wrong, ain’t it?”
“Bad wrong. Now do as I say. And saddle my horse, too.”
“Right away, Marshal.”
As he and Bloodworth were walking away, Redmon called over his shoulder. “You’ll be busy shortly. Best be ready.”
Next they hurried to Pettibone’s hardware and mercantile, around back, where Redmon pounded on the door. Miles Pettibone, somewhat less annoyed than others had been, answered. When Redmon told him what was needed, he neither argued nor delayed. He led them into the store, gave Bloodworth what he needed, and did not bother to ask what this was all about.
“Does George know?” Redmon asked as Pettibone went about his business. “Or Hope?”
“No.” Bloodworth shook his head. “I’ll tell ’em on my way out of town.”
“You want I should tell ‘em?”
Bloodworth thought that over a moment, then shook his head. “Reckon I should be the one. Besides, you got work to do.”
Redmon nodded. “And I best get to it.” He paused. “How’re you gonna recognize this fella? You said you never did get a good look at him.”
“I’ll find him, Don’t you fret.”
Redmon stared a minute. Then he nodded and headed out.
A few minutes later, Bloodworth, carrying a new Winchester and several boxes of cartridges, followed by Pettibone with the rest of his supplies, headed toward the stable. Bloodworth’s horse was ready. He quickly loaded his gear. He pulled himself into the saddle. “Obliged,” he said, touching the brim of his hat at the liveryman and then Pettibone.
Five minutes later he stopped in front of Edith Wickline’s house. With some reluctance, he knocked, waited a bit, then knocked again, louder.
A sleepy Hope cracked open the door. “Mr. Bloodworth?” she asked, puzzled.
Bloodworth nodded. “Is George about?”
“He’s sleeping, of course. Is something wrong?”
“Yes. Go and fetch him. I’ll wait in the sitting room.”
Worry sprang into Hope’s eyes. “Yes, sir,” she said, voice quavering a bit. She turned and hurried off.
Bloodworth went in and closed the door quietly behind him. In the sitting room, he poured himself a small glass of brandy and jolted it down. He followed it with another.
“What’s all this?” Charles snapped. “Hope wakes me in the middle of the night. She’s says you told her something’s bad wrong.”
Bloodworth hated to do what he was about to do, as it would hurt Hope, but he had no time or patience to deal with this buffoon. “Miz Edith’s dead,” he said flatly.
Hope screeched and clapped her hands to her mouth. Tears leaked, then flowed.
“The hell you say,” Charles said, eyes blank with shock.
“Bandits held up the stage and she was shot down,” Bloodworth said, rage boiling inside him again. “She is at Bock’s mortuary. He will take the best of care with her. You two will have to see to arrangements.”
“What about you?” Charles asked, still shaken.
“I’m goin’ after those two I didn’t get right off.” Bitterness mixed with the fury in his voice. “You take care of Hope, now, boy, you hear?” He did not wait for an answer. He slapped on his hat, turned and hustled out the door. As such, he did not see the fleeting gleam of avarice in George Smalley’s eyes nor the flash of fear in Hope’s.
** ** ** ** **
Bloodworth spent three hours at Wilson’s stage stop, long enough for a quick, poor-tasting meal, a short nap and to let his horse rest a bit. Then he was back in the saddle, just after dawn, pushing hard. Not long after, he stopped at the spot where the robbery had taken place. He tied the horse loosely to a cottonwood at the river’s edge. Then he prowled the area, looking for sign of where the two who had escaped had gone. Of the one who was unharmed, there was nothing; just some hoof prints that could’ve been made by the outlaw or by a thousand others who had stopped in the area. Bloodworth had wounded the other, however, though in the back, so it took a little
“Bad wrong. Now do as I say. And saddle my horse, too.”
“Right away, Marshal.”
As he and Bloodworth were walking away, Redmon called over his shoulder. “You’ll be busy shortly. Best be ready.”
Next they hurried to Pettibone’s hardware and mercantile, around back, where Redmon pounded on the door. Miles Pettibone, somewhat less annoyed than others had been, answered. When Redmon told him what was needed, he neither argued nor delayed. He led them into the store, gave Bloodworth what he needed, and did not bother to ask what this was all about.
“Does George know?” Redmon asked as Pettibone went about his business. “Or Hope?”
“No.” Bloodworth shook his head. “I’ll tell ’em on my way out of town.”
“You want I should tell ‘em?”
Bloodworth thought that over a moment, then shook his head. “Reckon I should be the one. Besides, you got work to do.”
Redmon nodded. “And I best get to it.” He paused. “How’re you gonna recognize this fella? You said you never did get a good look at him.”
“I’ll find him, Don’t you fret.”
Redmon stared a minute. Then he nodded and headed out.
A few minutes later, Bloodworth, carrying a new Winchester and several boxes of cartridges, followed by Pettibone with the rest of his supplies, headed toward the stable. Bloodworth’s horse was ready. He quickly loaded his gear. He pulled himself into the saddle. “Obliged,” he said, touching the brim of his hat at the liveryman and then Pettibone.
Five minutes later he stopped in front of Edith Wickline’s house. With some reluctance, he knocked, waited a bit, then knocked again, louder.
A sleepy Hope cracked open the door. “Mr. Bloodworth?” she asked, puzzled.
Bloodworth nodded. “Is George about?”
“He’s sleeping, of course. Is something wrong?”
“Yes. Go and fetch him. I’ll wait in the sitting room.”
Worry sprang into Hope’s eyes. “Yes, sir,” she said, voice quavering a bit. She turned and hurried off.
Bloodworth went in and closed the door quietly behind him. In the sitting room, he poured himself a small glass of brandy and jolted it down. He followed it with another.
“What’s all this?” Charles snapped. “Hope wakes me in the middle of the night. She’s says you told her something’s bad wrong.”
Bloodworth hated to do what he was about to do, as it would hurt Hope, but he had no time or patience to deal with this buffoon. “Miz Edith’s dead,” he said flatly.
Hope screeched and clapped her hands to her mouth. Tears leaked, then flowed.
“The hell you say,” Charles said, eyes blank with shock.
“Bandits held up the stage and she was shot down,” Bloodworth said, rage boiling inside him again. “She is at Bock’s mortuary. He will take the best of care with her. You two will have to see to arrangements.”
“What about you?” Charles asked, still shaken.
“I’m goin’ after those two I didn’t get right off.” Bitterness mixed with the fury in his voice. “You take care of Hope, now, boy, you hear?” He did not wait for an answer. He slapped on his hat, turned and hustled out the door. As such, he did not see the fleeting gleam of avarice in George Smalley’s eyes nor the flash of fear in Hope’s.
** ** ** ** **
Bloodworth spent three hours at Wilson’s stage stop, long enough for a quick, poor-tasting meal, a short nap and to let his horse rest a bit. Then he was back in the saddle, just after dawn, pushing hard. Not long after, he stopped at the spot where the robbery had taken place. He tied the horse loosely to a cottonwood at the river’s edge. Then he prowled the area, looking for sign of where the two who had escaped had gone. Of the one who was unharmed, there was nothing; just some hoof prints that could’ve been made by the outlaw or by a thousand others who had stopped in the area. Bloodworth had wounded the other, however, though in the back, so it took a little
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