryside killin’ folks. Guess I oughta be happy about that.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Sure sounded like it to me.” Clay grabbed the letter and rose. Retrieving his saddlebags, he slumped
into the comfortable chair near the fireplace and stared into the flames for a while before he pulled his Bible from his pack. Behind him, PJ puttered around the kitchen, washing up a few dishes and the reading his newspaper.
Clay eventually quieted his mind enough to open his Bible and read in Proverbs, finally finding what he was looking for in chapter eleven. Though hand join in hand, the wicked shall not be unpunished: but the seed of the righteous shall be delivered.
“Lord,” he said under his breath, “if Stephen Richards has done what I think he has, don’t let him go unpunished. And deliver Emma and her kin.”
He closed the Bible and finally opened the letter. He scanned both sides, hoping to find a bit of Emma’s handwriting. He found only Mrs. Draycott’s. Nothing from any of the children. He read the brief message twice, mind spinning with the words she’d sent.
“Clay, I’m sorry,” PJ offered as he approached. “I wasn’t tryin’ to upset you earli—”
“It’s all right.” He glanced over his shoulder. “This case is gnawin’ at me to the point I’m short-tempered.”
His friend sat on the hearth. “Would that have anything to do with a certain gal in Ohio?”
“I told you it did. She deserves a husband who won’t lie, cheat, and murder.”
PJ leaned back with a knowing look. “Maybe she needs a certain Secret Service agent?”
“Now I didn’t say that!”
“No, I did.”
“Emma Draycott’s not interested in the likes of me.”
“You sure are in her. I see the way you act when you get a letter from her and her kin. Right off, you skim to see if she wrote you anything. You read her note first, then the rest, circlin’ back to reread her part again.”
“Oh, you noticed that, did you?” Heat crept up his neck. It was exactly what he did.
“You did it just now. And I hear the flusteration in your voice when you talk about her marryin’ Richards. It bothers you.”
“Obviously. He’s a pompous dolt, a scoundrel, and a probable murderer.”
“Reckon he is, but if she don’t know you’re interested, she might never take her eyes off him. Grow a spine and tell her how you feel. Give her a reason to loosen her hold on him.”
The Scarlet Pen Page 16