The deputy shook his head as if something were beyond his comprehension. “Why wouldn’t Sheriff Taney hold him for trial? That’s his job. That’s the law.”
Uncle Fred removed his glasses and polished them on his shirt sleeve. “I’ve spent many an hour cognating on that. I reckon he thought that it wasn’t right of the Bald Knobbers to thrash Bullard in the first place. The sheriff didn’t appreciate them getting in the way, so he probably figured that they brought it on themselves. Fact is, I couldn’t tell you for sure that Stony was even a member of the gang. Likely his only offense was that he had something Bullard wanted to steal.”
Poor Katie Ellen. She and her pa had been close. Katie Ellen would probably be hunting Bullard herself if she weren’t expecting another little one. Betsy couldn’t help but feel gloomy about it all.
“So when do you get started?” she asked the deputy in an effort to clear the air.
The deputy directed his answer to her uncle. “As soon as Sheriff Taney and I iron some things out. And I get a horse.”
“You need a horse?” Betsy handed Scott the baby and took up a kitchen towel. “Are you sure? Mules do just fine in the mountains.”
His mouth fell open, astonishment voiding his decision to ignore her. Pinning her with eyes that she happily realized were gray, he announced, “I’ll not be riding a mule.”
Betsy couldn’t keep her mouth from twitching at the seriousness of his tone. She remembered her brother Josiah putting his foot down when Katie Ellen wanted him to build her her own carpentry shop on their farm. He’d caved like a sinkhole during flood season when she’d pouted sufficiently. You had to wonder what it’d take to get Deputy Puckett astraddle a mule.
Uncle Fred nodded to Betsy, her signal to take the dirty dishes. “I reckon you’ll want to see Taney as soon as he hits town.”
“I’m locked out of the jailhouse until then.”
“Then what will we do with you?” Uncle Fred meant it in jest, but the deputy stood. His shoulders blocked the light from the lone window in the room.
“I’ve trespassed on your hospitality long enough. I’ve got to learn my way around.”
Uncle Fred frowned. “I didn’t mean to rush you off—”
“I’m not rushing.” The deputy dropped his hat on his head and hesitated at the door, then with almost a guilty shrug, he turned and tipped his hat to Betsy.
Uncle Fred whistled as the door closed. “How long do you suppose he’ll last?”
She only needed him long enough to inspire a few stories, but something told her that he might cause more trouble than he was worth.
Chapter 7
Joel treaded the rocky road to town. The whole situation was ridiculous. He felt like a fish without fins, a bird without wings, a porcupine without quills. What was he supposed to do? Wait until something illegal happened, then run over the mountains and try to chase down the bad guys on foot? From his instructions, he’d understood that the town was supposed to provide him with a mount, but no one in town seemed of a mind to. If the sheriff didn’t show soon, he’d have to send a telegram. Surely someone here answered to the governor.
As the road left the newspaper office, it straightened out and headed . . . north? Northwest? Joel didn’t even know which direction he was facing. The roads curved and wound like a worm left on the hook. He needed a map—needed to get the landmarks fixed in his head. Rivers, hills, bluffs. What could he use to orient himself in this bewildering landscape?
Coming down the hill, Joel spotted two horses tethered to the hitching post in front of the stone jailhouse. Well, a horse and a child’s pony, to be exact, but finally, someone who would give him some direction. Sure enough, the front door was open, too. Looking better and better. Joel’s pace quickened now that he knew his next step. He’d come here to help and didn’t want to waste another minute.
The wind whirled around the building, tugging at his hat, until he stepped under the shelter of the porch. Even though the door was open, he rapped on the doorframe. Didn’t want to make the wrong impression.
“Come on in.”
The first things he saw upon entering were the soles of a small pair of boots. They belonged to a corpulent man with skin pulled as tight as a sausage casing. His thinning gray hair had sprinkles of red in it, which perfectly matched his freckled complexion. With a grunt the man swung his feet off the desk and fell forward, barely getting his elbows up in time to stop his momentum from throwing him face first on the desk.
“What have we got here?” He took his time taking in Joel’s clothing, his gaze sticking at the gun belt and boots. “A real live cowboy, complete with all his tackle and trim.”
Joel removed his hat and set it on the desk next to the man’s rounded bowler. Even Joel’s hat was four inches taller. “I’m Deputy Puckett. Who are you?”
The man leaned back in the chair, his feet dangling a half inch off the floor, and wiped his hands on his dingy white suit. “I’m Mayor Walters, your new boss.” His face scrunched up in an awful imitation of a smile.