eyes—she knew them far too well.
Johnny focused on his task. “There’s nothing of interest to tell, Judge.”
Cutting through the underbrush, Johnny rode a dry riverbed through a canyon. The horse was winded, but he pushed the animal harder, up and down ravines, in and out of thickets. He turned up a steep incline. When they burst out of the brush, the sorrel’s head jerked up, and the animal shied nervously.
Johnny found himself staring down the barrels of a half-dozen rifles.
Crows cawed overhead. Heat bore down as the posse leisurely rode toward him, forming a circle, their rifles centered on the middle of his chest.
“Throw down your gun,” the sheriff ordered. Johnny shifted in the saddle. “Look. I know how this seems—”
“Throw it down, boy!”
Johnny’s hands were already in the air. He gingerly lifted the pistol from its holster and let it drop into the dirt.
The sheriff swung off his horse and walked toward him. The man was big and stocky, and he had thirty pounds on Johnny. There was no way to take him, and even if there was, he couldn’t take on six men.
“Where’s the money?”
“Left saddlebag.”
“Get off your horse.”
Johnny dismounted and stood beside his horse, hands above his head.
The sheriff rummaged through the bag. “Ain’t here. Where is it?”
Johnny took a step toward the horse to search. A gun clicked.
“Stay where you are, mister,” one of the men said. “I don’t relish dragging a corpse back to town.”
Johnny lifted his hands higher. “I don’t relish that either.”
The sheriff wasn’t amused. “Where’s the money?”
“I put the bag in my saddle pouch.”
“Ain’t no money here.” The leather saddlebag landed at Johnny’s feet.
He grabbed it and shook it upside down. His heart sank as the contents spilled to the ground. The bank pouch wasn’t there. He studied the men. Not an eye blinked as they stonily returned his look.
“I must have lost it on the trail.”
Heads swiveled to stare back at the way they’d come.
Straightening his shoulders, the sheriff leveled the barrel of his rifle at Johnny. “Get back on your horse, son.”
Chapter Twelve
J udge McMann assembled a pile of red buttons as the mantle clock ticked. “I find it hard to believe that you’d have nothing to tell. Every man has something interesting to speak about. How did you come to be involved in a bank robbery?”
“I didn’t.” Another button hit the pile. “I’m innocent of the crime.”
“So you’ve said.” The judge continued sorting. “Well, there must be something you’d like to tell us about yourself. How do you feel about God?”
Johnny shook his head. “If you’re asking if I believe in God, yes. If you’re asking if we’re on friendly terms, no.”
Drawing on his pipe, the judge nodded. “I understand. There have been a few times I’ve been a little put out with God, but eventually he brought me around to seeing things his way. What about family? You have parents, don’t you?”
“No, sir.”
“Family? Brothers? Sisters?”
“No. No brothers or sisters. No parents.”
Johnny’s tone was guarded now, evasive. The judge had struck a nerve. What was he hiding ? He didn’t just materialize out of thin air. Was he being stubborn? Was he ashamed of his behavior and trying to protect his parents’ identity? Ragan studied the prisoner’s dark goodlooks as she dumped flour into a bowl. At least he wasn’t a heathen, yet what set a man like him on the path of self-destruction? He made it plain that he was a loner, a man with a chip on his shoulder, daring her or anyone else to befriend him. She gasped as the flour spilled over.
“Been on your own for some time, huh?”
“A long time, Judge.”
Ragan swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. Vulnerability in his voice was the last thing she’d expected to hear. He’s a criminal, she reminded herself, shoving sentimentality aside.
He was as uncaring as the men who
Johnny focused on his task. “There’s nothing of interest to tell, Judge.”
Cutting through the underbrush, Johnny rode a dry riverbed through a canyon. The horse was winded, but he pushed the animal harder, up and down ravines, in and out of thickets. He turned up a steep incline. When they burst out of the brush, the sorrel’s head jerked up, and the animal shied nervously.
Johnny found himself staring down the barrels of a half-dozen rifles.
Crows cawed overhead. Heat bore down as the posse leisurely rode toward him, forming a circle, their rifles centered on the middle of his chest.
“Throw down your gun,” the sheriff ordered. Johnny shifted in the saddle. “Look. I know how this seems—”
“Throw it down, boy!”
Johnny’s hands were already in the air. He gingerly lifted the pistol from its holster and let it drop into the dirt.
The sheriff swung off his horse and walked toward him. The man was big and stocky, and he had thirty pounds on Johnny. There was no way to take him, and even if there was, he couldn’t take on six men.
“Where’s the money?”
“Left saddlebag.”
“Get off your horse.”
Johnny dismounted and stood beside his horse, hands above his head.
The sheriff rummaged through the bag. “Ain’t here. Where is it?”
Johnny took a step toward the horse to search. A gun clicked.
“Stay where you are, mister,” one of the men said. “I don’t relish dragging a corpse back to town.”
Johnny lifted his hands higher. “I don’t relish that either.”
The sheriff wasn’t amused. “Where’s the money?”
“I put the bag in my saddle pouch.”
“Ain’t no money here.” The leather saddlebag landed at Johnny’s feet.
He grabbed it and shook it upside down. His heart sank as the contents spilled to the ground. The bank pouch wasn’t there. He studied the men. Not an eye blinked as they stonily returned his look.
“I must have lost it on the trail.”
Heads swiveled to stare back at the way they’d come.
Straightening his shoulders, the sheriff leveled the barrel of his rifle at Johnny. “Get back on your horse, son.”
Chapter Twelve
J udge McMann assembled a pile of red buttons as the mantle clock ticked. “I find it hard to believe that you’d have nothing to tell. Every man has something interesting to speak about. How did you come to be involved in a bank robbery?”
“I didn’t.” Another button hit the pile. “I’m innocent of the crime.”
“So you’ve said.” The judge continued sorting. “Well, there must be something you’d like to tell us about yourself. How do you feel about God?”
Johnny shook his head. “If you’re asking if I believe in God, yes. If you’re asking if we’re on friendly terms, no.”
Drawing on his pipe, the judge nodded. “I understand. There have been a few times I’ve been a little put out with God, but eventually he brought me around to seeing things his way. What about family? You have parents, don’t you?”
“No, sir.”
“Family? Brothers? Sisters?”
“No. No brothers or sisters. No parents.”
Johnny’s tone was guarded now, evasive. The judge had struck a nerve. What was he hiding ? He didn’t just materialize out of thin air. Was he being stubborn? Was he ashamed of his behavior and trying to protect his parents’ identity? Ragan studied the prisoner’s dark goodlooks as she dumped flour into a bowl. At least he wasn’t a heathen, yet what set a man like him on the path of self-destruction? He made it plain that he was a loner, a man with a chip on his shoulder, daring her or anyone else to befriend him. She gasped as the flour spilled over.
“Been on your own for some time, huh?”
“A long time, Judge.”
Ragan swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. Vulnerability in his voice was the last thing she’d expected to hear. He’s a criminal, she reminded herself, shoving sentimentality aside.
He was as uncaring as the men who
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