But when she saw the man walking at the business end of a shotgun in his pointy boots and with his hands raised, her heart sank. Good thing they hadn’t come together.
Fowler separated from the group to meet the man being prodded toward him. “Deputy Puckett, you decided to join us after all?”
“If by join you mean break the law, then the answer is no.” Even if she hadn’t recognized the tenor of his voice, Joel’s profile was unmistakable—his cowboy hat set firmly on his brow, his legs braced apart like a gunslinger. Remembering how fast he’d drawn when practicing, she believed he’d still be able to get a shot or two off if he needed, and she wondered if Clive had any idea how dangerous Joel was.
Of course Clive knew, and that scared her.
“And yet here you be, snooping on us. We don’t admire spies in these parts.”
Betsy’s hands tightened on the reins as she seesawed between her choices. She’d plead his case if needed, but would it help? Or maybe another chance to help him would present itself if she waited. She wished Joel knew that he had a friend there, but maybe he did. Time and again he glanced her way, almost as if he were speaking to her.
“You know my title, and with that title goes a responsibility. I can’t turn a blind eye to this, even if I wanted to. Now, I’ve been fair to all of you, even thought I could call you friend”—and here there was no doubt that he’d singled her out—“but friend or foe, the law is the law, and I’m honor-bound to enforce it.”
All eyes went to Clive. His men would follow him implicitly. Was Joel’s offense going to earn him a licking?
“Tie him up.” Clive motioned to a leafless maple at the rim of the clearing. “When we’re done doing his job for him, some of you’uns can come back and let him go if you have the mind to.”
Fighting wouldn’t accomplish a blamed thing, so Joel submitted to being bound to the closest maple tree amid the jeers of the crowd. Really brave, the things they were threatening, especially while wearing masks. Somehow he figured they wouldn’t have the courage to repeat them standing face-to-face, but he’d keep such thoughts to himself for the time being.
The ropes caught on his wrists beneath the cuff of his leather gloves, and then rope was wrapped around his body until he was trussed up like a roasting pig. Of the two men doing the tying, one smelled strongly of some sort of sour homemade brew. Hopefully his handiwork would be as impaired as his crooning—Ol’ Dan Tucker couldn’t be that fine a man—but his partner was cold sober. The ropes held.
Back at the crest of the hill, Fowler conducted the meeting like a trail boss adjusting his drovers. While not close enough to hear every word, clearly a few men had been scouting out the place and were giving advice about how they’d approach. Hands rose volunteering for assignments. Groups formed and departed, taking slightly different routes, but all with the same coyote yelping that Joel had heard that first night at the train station, as if the noise could summon up whatever courage was lacking. What would it be like to have that many men on hand? Back in Garber, Sheriff Green had formed posses, but it was only in response to an emergency.
The cold rose up from the ground to chill Joel’s hindquarters. What was the difference between forming a posse and joining the gang tonight? If Clive would let Joel lead, wouldn’t it be the same thing? But a posse was bound by rules and laws. These men made it up as they went.
Fowler turned in his demented black hood for one last look at Joel. If only Joel could read his thoughts. What did he have in mind for Bullard? Was Fowler capable of a cold-blooded execution? Joel prayed not. If a death occurred tonight, he’d have to bring in half the men of the county on murder charges.
Instead of threats, he’d be better off trying to convince Fowler that they were on the same side. “Don’t do anything you’d regret tomorrow,” Joel said. “The law is the law.”
“Sit tight for a spell and we can debate the law once the job is done.” Fowler jabbed his heels into his horse’s side, and they streaked across the clearing to be swallowed whole by the dark forest.
The sounds faded quickly. Evidently the yelping got stopped before they got within earshot of their quarry. Give them an hour, and if it started up again, Joel would know they were successful. But he wasn’t going to wait around for an hour. He had to get loose.
Pulling off his gloves, he stretched his hands in every direction, searching for the knots that held his body tight against a knothole inconveniently situated against his shoulder blade. Nothing he could reach. He pressed his body against the tree trunk, knothole and all, but the ropes didn’t slack enough to mention. He was held fast while lawlessness ran amok in the hills.