The Talisman - Crisscross

by Shaunna Gonzales

  *

  Quinn dismounted, tying the colt at the hitch post and sauntered inside Pierre's saloon. The cool room cradled the stale odors. Pierre entered from his living quarters and the kitchen with a box of clean glasses in his hands.

  "Mornin', Quinn. What can I getcha?"

  "Trish around this morning?"

  Pierre twisted his lips into a fine line. "Haven't seen her yet this morning."

  "What about Zelda. Is she around?"

  "I imagine so."

  "She alone?"

  "Haven't heard anyone come in. Yer the first." Pierre set the wooden box on the bar.

  "You lookin' for me?" Zelda called from the landing above them.

  "Trish in her room?"

  Zelda knocked on Trish's door, waited then opened it. "No. She isn't here. What you up to this mornin'?"

  "Mind comin' down here? Easier askin' both of ya this at the same time."

  Pierre started putting the glasses away.

  Zelda came down the steps, "What's this about, Quinn?"

  Quinn met Zelda at the bar while Pierre continued setting clean glasses on the shelf. "Has Trish seemed a bit off to you of late? I mean, last evening she was goin' on about goin' home a bit more than she was earlier in the week."

  "I ain't seen her since you and her moseyed in last evenin'," Pierre said without pausing in his work.

  "Lose your touch while ya been wranglin' cattle?" Zelda teased with a smile. "Figured she was with you most the night. 'Course ya was a bit quieter than I expected."

  Quinn glared at Zelda, unwilling to discuss the delicate matter of love-making. "Didn't stay the night. A lady has the right to a restful night's sleep."

  Zelda's brow arched questionably. "You think your leaving mighten' be why she's gone this morning?"

  "I was gonna ask ya round about the same thing. What makes a woman up and leave without tellin' folks she's a goin'?"

  "She was lookin' somethun' awful when I saw 'er with you. You scare the devil outta her or somethin'?" Zelda asked.

  "Did she eat them vittles you rustled up fer her?" Pierre asked.

  Quinn stepped back, his hands up in defense. "I came in here to ask the questions. Looks like ya expect me to be holdin' the answers." He shook his head. "I don't have none. One minute we was talkin' right cozy like and the next she's tossin' me out on my ear." He couldn't tell them what he'd thought he'd seen this morning. They would think he'd gone plumb loco.

  "Well, I'll be," Zelda leaned against the bar. "Quinn Jackson, you surprise me. You can rescue any damsel in distress at the drop of a hat, but ya can't hold a woman long enough to tell 'er how ya feel."

  "You and the little lady," Pierre drawled. "That might explain why she ain't up to turning tricks, Zelda. An' here you thought she was an unsullied dove when her heart's been up and tamed by Quinn here."

  Zelda measured Quinn with her eyes. At first her appraisal was cold and teasing until her expression softened. "You ain't gone and hurt that dove, have ya, Quinn?"

  He'd had enough. He'd let them badger him because they were friends. They knew one another's secrets or at least some of them. He wasn't about to tell them yet another. "She was fine when I left last evenin'. Just wonderun what the two of you had seen and if she was here."

  "You doubted she was here when ya came in," Pierre said.

  "Well, it don't hurt ta ask." Quinn turned to leave. "If ya see her, tell her I'm lookin' for her."

  "Quinn?" Zelda stopped him. "Women don't up and leave the man they love for no reason. If she left, she had a reason. Maybe she believed you betrayed her in some way. It may have been somethun simple, a lie, a secret, or even somethun complicated."

  Zelda's words haunted him. At least Quinn knew he wasn't crazy. Trish had managed to leave for home this morning without disturbing a soul. Maybe she had crossed the bridge, made her way to the stage stop and caught the first stage out of the valley. She had taken her horse. A horse could cover more ground and in a more direct route. But maybe she knew how treacherous the desert could be. The soulless and snake-infested lava field had taken more than one life.

  He had to find her without asking the wrong people his questions. Ask the wrong question of those congenial to Tuckett, or the law in general, and some might think he'd murdered her. Three unsolved murders. He was tied to two and maybe witnesses could tie him to a third if they decided she'd been murdered. He reined the colt toward the bridge. On the far side, he would reach the stage stop.

  Old man Meeker tossed an armful of feed into the corral. The sturdy stage horses immediately dropped their noses to feed.

  "Morning," Quinn greeted as he rode up.

  Meeker glanced at him then at the sky. "Afternoon."

  "The stage come through yet today?"

  "Yup. The Blackfoot-Salmon came through 'bout an hour ago."

  Quinn's gut twisted. "Headin' north or over the desert?"

  "Ain't got the time to flap my jaws, mister." Meeker went into the barn and returned carrying another armful of hay.

  Quinn wasn't surprised at the way Meeker addressed him. The old coot was blind as a deck of cards. "It ain't jawin' I want. North or South? Did it pick up any passengers?"

  "North. That stage don't take passengers when there's payroll aboard. Too many robberies."

  Quinn knew about the robberies. Everyone did, and he also knew the robbers were after the gold when the stage was headed to Blackfoot, not on its way to Salmon.

  "You see a woman about this mornin'?"

  "Just the missus, friend. Ya gots lots of questions." Meeker managed to bend himself between the rails of the corral and groaned to stand upright again before stirring the hay and spreading it for all six horses.

  "When's the next stage?"

  "Tomorrow when the Blackfoot-Salmon comes back through. That's why I don't got the time ta jaw with ya. This team gotta be well fed and rested."

  "Thank you. If a woman comes here to catch the stage, could ya keep her here and send word to Pierre's Saloon?"

  Meeker stopped spreading feed. "I ain't no telegraph. The missus and I ain't got a horse. The smithy ain't delivered the one he promised last week yet. Just how you thinkin' we'd do that? Fly like a little birdie?"

  The mare Albert had wanted from Quinn. She wasn't much to look at these days. She could still work if the work wasn't too hard or too often, but she'd out lived her usefulness to Quinn. He needed mares that he could breed.

  "I know the horse Albert promised ya. Ya been a great help, Meeker. I'll get the mare to ya this week."

  "Much obliged."

  "You just keep that woman here if she shows up." Quinn turned the colt and headed home. He had a horse to deliver, a green broke colt under him and a woman to find.

  He took a deep breath, letting it out audibly. Women, one in particular, were more hassle than they, as a whole, had proven to be worth. Trish had left, claiming she needed to go home, but why now after being relatively content to stay all week? Maybe she was running away, but from what? Old Curly's murder? That was improbable. No one even knew Curly was missing, but maybe he should make sure the wolves had done their part.

  Quinn dismounted, leaving his gelding ground tied. The fresh canyon breeze filled his nostrils, adequately masking all hints of humanity with its fresh musky scent of pine and decaying matter. Occasional deciduous trees dotted the canyon near the rocky outcrop. It boasted shelter from many a storm. He'd camped here and he'd killed here. Slowly he circled the campsite, meticulous in his examination. The wolves had wasted little time in clearing the site. Only because he remembered the Indian blanket with its unique pattern did he recognize part of the otherwise shredded blanket among the rocks. He scrambled over the rocky terrain to pull the remnant loose. A goshawk swooped overhead, landing high in the nearest pine. Birds in the vicinity of the predator fell silent.

  He widened his circle from the ring of rocks that marked the camp, searching for more clues to Curly's demise. He returned to the site of the fire, scra
mbling the rocks somewhat and mounted his horse, the remnant in hand.

  The cliff would be a logical place for the remnant to be. Someone could easily believe that Curly had lost his footing and fallen to his death. He reined his horse in that direction, stopped, and dropped the cloth. With any luck a bird would pick at it for the fibers to build a nest.

  At least there would be no hint of foul play.

 

  Chapter 38