“Fine,” she grumbled, her frustration rolling off her in waves he could actually feel through the back of his vest.
Then all at once, she was gone. He felt the heat leave from behind him, even though Betty’s call of “Whoa!” drowned out all sound of Emma’s movements.
She’d return. Of that he had no doubt. He’d better move fast.
Mal didn’t bother with the boardwalk stairs. He simply jumped down to the street, skirted far enough behind the rear of the farm wagon not to be blinded by the dust that was still settling, then scanned Betty’s back trail for any sign of her being followed.
No other clouds of dust heralded pursuit. No suspicious shadows stood out from the surrounding scrub brush or prairie grass. No approaching hoofbeats caught his ear. ’Course it was hard to hear much of anything above the sniffling and hiccups of the two ladies in the back of the wagon and Betty’s stomping as she climbed down from the driver’s box.
Not able to make out any visible threat, Mal turned around and marched up to meet Betty as she reached over the side of the wagon and hoisted a gunnysack out. She spun around, spotted Malachi, and threw the sack at his feet.
Mal cast a quick glance down at the lumpy bag, then zeroed in on Betty’s face. Mouth downturned. Eyebrows sharp. Unshed tears glimmering in her eyes.
Wait. Tears? Betty? The ex-soldier’s wife was the toughest old bird he knew. What could have—
“They killed ’em,” she spat, her voice quivering with a mixture of anger and heartbreak. “Ever’ last one of ’em.”
Mal looked back down at the sack, a sick dread swirling in his gut as he calculated the size of the lumps.
“All my best layers. Gone.”
Her chickens. Mal clenched his jaw so hard, he nearly cracked a tooth. Who would do such a meanspirited thing? No. Wrong question. He knew who. What he didn’t know was . . . “How?” he ground out. “How did they get to the hens?”
“Dogs.” Betty turned her head and spat on the ground, her disgust palpable. “Two of ’em. Part coyote, I suspect.”
“Oh no!” Emma pushed past Malachi, her skirts swirling around the sack that lay at his feet. “Not your chickens.” Her voice broke as she reached out to touch Betty’s arm with her left hand. Her right, he noticed, held an iron skillet.
Mal glanced heavenward, something between a chuckle and a groan catching in his throat. Well, at least she’d obeyed him. She hadn’t come outside without a weapon, if one could call a frying pan a weapon. He wasn’t inclined to classify it as such himself, but since there was no sign of outlaws bearing down on their position, he opted not to share his opinion.
“Betty, I’m so . . . so sorry.”
Betty pulled away from Emma’s hold. A wounded look flashed across Emma’s features for a split second before she hid it away. A muscle in Malachi’s jaw ticked.
“It ain’t your fault, Emma. It’s them no-good outlaws!” Betty kicked the wagon wheel with the toe of her boot and spat at the ground again. “What is so all-fire important about this town that they would kill a henhouse full of innocent creatures just to force us out? It don’t make a lick of sense.”
“I wish I knew,” Emma said in a quiet voice. “I’d give it to them in a heartbeat, if it would mean they’d leave us alone.”
“Well, whatever it is, I aim to see they never get it,” Betty declared, bracing her legs apart and slapping hands on hips in a battle stance. “They killed my critters. I don’t care what they throw at me. I ain’t budgin’ from my farm, and I ain’t budgin’ from this town. They’ll have to shoot me dead and drag my ugly carcass down to the river to get me to leave.”
“Betty, don’t say that.” Katie climbed down from the wagon bed and circled around behind her mentor.
Helen was only a step behind. “Whatever those horrid men want, it’s not worth your life.”
“We can replace the chickens,” Emma said, trying to soothe, but it only turned Betty’s face darker.
“Some things can’t be replaced.” Betty blinked. A single tear rolled down her weathered cheek. “My Robert gave me two of those birds before he passed. They were tough old biddies, kinda like me, but they reminded me of the sergeant every time I saw them pecking about the yard.”
“Oh, Betty,” moaned someone behind Mal. He glanced over his shoulder. Flora stood as still as a post, her eyes filled with tears.
On all sides, the street brimmed with women. Solemn, quiet women who had wandered out of shops and homes to gather around Betty. To grieve and mourn her loss and to offer what little comfort could be given. It made the backs of Mal’s eyeballs itch a bit in sympathy even as it solidified his resolve.