“Stole it from one of them miners.”
“Can’t take you anywhere,” Nate said, shaking his head.
Frank looked back and forth between the two as if he couldn’t decide which of them deserved more of his disgust. “We’re thieves now?”
“After all we’ve done when riding together, stealing a knife is what ruffles your feathers the most?” Nate asked incredulously.
“Maybe not the most, but—”
“Remember when we were at the saloon where Pete was being held at that poker game?” Deaugrey asked.
“Yes.”
“Remember how I managed to deal with a few of those gunmen before they killed you or anyone else?”
“Yes,” Frank sighed, obviously regretting he’d opened his mouth on the subject.
“I stole that knife too.”
“He’s got a collection,” Nate said.
“Does he now?” Frank muttered.
“I can think of worse hobbies. Especially for a man who spends so much time in insane asylums.”
“Since nobody asked, I’ll tell you why this knife is something so special,” Deaugrey announced. “It was supposed to have been dropped by Dog Ear himself or one of the men riding with him.”
“And when were you going to mention that?” Nate asked.
“Just a few moments ago. Weren’t you listening?”
Pete brought his horse up close to Deaugrey’s mule and extended his hand. “Give that blade here.”
The way Deaugrey flipped the knife to grip it by the blade, he may have wanted to throw it at Pete with the intent of sticking him with it. Although he twitched as if to make that very move, he kept hold of the blade and stretched out his arm to slap the knife’s handle into Pete’s waiting hand. To his credit, Pete didn’t flinch at Deaugrey’s posturing. He merely took the knife in hand to examine it closer.
“Pescaterro doesn’t have many blood relations,” Nate said. “At least, none that will admit to being related to him. When he’s been free in the past, he’s holed up with a bunch of vagrants and outlaws in the hills northeast of here. They’ve taken him in as one of their own, so that tells you plenty about their state of mind.”
“Meaning they’ve got no minds at all,” Deaugrey said. “I know plenty like that.”
“This knife was Pescaterro’s, all right,” Pete announced.
All three men turned in their saddles to look at him. “You sure about that?” Nate asked.
“The blade is high grade steel and the handle was made by a real craftsman. It’d fetch a real high price in any store.”
“In that case, hand it back over,” Deaugrey said. He retracted his hand when he saw the scolding look from Frank.
“What makes you think it’s connected to Pescaterro?” Nate asked.
“There’s a hint of blood smeared on the blade and something caught between it and the guard. Most anyone who would pay whatever price was being asked for this knife wouldn’t risk getting it scraped up or chipped by putting it to use like that.”
“Mining camps can be tough places,” Frank said.
“Sure, but this is just the sort of thing Pescaterro would steal when he storms through some store. Men like him don’t rob to get rich. They want the thrill. The things they take are the sort of things that would appeal to a greedy kid. This knife is pretty and would have caught his eye. The fact that he left it behind after using it once or maybe twice seems even more like something he’d do.”
“Could have been used for anything,” Nate offered. “I’m not doubting you, I just want to make certain we’re on the right track.”
“We are,” Pete told him with absolute certainty. “This knife was used to kill a man. At the very least, it put someone into a whole world of hurt.”
“I suppose you can smell death on the sharpened steel?” Deaugrey asked in a voice dripping with sarcasm.
Pete flipped the knife in the air, caught it by the blade and snapped his arm forward as if to throw the knife right into the crazy man’s face. The only difference between his motion and the one performed by Deaugrey a minute ago was that his caused its target to flinch. Taking no outward pleasure from his small victory, Pete held the knife so it was within inches of the other man’s eyes.
“See what’s snagged under that guard?” Pete asked. “That’s a piece of clothing. It’s also stained with blood. Most likely,” he said while flipping the knife again to take it by the handle and tap the tip of the blade against Deaugrey’s gut, “it was stuck here. Or here,” he added while poking Deaugrey’s chest. “And it went in so hard that it took a piece of someone’s shirt along with it when it was ripped back out again.”
“Could’ve been a fight between miners,” Deaugrey said with much less arrogance than had been in his voice before. “Shouldn’t we be certain before we waste time and effort chasing our tails?”
“My gut tells me this was used by Pescaterro,” Pete said as he took the knife back.
“Mine too,” Nate said. “Should we turn back around and find the miner Grey stole that knife from?”
Pete shook his head. “Dog Ear’s not there anymore. All we’ll get from them miners is more stories.” He lifted his chin as if he were pulling the fragrant wind all the way into his lungs. “Where was that prison he broke out of?”
“Due south of here, not far from the state line.”
“And the hills where he’ll be headed?”
“East,” Nate replied. “Wish I had more direction to give you than that.”
“That’s good enough for now,” Pete said. He reined his horse to a stop and brought it around to face north. “We head this way. Ride for about . . . ten . . . maybe twenty miles. I’ll know more when I get to the trail I’m after.”
Deaugrey was about to protest, but Nate kept him quiet with a quickly raised hand and a sharp glare. To Pete, he said, “We’re all in this together, Pete. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
Pete’s dark brown eyes shifted in their sockets to fix on Nate. The wind picked up to send his thick mane of hair around his face, making him look like a stallion that was just biding its time before throwing its rider. “Maybe I should wait until we’re all sitting around a fire when it suits me better?”
“You know how I do things, Pete,” Nate said. “I never offer a job until every man’s in the proper frame of mind to know what he’s getting in to.”
Grudgingly, Pete pointed his fierce gaze in another direction. “Like I said before, this ain’t just any knife. It was made by an expert. There’s a maker’s mark carved into the handle, the way the steel was sharpened, plenty of things most would plumb overlook.”
“And I suppose you saw what none of us did?” Deaugrey asked.
Without hesitation, Nate said, “That’s why I wanted him along. Unless you’ve got something to say that’s a help, keep your damn mouth shut for a change.”
“The way this knife was made,” Pete said as he continued to turn the weapon over so he could study it from every angle. “It’s distinctive. I think I know where to find the man who put it together.”
“Where?”
“He works out of a town called Nagle along the river north of here, but south of the prison where Pescaterro broke out. He would have come to Nagle before getting to that mining camp we found.”
“If he went there before the camp,” Deaugrey said, “wouldn’t the tracks be fresher at the spot where the knife wound up than where it was taken from?”
Nate would have snapped at Deaugrey again if he’d thought Deaugrey hadn’t brought up a valid point.
“We can always go back to that camp,” Pete said. “But if we know somewhere else that Pescaterro was, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t check there as well. Someone might have seen what horse he was riding. There could be cleaner tracks to be found. Hell, there could be any number of t
hings that the knife maker saw that could be a help. Any piece I can find will help me find Pescaterro. Tracking is what I do, so let me do it!”
Nate flicked his reins to steer his horse between Pete and Deaugrey. “Enough!” he said. “I know it’s been a while since you two have ridden together, and the pair of you never did see eye to eye.”
“Ain’t nobody sees eye to eye with that lunatic,” Pete snarled.
Before Deaugrey could retort, Nate said, “Be that as it may, I brought you both together because I needed what you’ve got to offer. And I waited to offer the job until I could get a look at how the two of you reacted when I put you in sight of each other again. I wouldn’t have made the offer unless I was certain you could refrain from snapping each other’s necks. You both have your talents and I’ve got mine. Reading dangerous souls is what I do. If you don’t trust that, then take your horses and your petty goddamn squabbling, pick a direction and ride it straight outta my sight!”
Rather than stare daggers at each other, Pete and Deaugrey looked over at Nate. His face was impossible to read, whether he was looking over the barrel of his Remington or placing a bet at a card table. Anyone who rode with him more than once knew the futility of trying to guess when he might be bluffing.
“Now that you stopped to take a breath,” Nate continued, “perhaps you’ll hear me out. I say we split up and cover both the knife maker and that mining camp. Deaugrey, you’re coming with me. Show me where to find the fella you pickpocketed and we’ll ask around to see if anyone has anything else to say where Pescaterro is concerned. Pete, you and Frank go to that river town to see what you can see. How’s that for a plan?”
“Plans are what you do,” Deaugrey said cheerily. “I don’t mind going back to that camp. Had my eye on a soiled dove that was working there. At least, I think she was soiled.”
Pete merely nodded and flicked his reins to start his ride to that river town.
“Do me a favor, Nate,” Frank said. “Try not to kill him while I’m away.”
Watching as Deaugrey tapped his heels against his mule’s sides to get the animal rushing back along the trail to the mining camp, Nate said, “I’m not about to make promises I can’t keep.”
11
Nagle, Missouri
Sunlight was fading into shadow by the time Pete and Frank rode into town. The journey was a stark contrast to the one that had brought them across the state line into Kansas, and Frank savored every last moment of it. The air was heavier than it had been on the plains. All of the heat clinging to his sweaty face like slick moss was soothed whenever a breeze came in to brush against his cheek having recently skimmed the top of the Missouri River. Gnats and flies darted past his eyes, only to be swept away by an idle hand.
“This is the place,” Pete said while nodding toward a sign nailed to a tree. Written on that weathered plank was the name of the town and the most recent guess as to how many resided there. “Probably too late to have a word with that knife maker, but we should be able to find something to eat.”
“I’m starving,” Frank said enthusiastically. “Besides, even if the shops were still open, it’d be a better idea to pay your friend a visit tomorrow afternoon or late morning. He’ll be more willing to talk then.”
Pete looked over at him and asked, “Do you know this man?”
“No, but I’ve paid plenty of visits to folks at odd hours.” Frank tapped the starched collar of his black shirt. “They always start off on their guard because they assume they’re getting bad news. More often than not, they’re right. When I visited a member of my congregation for supper or to shoot the breeze, it was during the civilized hours of the day. When someone died or had fallen terribly ill, it was usually very late or very early. Let’s not start off on the wrong foot with this fellow. Besides, it’s not like we were going to talk to him and ride back to meet Nate tonight anyway.”
“You could always change into another shirt,” Pete offered. “Folks might not be so nervous if they were talking to someone other than a preacher.”
“Strangers showing up will only put him on his guard more. What’s the matter? You don’t want to share a meal with me?”
Pete started to say something but shut his mouth and faced forward without making a sound.
Frank recognized such mannerisms from plenty of folks who came in to confess to him several times in a row before they got around to admitting any wrongdoing. Perhaps Pete would change his mind or perhaps he wouldn’t. For the moment, Frank decided to play along and pretend the conversation hadn’t ended with an unanswered question.
Nagle was a town that felt as if it had sprung up as a natural growth along the banks of the river. Instead of straight streets and ordered districts, it followed the flow of the water with a scattering of shops, small houses and a mill. The scent of cooking fires and baked bread still lingered in the air after most of the town had had its supper. Frank couldn’t help but tug on his reins when he approached a small restaurant with its doors propped open.
“We’re movin’ along,” Pete said.
“Aren’t you hungry?”
“Yep.”
“Then let’s eat,” Frank pleaded.
After moving a few yards past the place, Pete steered his horse to go off the main path and around the inviting building. Before Frank could wonder if he should follow, Pete returned while shaking his head. “Not this place.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’s no view of the river.”
“It’ll be too dark to see anything anyway.”
But Pete wasn’t about to budge. “If you’re somewhere close to a river or ocean, always eat somewhere with a view of the water. They’ll either have delicious fish on the menu or a specialty that’s good enough to make up for the fact that they don’t serve fish.”
Frank thought about that for a moment. “I suppose that makes some kind of sense.”
“Course it does. I spotted another place just down the way. We’ll go there and put my theory to the test.”
As long as it meant moving closer to a hot meal, Frank wasn’t about to protest.
The Miller’s Stone was a little place run by a large family. Fortunately for the town’s newest arrivals, the mother and daughter of that family were night owls and didn’t mind putting together a heaping plate of supper for them. The younger of the two women brought a basket of biscuits and a pitcher of water. She returned soon after with the main course which consisted of shepherd’s pie and a bowl of greens.
“It ain’t fish,” Frank said, “but it sure beats another night of cool ham and old beans.”
Since his mouth was already stuffed full, Pete just nodded.
The cook emerged from the kitchen, untying her apron and using it to wipe her hands. She looked every bit like the pretty, fair-haired girl who’d brought the plates to the table with a few more years behind her. If their similarities persisted, the daughter’s future husband would be a very lucky man indeed. “It’s been a while since this town has seen the likes of you!” she said.
Frank dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and stood up to greet the woman. “Doesn’t a town as fine as this one have a man of the cloth?”
The woman blinked and said, “Of course it does. I meant him! Come here, Pietro!”
Pete stood up as well so he could be wrapped up in an exuberant hug. “Hello, Diana.”
“Were you going to come along, eat my food and not pay your respects?”
“Didn’t want to put you out, is all.”
Holding him at arm’s length, the woman shook her head and said, “Put me out? Listen to you. Such nonsense. Who’s your friend?”
“This here is Frank . . .”
Seeing the vacant look on Pete’s face shift slowly toward embarrassment, Frank stretched out his hand and put on a smile that members of his congregation back home got to see every Sunday
morning. “Frank Waverly, ma’am. Pleased to meet you.”
“My, my,” Diana said with a flutter of her eyelashes. “I never would have thought Pete would keep company with a man of the cloth. Especially such a handsome one.”
“The good Lord isn’t the only one who works in mysterious ways.”
She laughed a bit more than the little joke deserved before saying, “It’s good to see you, Pete, and very nice to meet you, Frank.”
“Likewise,” Frank said.
“I’ll just tend to your desserts.”
“We didn’t order no—”
“And you didn’t have to, Pietro,” she said quickly. “I’ll have them ready by the time you’re finished with the shepherd’s pie.”
“I look forward to it.” Frank beamed.
As Diana headed for the kitchen, Pete grumbled, “All right, rein it in.”
“I wouldn’t have pegged you as the sort to be on friendly terms with someone like that,” Frank mused.
“Why? You don’t think folks like me?”
“It’s not that. I just thought you didn’t like many folks.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Pete shrugged. “I suppose you’re right about that.”
Using his fork to pick at some of the pie’s flaky crust and then dip it into a bit of gravy that had spilled out from the middle, Frank asked, “How many times have we ridden together?”
“I dunno. Three. Four, maybe? I worked with Nate plenty of times more than that, but you were off preaching or some such.”
“Even so, I would’ve thought that might have been enough for you to recall my last name.”
“I see what I need to see,” Pete told him. “There’s plenty I need to remember, so I only keep what needs to be kept. You’re Frank the Preacher. That’s always been good enough for me.”
Frank smirked and nodded amicably. “I suppose that seems reasonable. Besides, we’ve never really spent much time together even when Nate was around.”
Looking up from the loaded fork that was poised less than two inches from his mouth, Pete asked, “You’re not getting all . . . sentimental on me, are you?”
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