CASWELL Crossing was a risky venture. It housed people who, given half a chance, would butt in and mess up a man’s business something awful. Some of the more inquisitive types wore a badge and figured they had a right not only to ask, but to get answers without bendy bits.
So why’re we here?
We done did talked about this.
Yep. So why’re we here?
To see the Chinaman.
Ya really fig’r he’s heard somethin’?
Nope. But I’d kick myself if’n I didn’t make sure.
So, the only reason we ain’t half way ‘cross the country is so ya can ask a fellah for information ya know he ain’t got on the off chance that he does?
There’s sure times I wonder why I bring you along.
Gideon gave his horse a nudge. Hopefully Gandy and his deputy were off collecting the gunman. That hadn’t been in the original plan— well, had there been a plan— but why not capitalize on an opportunity?
‘Course, both of ‘em could be on your trail instead.
You are a constant source-a comfort.
Not many people made a habit of looking up. Gideon had learned to. The flat topped roofs of Caswell Crossing held nothing out of the ordinary. On the boardinghouse balcony someone shook out a rag rug. The eastern woman from the stage paced in front of the hotel. It was more a shifting of feet really, like someone who couldn’t keep still but at the same time didn’t want anyone to know they were nervous. A little boy sat on a bench nearby watching her try not to be nervous. His brown, lace-up boots barely hung over the edge of the bench and one hand clung to the handle of a large carpet bag. It would have been hard to say which of them looked more uneasy.
Gideon had his own reasons for being uneasy and took in the scene without stopping. The saloon sat on the opposite end of the town and, with a rare show of prudence, he decided to swung wide and circle around behind the town.
What ‘bout that woman?
What ‘bout her?
Whoall’s she a-waitin’ for?
Don’t matter. We’re here on business.
Once that was done, Gideon could light out like there was no tomorrow. The back door to the saloon hung open and, as far as he could tell, not a soul was watching. He stepped out, bold as you please, and into the saloon’s kitchen. Barely a minute later, he stepped back out again.
There, we see’d ‘im. He din’t know nothin’ ‘bout nothin’. Now what?
Now we light us a shuck.
What ‘bout that woman? Mebbe she’s in a bind?
We got ‘nough problems.
I’m just a-sayin’.
Ya ain’t gonna leave it, are ya? You’re gonna keep on a-naggin’ ‘til I give, ain’t ya? Confound an’ blast!
By the time he worked his way back to the woman, a suited man had joined her. Gideon clung to the background, listening.
“I’m certain she’ll be along, ma’am,” the gentleman was saying. “You needn’t worry yourself.”
The woman put a hand on her boy’s head and he clung to the folds of her travel-dusty skirt.
“You don’t think something might have happened to her?”
Educated, eastern, and rigged up for cobbled streets and do-begging-your-pardons. This lady must have felt as out of place as a lacey silk handkerchief at a barn dance.
“If Rosie Ward said she would be here,” the man assured her kindly, “right here is where she’ll be. I could wait with you, if you like.”
“That is very thoughtful of you., sir,” the woman’s spine straightened and her eyes finally met those of the man standing respectfully at her elbow, “but I would not wish to impose.”
“It would be my pleasure, ma’am.” And then, perhaps feeling the need to give some acceptable explanation for his offer, the three-piece suit added, “I am a deacon at the church and, although Mrs. Ward does not often have the opportunity to come to town, we are all very fond of her. She would skin– be rather upset with me if I offered any less to you.”
There. See? She’s fine. We done?
Yep.
Gideon skaddadled out of there. He’d been foolish to come into town. Even talking to the Chinaman had been a waste of time. Well, not exactly a waste. If Gideon hadn’t checked, wondering would have plagued him. You never knew from whence the next hint would come— or where it would lead. That’s what hunting was all about.
So Rosie Ward was coming to town, of all the days. Gideon barely knew a handful of people for a hundred miles around. Were they all going to start showing up? At best, Aspen was three hours behind— likely closer to two. With that lot, and his luck, every last Rivers would be with him too. Had the sheriff taken the bait? What about the deputy? And now somewhere was Rosie Ward. Gideon’s back trail was starting to get mighty crowded.
Gideon’s heart about jumped clean out of his chest. Directly ahead of him, right there on the boardwalk, stood Sheriff Luke Gandy.
Tarnation!
That ain’t half strong ‘nough.
Don’t run.
Don’t need tellin’.
Gideon eased around, turning his back on the lawman. Running got folks into trouble, it caught the eye and caused people to look when they would otherwise never take notice.
Why wasn’t that danged lawman up in the rocks fetching himself a criminal? Or at least off north chasing a false trail? Anywhere but standing right smack bang in the way, entirely too close for comfort.
Why din’t ya go back the way ya comed?
‘Cause ya done did distracted me with helpin’ that fool woman. That’s why.
Gideon may have known better than to run but, if he kept standing there like a mud brick, he would be seen anyway. A shop door opened and the boardwalk filled with men and women in a flurry of talking and packages, and Gideon melted into them. They carried him down the street to an alley where he peeled away, dropped to the dirt and rolled under a building.
There wasn’t much room but, serendipitously, there wasn’t much of him either. Deep in shadow, Gideon stopped to catch his breath. A thick, black spider took the opportunity to crawl onto his hand. He gasped like a nancy, flung it off and heard the unsuspecting arachnid smack into a support beam.
Gideon begun to giggle. His luck may have been beaten to smithereens, but his sense of humor remained intact. Was this really the time to be squeamish about crawly things? Now, whilst he was trying to avoid two lawmen, a jail cell, Aspen, Aspen’s entire family, possibly Rosie Ward and certainly every person in Caswell Crossing he had ever met? Oh, not to mention the gentlemen who had been a card-carrying members of that lynch mob a while back. If eight-legged critters were his only concern, Gideon could count himself a lucky man indeed. He swallowed his mirth, told himself to pull it together and struggled to do as he was told.
The floor above his head stretched the width of three establishments. On his belly, he scootched to the far edge of his hideout. It would have been nice had this odd gap connected up with the saloon, since his horse waited nearby, but that would have made everything too easy– and nothing was ever easy.
Reckon it might be for some folks?
Ya mean them as ain’t a-dodgin’ the law? Dunno, ain’t met me too many.
A crawly in his own right, Gideon edged up to the next alleyway to have a look-see. Right about then someone skidded into him. Gideon grabbed a handful of shirt— more than ready to pound whomever had come after him— and stopped. The intruder was a stranger. They both froze, fists ready, as a clatter of mismatched, size-large feet flew by.
“They after you?” Gideon whispered.
The intruder lowered his fist, nodded, and pulled farther into cover. His eyes remained riveted on the street.
“Ya gonna manage?” said Gideon.
Again a silent, distracted nod.
Well, if’n that’s all he feels like sayin’. . .
He’s entitled.
Gideon scootched himself up to the precarious line between shadow and freedom, and was treated to a close up view of one
Luke Gandy.
How can that confounded, infernal sheriff still be a-standin’ right there?
Two entire sides of Gideon’s hidey-hole were now under surveillance. Were Gandy’s back not turned, Gideon would have been spotted straight off. Had he been seen coming into town or was this pure bad timing? A deep voice, one that resonated in Gideon’s memory as belonging to James Miller, spoke to the sheriff. Miller belong to the Rivers outfit and was therefore best avoided. For the time being, Gideon was boxed in.
Gideon Fletcher, you are an idjit.
Shutup.
I done telled ya not to come here.
Shutup.
It was annoying enough to have someone else say ‘I told you so’, it was a bitter pill indeed when it was yourself doing the telling. Careful to make no more noise than the spiders, Gideon lay in the dirt watching the sheriff.
The revolver he had taken from the gunman still rode tucked into the back of his trousers. Gideon felt a hand exploring said weapon. He spun, fist balled. His unexpected visitor backed off and pointed from the gun to the alley. Gideon nodded, he surely was in that kind of fix. A puzzled expression and a thumb towards the waiting boots asked who was out there.
Gideon hesitated. A truce sealed in darkness and on the run might only go so far. There were plenty of excellent reasons not to trust this mutual inhabitant of other people’s dusty and forgotten corners. His fellow refugee was not likely to be cuddled up under a building for some innocuous reason. The young man took Gideon's hand as if to shake on a deal.
Why’d he wanna be friends?
You in a good place to be choosy?
Good point.
Gideon shook the offered hand. Out in the alleyway, Gandy had barely shifted. Didn’t he have anything else to do? Some old lady to shepherd across the street? A lost cat to find? Gideon found himself wishing someone, anyone, would commit a crime, any crime, just so it was more interesting than him.
His new, and probably temporary, partner inched up and stole a peek into the alley commanding so much of Gideon's attention. Pulling himself back into the shadows, the kid drew a star in the half-damp dirt and looked wide-eyed askance. Gideon nodded. Licking his lips, the visitor then formed his fingers into a gun. No, Gideon assured him, he had no desire to shoot the sheriff, only to get away. This news brought a sigh of relief and a mischievous twinkle. The kid tugged at Gideon’s vest and swapped it with his own, right along with their shirts and hats.
When the boy rolled out into the open, he was raising dust at the first step and Gandy leapt in pursuit. Gideon latched onto the opportunity and legged it in the opposite direction.
All he had to do now was get back to Henry and he would be home free. Free. The word sent elegiac echoes clanging through Gideon’s soul. He would never be free. His pledge trapped him more than the Rivers ever could. He adjusted the weight of his borrowed gun and, though it gave a sense of comfort, it also reminded Gideon of the men he still needed to find. The dichotomy was far from lost on him.
Very much alert, he paused before rounding the next corner. Something was off. He couldn’t say what, but he could feel it twanging on his nerves.
“Where you goin’, thief?”
Chase Rydel. Of all the people Gideon did not need to deal with right now, he was right about third on the list. Unquestionably, Rydel had more in mind than a sit-down and a cheery confabulation There was no time for this, not now; too many people were closing in. Rydel would just have to wait his turn.
“Move on,” Gideon warned, drawing his gun.
Rydel’s reaction was something to see. Clearly this was not the kind of socializing he had in mind. The look of shock shifted and Gideon was smart enough to turn around. His fist struck out, his knee came up, his gun came down. His attacker fell in a heap. Gideon spared a moment to see who he had just clobbered— Rydel’s tag-along.
Now why ain’t that no kind-a surprise?
Rydel rushed in, trying to twist the gun from Gideon's fingers. As they struggled, an unpleasant picture flashed through Gideon’s mind of Rydel dead on the ground. Since folks didn’t take kindly to bushwhackers, chances were no one would hold it against him. All the same. . .
In a burst of violence, Gideon threw Rydel off, skittered the gun away and came right back around. A blow to Rydel’s gut stole his breath and bent him over. With doubled fists, Gideon struck again. Rydel stumbled and Gideon knocked him down, pummeling with unthinking blows. It wasn’t skill; it was pure pent up I’ve-had-enough. Enough of Rydel, enough of bullies, enough of the world in general and it vented itself in an undisciplined explosion.
Rydel finally found his moment and sent Gideon sprawling.
“Hold him!”
Gideon heard the snarled command and scrambled for his feet, not quite fast enough. His elbow connected with a rib and then Marcus pinned his arms. Bigger or not, that boy had a job of it keeping his hold. Marcus let out a howl of pain as Gideon's very solid boot heel caught him on the knee. They heard the impact, despite the hollering.
“I said hold him!” Rydel growled.
It occurred to Gideon, with lamentable clarity, there was nothing for it but he was going to take a licking. His mind detached itself and mused about why it always took more than one. Some were talkers, some were quiet as the grave– preferably yours. All of them, thinkers and mud-dumb alike, were inevitably hired by a pathetic bully. Tarlston had shielded himself with a dozen or more thugs. Why did they do it? Every last man-jack of them could have given him lead instead of taken his pay.
The ground rushed up, interrupting Gideon’s musings. Beyond the boundaries of his addled world, footsteps retreated. Gideon’s body knew it was in a crumpled heap and that it would be a really good idea not to be. But his wits, currently of no use whatsoever, stumbled around in desperate need of a map. Hands gripped him and set him on his feet. Feet. . . right. . . feet were for walking. And then Gideon’s senses took a wrong turn, leaving his feet to sort themselves out.
Water splashed on his face and the world rushed back. The dusty smell of ancient cobwebs tickled his nose and the sweet tang of hay pervaded everything. A bench was under him, a rough wooden wall behind. Gideon opened his eyes and blinked at a worn-out, straw-stick of a man. Muzzily, he then wondered what everyone wonders when their neurons are fizzling unreliably and none of them are speaking to each other: ‘Who is this?’ and ‘Where am I?’
Gideon decided to move. This turned out to be a bad idea. Pain shot all over his body and escaped as a groan.
“Ya alright, boy? You taken the devil of a beatin’.”
Gideon went limp. Convincing his head to stop spinning was taking enough energy as it was. He felt the wisp of a man press a damp cloth to his face.
Boyo, this ain’t no way a’tall to put distance ‘twixt you an’ them Rivers, so it ain’t.
Great blue blazes, how hard is it to get gone?
Dunno, ya ain’t done it much yet.
Someone was talking and Gideon made an effort to understand the words.
“. . . norm’ly I wouldn’t suggest, but a fella feels the way you must, he needs a mite-a comfort.”
A flask was put in Gideon’s hand and he sipped as directed.
“Them others?” he asked weakly.
“Runned off. You with ‘n outfit, boy?”
At this suggestion Gideon took a second pull that was no sip.
“Mebbe ya ain’t so young,” the hostler said, retrieving his flask. “There someone I kin send fer?”
“No,” Gideon breathed. A rib protested sharply. “I’ll get out-a your way.”
“You just stay put, boy. I’ll git the sawbones.”
Gideon forced his eyes open. When had they closed? His fingers fumbled at the hostler’s trouser leg and the man hesitated, already half turned to leave.
“What is it?” he asked solicitously.
“No doc.”
“You a wreck, son. You gotta have you some he’p.”
“I’ll be fine,” G
ideon mumbled, and mustered himself to prove it.
“Ya got sand,” the man remarked, holding Gideon still. “What you’re runnin’ a mite shy on is brains. You jest sit there an’ keep put.”
The hostler dribbled water over Gideon’s lips and shooshed him to be calm. Gideon stilled and the hostler slipped away to fetch the town doctor.