Jane Bonander by Warrior Heart

“How can you tell that?”
    Jackson picked up a dry stick and pointed it at a damp circle in the dirt. “This is urine. See how—”
    “Horse piss? How in hell do you know it’s horse piss?”
    Jackson gave the deputy a weary glance. “Do you want to get down there and smell it?” When Axel sullenly shook his head, Jackson continued. “The stream is away from the back shoe marks. If it were a gelding or a stallion, the urine would be between the front and back prints. Does that answer your question?”
    Axel shrugged. “I guess.”
    What Jackson didn’t offer was that while two sets appeared to have been made by cow ponies, the third set was distinctively that of a high-stepper—an unusual mount for a cowboy.
    He rose and returned to Danel Mateo and his son. “How many sheep do you think were slaughtered, Danel?”
    “I’m guessing about one hundred and twenty-five. Can’t say for sure.” Danel shook his head. “Christ, I hope you can do something. If this happens again, I’ll be wiped out.”
    Promising to speed up the process, Jackson returned to town, telling Axel to keep Vern informed. Before returning to the jail, he stopped at the bank. The room seemed smaller, somehow, yet nothing appeared to have changed. It even smelled the same: old dust and stale air.
    A thin, bespectacled man with long wisps of hair that were swept across a balding pate in a futile attempt at camouflage glanced up from a stack of papers. “May I help you?”
    Briefly touching his inside jacket pocket, Jackson said, “I’d like to check on an account, please.”
    “The name on the account?”
    “Wolfe, Jackson and/or Dawn Twilight.”
    Nodding, the man rose and disappeared behind a partition. He reappeared shortly, his expression bemused. “I’m afraid I don’t find such an account, sir.”
    A spasm rolled through Jackson’s gut. He retrieved the leather pouch from his jacket pocket, opened it, and took out the papers. “These are receipts. They prove that I’ve been sending money to this bank for the past twelve years.” Actually, they proved that the bank had received the money up until five years before.
    The balding man took the receipts and studied them carefully. “Yes. Art McCann. I recognize his signature. He was John Frost’s bookkeeper.”
    “And where is Mr. McCann now?”
    The colorless man stroked his smooth chin. “Hmm. I think he retired shortly after the elder Mr. Frost died.”
    Jackson picked up his papers and stuffed them into the pouch. “I hear John’s son is running the bank now. Is he around?”
    “No, sir. He won’t be back until next week.”
    Stifling a sigh, Jackson asked, “Do you know how I can get in touch with Mr. McCann?”
    “I believe he went to live with his son. He has a ranch about four miles south of here, along the river. You can’t miss it; there’s a row of eucalyptus trees lined up all the way from the road to the house.”
    Jackson brought his mount to a halt at the beginning of the long, winding driveway. The eucalyptus trees gave off a pungent medicinal odor, not entirely unpleasant. He took the road to the house, where he found an elderly man on the porch, sitting at a table, carving something out of a hunk of wood.
    “Afternoon,” Jackson called.
    The old gent stopped working. “Afternoon, yourself. Can I help you?”
    “If you’re Art McCann, you can.”
    “That’s me.” The old man rose. He was lean and wiry, his eyes were sharp. “What can I do for you?”
    Jackson dismounted and joined the man on the porch. He drew out the pouch. “I believe you signed some receipts for me. From the bank.” He handed them to McCann, who pulled out a pair of spectacles and perused the papers.
    “Yes, sir, I remember these.” His gaze returned to Jackson. “You Wolfe?”
    “I am. I’ve just been to the bank. Ethan Frost is out of town, but the current bookkeeper couldn’t find a record of our transactions.”
    Art McCann snuffled a laugh. “I’m not