“Those lawmen,” Betsy said. “They found horses.”
Or at least partial horses. True to his nature, good Mayor Walters had given them the least he could and probably took top dollar. Officer Harrison balanced on the ill-tempered pony, nearly jostling out of the saddle with each of its tiny steps. Detective Cleveland looked elegantly bored, or as bored as you could appear on a mule. Headed toward the jail, they didn’t see Joel.
Joel’s chest stretched with a sigh. “I have to go. Be careful.”
Scott needed her. Everyone needed her. And she had Joel’s blessing.
“You be careful, too,” she said. Before he could leave, she stopped him. “Joel?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry for hiding my stories from you. I knew better. And I don’t know how you happened to be here, but I’m glad you are. God put you here for a reason.”
He reached up to hold onto the badge pinned to his vest. His fingers tapped against the metal. “Thank you. I guess it’s time to see exactly what that reason is.”
The coast was finally clear. Joel and the lawmen had headed out of town, and she was going to follow, but no sooner had her boot hit the hard-packed dirt of the road than a shrill whistle broke goosebumps out on her skin. Betsy spun toward the jail, where it was coming from. Long, wavering, and high—it was human, but just barely.
As if orchestrated by a choir director, doors opened up and down the street. Men with their napkins tucked into their collars, some holding a bowl, others pushing their wives and children back inside as they closed the door behind them and sent questioning gazes to their neighbors. Another whistle, and they began to move. Cautiously at first, but with more ease once they joined in the street, ignoring the dark looks of the men who opted to go back to their hearth with their family and wait out whatever mischief occurred.
What was calling them all to the jailhouse? Joel wasn’t there. Betsy bit her lip even as she skirted around to the wooded path that led to the back of the jail. By the time she’d crept past the door of the jailhouse, the meeting was in full swing. Who’d have ever thought the Bald Knobbers would conduct their business right in the jailhouse?
“They can’t take Scott in.” She couldn’t exactly place the voice, but it sounded like a middle-aged man. That narrowed it down to three or four townspeople who lived close enough to answer the call. “Even if he wasn’t a Bald Knobber proper, we stick together. The boy didn’t burn Hopkins’s house.”
“They’re out for blood.” That was Fowler, no doubt. “They want to blame one of us for shooting the sheriff, and they’ve got a confused young man on their hands. Now, Fred Murphy has never been one of us, but he’s a fine fellow, no doubt.” Agreement murmured around. “And Scott’s heart is in the right place. Had we not turned him away that night, he wouldn’t be in this mess, so I don’t know about you’uns, but I feel honor bound to defend the boy.”
Betsy wrapped her arms around her stomach as she balanced, crouching against the wall. Scott must be saved, but at what cost? How obligated were you to intervene when justice was running amok? When others were abusing their power, how far could you break the rules to stop them? She feared what chaos Fowler’s orders would bring, but without his intervention, what could befall? She had no way of stopping the men, but she knew Joel would want her here. He wanted her to be his eyes and ears while he was otherwise occupied.
“We could get you out of there,” someone said. “If we tied rope to the bars, we could pull it out of the floor.”
Betsy covered her mouth. Was Fowler in jail? Pieces began to fall into place. Of course Clive would’ve tried to warn Scott. Of course he wouldn’t let strangers ride out of town to arrest him. And what had Joel done? Same thing he’d done to her that night at the gang’s meeting. Well, not exactly the same, but Deputy Puckett needed to get over this habit of tying up his friends. It really spoke poorly of his social aptitudes.
“You don’t need me,” Fowler said. “You’uns have every right to ride tonight, but seeing how I was put under arrest . . . well, let’s not give them more cause. So get your hoods, get your horses, and ride to Huckabee’s place. No bloodshed, but we can’t let Scott fall into their hands. Help him disappear.”
She remained with her back to the wall as they surged out. Voices thinned as they headed home to gear up and go, which was precisely what she would be doing as well. She already had Scott’s britches, but she needed to borrow Pritchard’s hood once more. She knew where Joel kept his confiscated masquerade pieces, and locked up, Fowler couldn’t stop her either. She would borrow Isaac’s horse again, and she could ride with the posse . . . or in this case, the outlaws.
Sometimes it was hard to tell the two apart.
Chapter 39