with the body and one of you go to town and get the funeral wagon out here.”
He turned back to me. “I’d appreciate it if you’d come along. This isn’t anything I’m up to alone.”
Chapter 14
T he gray hair misled me. Chaney’s sister was outside the small house, scraping frost off the front window that was golden thanks to the lamp inside.
When she turned around at hearing our footsteps, the face was so young I wondered if she was wearing a gray wig.
She wore a sheepskin coat, gloves. In the lamplight, the cherry-tinted cold cheeks looked like those of a youngster building a snowman. You couldn’t say she was a beauty but there was a vivid quality to her face that was almost better than beauty. The dark eyes were especially alert and alive, even in the face-battering wind.
She waited for us. She didn’t step forward even an inch. The way she held herself, so rigid, it was as if she knew it was bad and was preparing herself for news that would be like a physical assault.
“Evening, Jen,” Nordberg said. He sounded tense. He hadn’t been exaggerating about needing moral support.
She nodded, said nothing, looked at me briefly, then back to him.
“We go inside?”
Since the sheriff hadn’t said anything about her being a mute, I assumed she could talk. But she sure was spare with her words. She led us inside to a home that was as spare with furnishings as she was with words. There was a formidable four-shelf bookcase packed with various sizes of books, a horsehair couch, and a pair of rocking chairs with Indian blankets over the backs of them.
She served us coffee. She took the couch. We took the chairs. We’d been as silent as she was.
“Jen, I’m afraid I might have some—”
“Just say it, Sheriff. Did those two federal men kill him?”
“No. He isn’t dead, Jen.”
She had taken her coat off. She wore a black flannel shirt and dungarees. The stiffness went out of her body as the sigh escaped her lips.
“He isn’t dead, but somebody else is.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There was another man killed tonight, Tom Daly.” He pointed to me. “This is Noah Ford, a federal man who’s helping me.” He paused. “My deputy claims he saw Mike running away from the dead man tonight.”
She glanced at me and then back at Nordberg. Her face held me. There was that prairie woman sweetness mixed with that prairie woman hardness. She’d be sweet or hard depending on the circumstances.
“Mike isn’t a killer.”
“Well, not normally—” Nordberg obviously realized he’d put it wrong.
“Sheriff, are you trying to tell me that you seriously think Mike killed Tom Daly?”
“I’m just telling you what I know so far.” He sounded apologetic, almost embarrassed.
“Tom Daly was trying to help us. He came out here and introduced himself and tried to warn me about that pair—what’s their names?—Connelly and Pepper. He said that he was going to have Mr. Ford here come and talk to me, too. He wanted to make sure that if they went looking for Mike up in the mountains that Mr. Ford would be along. He said he was going to meet him at the café and ask him to do it.”
Nordberg set his coffee cup down on the wooden floor. “I have to ask you some questions, Jen.”
She put her hand to her forehead as if she suddenly had a bad headache. Her body sagged now. “You’re going to ask me if he’s here, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I have to, Jen.”
“Well, he isn’t.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
Just then the wind kicked up hard. Easy to imagine a little box of a house like that being picked up and tumbled along the flats as if caught up in a tornado. The entire house shook.
“About an hour and a half ago.”
Nordberg sighed. “By rights, you should have told him to turn himself in.”
“I tried. Tom Daly was getting him some supplies from the general store and they were going to meet after the supper hour. I can’t buy supplies because everybody’d know
He turned back to me. “I’d appreciate it if you’d come along. This isn’t anything I’m up to alone.”
Chapter 14
T he gray hair misled me. Chaney’s sister was outside the small house, scraping frost off the front window that was golden thanks to the lamp inside.
When she turned around at hearing our footsteps, the face was so young I wondered if she was wearing a gray wig.
She wore a sheepskin coat, gloves. In the lamplight, the cherry-tinted cold cheeks looked like those of a youngster building a snowman. You couldn’t say she was a beauty but there was a vivid quality to her face that was almost better than beauty. The dark eyes were especially alert and alive, even in the face-battering wind.
She waited for us. She didn’t step forward even an inch. The way she held herself, so rigid, it was as if she knew it was bad and was preparing herself for news that would be like a physical assault.
“Evening, Jen,” Nordberg said. He sounded tense. He hadn’t been exaggerating about needing moral support.
She nodded, said nothing, looked at me briefly, then back to him.
“We go inside?”
Since the sheriff hadn’t said anything about her being a mute, I assumed she could talk. But she sure was spare with her words. She led us inside to a home that was as spare with furnishings as she was with words. There was a formidable four-shelf bookcase packed with various sizes of books, a horsehair couch, and a pair of rocking chairs with Indian blankets over the backs of them.
She served us coffee. She took the couch. We took the chairs. We’d been as silent as she was.
“Jen, I’m afraid I might have some—”
“Just say it, Sheriff. Did those two federal men kill him?”
“No. He isn’t dead, Jen.”
She had taken her coat off. She wore a black flannel shirt and dungarees. The stiffness went out of her body as the sigh escaped her lips.
“He isn’t dead, but somebody else is.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There was another man killed tonight, Tom Daly.” He pointed to me. “This is Noah Ford, a federal man who’s helping me.” He paused. “My deputy claims he saw Mike running away from the dead man tonight.”
She glanced at me and then back at Nordberg. Her face held me. There was that prairie woman sweetness mixed with that prairie woman hardness. She’d be sweet or hard depending on the circumstances.
“Mike isn’t a killer.”
“Well, not normally—” Nordberg obviously realized he’d put it wrong.
“Sheriff, are you trying to tell me that you seriously think Mike killed Tom Daly?”
“I’m just telling you what I know so far.” He sounded apologetic, almost embarrassed.
“Tom Daly was trying to help us. He came out here and introduced himself and tried to warn me about that pair—what’s their names?—Connelly and Pepper. He said that he was going to have Mr. Ford here come and talk to me, too. He wanted to make sure that if they went looking for Mike up in the mountains that Mr. Ford would be along. He said he was going to meet him at the café and ask him to do it.”
Nordberg set his coffee cup down on the wooden floor. “I have to ask you some questions, Jen.”
She put her hand to her forehead as if she suddenly had a bad headache. Her body sagged now. “You’re going to ask me if he’s here, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I have to, Jen.”
“Well, he isn’t.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
Just then the wind kicked up hard. Easy to imagine a little box of a house like that being picked up and tumbled along the flats as if caught up in a tornado. The entire house shook.
“About an hour and a half ago.”
Nordberg sighed. “By rights, you should have told him to turn himself in.”
“I tried. Tom Daly was getting him some supplies from the general store and they were going to meet after the supper hour. I can’t buy supplies because everybody’d know
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