earlier.
However,
there was no house. No corral. What Bird found was a ring of rocks to
make a campfire, and a tent structure that was falling down, with a few stray
patches of canvas cloth fluttering in the wind.
There
was no sign of any people.
What
a terrible spot for a camp ,
Bird thought. The wind ripped along the creek, and its inertia carried it directly
to the camp, where there were no trees to serve as a windbreak. The slope
behind the shelf of land also most likely poured rainwater down toward the
creek.
There
was no recent sign of tracks.
Bird
pulled the whiskey bottle out and took another drink, leaning on the saddle’s
pommel as she considered her options.
She
slipped the bottle back into its saddlebag and walked the Appaloosa toward the
creek.
Something
seemed odd.
There
was no way two people who were setting up a ranch would live in this tent in
this place for this long.
The
wind gusted and the horse shifted as Bird decided to walk along the creek,
headed north. Perhaps there were more buildings ahead, or this was just an
outpost and not the actual homestead of the Arliss clan.
The
Appaloosa snorted and sidestepped quickly away from the creek. Bird had her gun
in her hand as she surveyed the grassy prairie surrounding them.
Nothing.
So
what had spooked the big horse?
Bird
slid from the saddle and approached the creek. Maybe there was a coyote patrolling
the area, although there hadn’t been many animal tracks near the campfire.
She
got to the creek, where the surface of the water reflected rays from the late
afternoon sun.
There
was a flash of white in the water. As Bird peered closer into the creek, she
saw a face looking back at her.
For
a brief moment, she wondered if it was her own reflection, but then came
recognition.
Susan
Arliss.
Twenty-Five
M ike
Tower was able to smell his new cell mate before he could see him.
Sheriff
Ectors’s voice growled from the next room, “One step at a time, partner. Straight
ahead.”
A
man with dirt on his face and straw in his hair stumbled through the doorway
into the cell area. His pants were covered with dirt, as was the front of his
shirt.
He
reeked of whiskey and cow shit.
“Sorry
about this, Preacher, but I’ve got a cowboy too full of whiskey to behave. He
needs to get some sleep before he’s ready to face society again.”
Tower
didn’t say anything as Ectors opened the cell door and prodded the cowboy onto
the other cot in the cell. The man collapsed flat on his back and immediately
started snoring.
“I
brought over some supper for you,” Ectors said to Tower. He went back out into
the front office, then reappeared with a plate full of beans and one biscuit. “If
you breathe real deep, you might be able to get a little bit drunk off of the
whiskey fumes from your new neighbor,” Ectors said.
Tower
had no appetite whatsoever, but he ate the food on the plate with a mechanical
efficiency. He had learned the lesson in war well: eat when you can, sleep when
you can, because you never know when either will be in short supply.
He
set the empty plate outside the cell door and lay back on his cot. His fellow
cell mate had stopped snoring, and Ectors had left the office.
There
was silence except for the occasional shout from the street or the sound of a
horse braying.
Tower
wondered what Bird was doing.
Of
all the places he could have imagined, the jail in the town of Prosperity,
Kansas, was the last place he would have expected ending up.
He
wondered if there was a way to contact Father Johnstone back in Saint Louis. What
would he say? I’ve been arrested, send help?
No,
that wouldn’t do.
He
wasn’t about to drag the church into this situation. Tower knew he hadn’t raped
the woman, but there was a chance he knew her.
But
where?
When?
He
closed his eyes and scrolled through the memories, as hazy as they were, trying
to picture the face of Susan Arliss. He imagined her with shorter hair and
longer hair. Heavier and
However,
there was no house. No corral. What Bird found was a ring of rocks to
make a campfire, and a tent structure that was falling down, with a few stray
patches of canvas cloth fluttering in the wind.
There
was no sign of any people.
What
a terrible spot for a camp ,
Bird thought. The wind ripped along the creek, and its inertia carried it directly
to the camp, where there were no trees to serve as a windbreak. The slope
behind the shelf of land also most likely poured rainwater down toward the
creek.
There
was no recent sign of tracks.
Bird
pulled the whiskey bottle out and took another drink, leaning on the saddle’s
pommel as she considered her options.
She
slipped the bottle back into its saddlebag and walked the Appaloosa toward the
creek.
Something
seemed odd.
There
was no way two people who were setting up a ranch would live in this tent in
this place for this long.
The
wind gusted and the horse shifted as Bird decided to walk along the creek,
headed north. Perhaps there were more buildings ahead, or this was just an
outpost and not the actual homestead of the Arliss clan.
The
Appaloosa snorted and sidestepped quickly away from the creek. Bird had her gun
in her hand as she surveyed the grassy prairie surrounding them.
Nothing.
So
what had spooked the big horse?
Bird
slid from the saddle and approached the creek. Maybe there was a coyote patrolling
the area, although there hadn’t been many animal tracks near the campfire.
She
got to the creek, where the surface of the water reflected rays from the late
afternoon sun.
There
was a flash of white in the water. As Bird peered closer into the creek, she
saw a face looking back at her.
For
a brief moment, she wondered if it was her own reflection, but then came
recognition.
Susan
Arliss.
Twenty-Five
M ike
Tower was able to smell his new cell mate before he could see him.
Sheriff
Ectors’s voice growled from the next room, “One step at a time, partner. Straight
ahead.”
A
man with dirt on his face and straw in his hair stumbled through the doorway
into the cell area. His pants were covered with dirt, as was the front of his
shirt.
He
reeked of whiskey and cow shit.
“Sorry
about this, Preacher, but I’ve got a cowboy too full of whiskey to behave. He
needs to get some sleep before he’s ready to face society again.”
Tower
didn’t say anything as Ectors opened the cell door and prodded the cowboy onto
the other cot in the cell. The man collapsed flat on his back and immediately
started snoring.
“I
brought over some supper for you,” Ectors said to Tower. He went back out into
the front office, then reappeared with a plate full of beans and one biscuit. “If
you breathe real deep, you might be able to get a little bit drunk off of the
whiskey fumes from your new neighbor,” Ectors said.
Tower
had no appetite whatsoever, but he ate the food on the plate with a mechanical
efficiency. He had learned the lesson in war well: eat when you can, sleep when
you can, because you never know when either will be in short supply.
He
set the empty plate outside the cell door and lay back on his cot. His fellow
cell mate had stopped snoring, and Ectors had left the office.
There
was silence except for the occasional shout from the street or the sound of a
horse braying.
Tower
wondered what Bird was doing.
Of
all the places he could have imagined, the jail in the town of Prosperity,
Kansas, was the last place he would have expected ending up.
He
wondered if there was a way to contact Father Johnstone back in Saint Louis. What
would he say? I’ve been arrested, send help?
No,
that wouldn’t do.
He
wasn’t about to drag the church into this situation. Tower knew he hadn’t raped
the woman, but there was a chance he knew her.
But
where?
When?
He
closed his eyes and scrolled through the memories, as hazy as they were, trying
to picture the face of Susan Arliss. He imagined her with shorter hair and
longer hair. Heavier and
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