these days, whoever is stealing your cattle will make a mistake—leave a trail, a footprint, something I can go on. I’ll get him in the end. I always do.”
“Yeah,” the tall man grumbled. “You do. But waitin’ is costing me money!”
Ben raised his eyebrows. “And it’s costing me sleep at night There’s an old Indian saying, Si. ‘When in doubt, do nothing—the situation could get worse.’ Come fall, I’ll have this wound up and then you can get rich and I can get rested.”
Silas chuckled. Clapping his hat on an unruly shock of sandy hair, he turned toward the door. “I’ll buy you a drink if you pull it off by September, Ben. I’ll even stake you to a round of poker.”
Ben grinned. “Five-card stud and Child’s Premium. New shipment should be in by September.”
The door closed on Si Appleby’s laughter.
Ben struck his desk with his fist. Damn! If he found evidence of just one fresh beef carcass at Black Eagle’s camp, he’d skin the old fox alive. He swore again. The cat sleeping on top of his logbook cracked one eye open,stretched and offered an elaborate yawn. Before he knew it, the animal curled up in his lap.
The door bumped open a second time, and Jessamyn Whittaker marched into the room. A lacy white blouse that looked crisp enough to stand up by itself bloomed from the waistband of her swirling indigo blue skirt.
“Sheriff Kearney?” Her voice sounded as if it, too, had been starched.
“Miss Whittaker?”
She whipped open a notebook, pulled a pencil from behind one ear and leaned over his desk. “As the new editor of the Wildwood Times, Sheriff, I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may?”
Ben narrowed his eyes. The last thing he needed this morning was a grilling by a nosy Yankee newspaper reporter.
Jessamyn poised her pencil over the pad. “Who was that Indian girl?”
Ben stroked the purring animal in his lap. “Her name is Walks Dancing.”
She scribbled in her notebook. “What is the significance of her visit this afternoon?”
Ben frowned. “Depends. Significance to whom—you? Me? The town? Herself? Just what do you want to know?”
Jessamyn tightened her lips in exasperation. Couldn’t the man answer a simple question? “I mean, where did she come from?”
Ben plopped his hat onto the clutter on his desk and ran his hand through his hair. “She’s a Modoc. The Klamath chief adopted her as his daughter some years back. Black Eagle can’t risk exposing his braves—they’d be captured and sent to the reservation with the others. So he sent Walks Dancing into town with a message.”
“What message?” Jessamyn said, her words clipped.
“None of your business,” Ben returned. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“How was she crippled?” Jessamyn interrupted. “From birth?”
Ben expelled a long breath. “She was crippled because she’s a Modoc. The Klamath and the Modoc tribes have been enemies for generations. Walks Dancing made the mistake of falling in love with the wrong man—a Klamath brave. She left her tribe and went with him. Her people found them the next spring. They killed him. Then they broke both her legs by running their horses over her and left her to die. She didn’t. Black Eagle adopted her.”
Jessamyn felt the blood drain from her upper torso. Suddenly dizzy, she dropped the pad and grabbed for the edge of Ben’s desk. “How horrible.”
“Sorry you asked?”
“Yes,” she murmured. “I mean, no! How else am I going to find out what’s happening?”
“Know what my father used to tell me? ‘Keep your eyes and ears open—”’ He leaned toward her and lowered his voice “’—and your mouth shut’” He looked as if he especially relished the last part.
Jessamyn winced. His barb hit home. Very well, she’d do things his way. “Just one more question, Sheriff.” She mustered as steady a tone as she could manage. “What are you finding out about my father’s murderer?”
Ben studied her for what
“Yeah,” the tall man grumbled. “You do. But waitin’ is costing me money!”
Ben raised his eyebrows. “And it’s costing me sleep at night There’s an old Indian saying, Si. ‘When in doubt, do nothing—the situation could get worse.’ Come fall, I’ll have this wound up and then you can get rich and I can get rested.”
Silas chuckled. Clapping his hat on an unruly shock of sandy hair, he turned toward the door. “I’ll buy you a drink if you pull it off by September, Ben. I’ll even stake you to a round of poker.”
Ben grinned. “Five-card stud and Child’s Premium. New shipment should be in by September.”
The door closed on Si Appleby’s laughter.
Ben struck his desk with his fist. Damn! If he found evidence of just one fresh beef carcass at Black Eagle’s camp, he’d skin the old fox alive. He swore again. The cat sleeping on top of his logbook cracked one eye open,stretched and offered an elaborate yawn. Before he knew it, the animal curled up in his lap.
The door bumped open a second time, and Jessamyn Whittaker marched into the room. A lacy white blouse that looked crisp enough to stand up by itself bloomed from the waistband of her swirling indigo blue skirt.
“Sheriff Kearney?” Her voice sounded as if it, too, had been starched.
“Miss Whittaker?”
She whipped open a notebook, pulled a pencil from behind one ear and leaned over his desk. “As the new editor of the Wildwood Times, Sheriff, I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may?”
Ben narrowed his eyes. The last thing he needed this morning was a grilling by a nosy Yankee newspaper reporter.
Jessamyn poised her pencil over the pad. “Who was that Indian girl?”
Ben stroked the purring animal in his lap. “Her name is Walks Dancing.”
She scribbled in her notebook. “What is the significance of her visit this afternoon?”
Ben frowned. “Depends. Significance to whom—you? Me? The town? Herself? Just what do you want to know?”
Jessamyn tightened her lips in exasperation. Couldn’t the man answer a simple question? “I mean, where did she come from?”
Ben plopped his hat onto the clutter on his desk and ran his hand through his hair. “She’s a Modoc. The Klamath chief adopted her as his daughter some years back. Black Eagle can’t risk exposing his braves—they’d be captured and sent to the reservation with the others. So he sent Walks Dancing into town with a message.”
“What message?” Jessamyn said, her words clipped.
“None of your business,” Ben returned. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“How was she crippled?” Jessamyn interrupted. “From birth?”
Ben expelled a long breath. “She was crippled because she’s a Modoc. The Klamath and the Modoc tribes have been enemies for generations. Walks Dancing made the mistake of falling in love with the wrong man—a Klamath brave. She left her tribe and went with him. Her people found them the next spring. They killed him. Then they broke both her legs by running their horses over her and left her to die. She didn’t. Black Eagle adopted her.”
Jessamyn felt the blood drain from her upper torso. Suddenly dizzy, she dropped the pad and grabbed for the edge of Ben’s desk. “How horrible.”
“Sorry you asked?”
“Yes,” she murmured. “I mean, no! How else am I going to find out what’s happening?”
“Know what my father used to tell me? ‘Keep your eyes and ears open—”’ He leaned toward her and lowered his voice “’—and your mouth shut’” He looked as if he especially relished the last part.
Jessamyn winced. His barb hit home. Very well, she’d do things his way. “Just one more question, Sheriff.” She mustered as steady a tone as she could manage. “What are you finding out about my father’s murderer?”
Ben studied her for what
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