Frowning around his cigar, Slocum grunted. “Looks like.”

  The next morning, Cassidy came downstairs to find a note, left with the desk clerk, that read, “Mr. Cassidy, Please be in my office at nine o’clock sharp.” It was signed, “Tate McMahon, Esq.”

  Cassidy snorted at that “esquire” bit. Who did McMahon think he was fooling, anyway. He crumpled the note in his hand, and when the desk clerk was distracted by someone asking what time the stage to Prescott would be through, he had a good look at the hotel’s mail slots.

  McMahon had left a note in LeGrande’s box, too. Same kind of paper, same size.

  It was apparent, then, that McMahon didn’t know that last night, LeGrande had left the hotel and scooted out of town. If he did, he’d also know that LeGrande was never coming back to Indian Springs; at least, not in the condition in which he’d left it.

  Cassidy located the wastebasket and tossed his crumpled note into it, then walked out the front doors. He went down the street to the Hummingbird Café—which he guessed McMahon didn’t own, since his name wasn’t plastered all over it—and ordered himself a big plate of eggs, bacon, hash browns, and sausage.

  He had an hour before he had to go up to McMahon’s and act surprised when LeGrande didn’t show up. Keeping a watchful eye on the front window and the street outside, he tucked the napkin into his collar, picked up a fork, and dug into his breakfast.

  “What are we going to do with him?” Becky asked.

  Despite Slocum’s warnings, she had insisted on walking down to the barn to view the body. They stood outside the stall where Dave knelt beside the body.

  “Bury him, I reckon,” Slocum said.

  “Not beside Jack, you won’t,” she said firmly.

  This startled Slocum a little, although he realized that it shouldn’t. Still, why was he taking everything so personally when it had to do with Becky Jamison and her late husband?

  By the time Becky looked over at him, his face was stone and he said, “We can take him out on the range, then.”

  “Fine,” Becky said. “And don’t mark it,” she added before she turned on her heel.

  Slocum said to Dave, “You heard the lady,” then went to join her.

  As they walked up to the house she snapped, “Honestly, Slocum!”

  “What?”

  “How could you think of planting a man like that killer next to Jack? For all I know, LeGrande killed my husband!”

  Slocum reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her to a halt. “We’ll bury him wherever you say, Becky,” he said. “But LeGrande wasn’t the killer.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “Because I checked his rifle and his cartridge belt. All plain casings. The man we’re lookin’ for—”

  “Marks his with a puma,” she said, cutting him off. “I know. You told me. But how do you know for sure that it wasn’t just some sort of a lark with LeGrande? What if he did it then, but now he doesn’t?”

  He scratched the back of his head. He hadn’t thought of that. On further consideration, though, he said, “Don’t seem likely, Becky.”

  “I still don’t want him buried anywhere near my house,” she insisted, and began to walk again.

  Slocum stayed where he stood, watching as she stomped toward the house and up the porch steps. When Becky got like this, well, he knew to just stand back and let her thrash. She’d calm down all by herself, and in her own time.

  He walked out to the far end of the corral, Concho dogging his steps along the other side of the fence. Patting the horse on the neck, he muttered, “At least you’re always the same.”

  He looked east, in the direction of Indian Springs saying softly, “Wish I knew what was goin’ on with Cassidy.”

  “Well?” McMahon demanded.

  Cassidy, who had just walked into McMahon’s office for the second time that morning, perched lazily on the edge of the desk and said, “That big yellow of his is still gone. Figured this would happen when I found him took-off last night, the big, dumb sonofabitch.” He shook his head.

  “I ought to fire your worthless ass, too!” McMahon shouted. Things weren’t going his way at all, and he had to holler at somebody. Cassidy was handy.

  “You didn’t fire Teddy LeGrande,” replied Cassidy, idly picking at a thread on his knee. “I reckon he sort of fired his own self.”

  “You know what I mean!” McMahon stormed. He found himself on his feet, found his hands balled up into fists. “Why didn’t you let me know what was going on? You’re supposed to be working for me!”

  Cassidy, apparently unimpressed, shrugged. “It was late. Didn’t want to bother you. Besides, what were you gonna do? Send out the goddamn cavalry or somethin’?”

  McMahon went to the window and stood there a moment, simmering. However maddening he might be, Cassidy was right. What could he have done in the dark of night? Besides, Cassidy might not have considered all the possibilities. Why, LeGrande might have been scared off by all the Slocum stories and just plain run out on them! Yes, that was more probable.

  Suddenly, McMahon wheeled toward Cassidy.

  “He’s tucked his tail,” he announced to Cassidy, who just cocked a brow.

  Cassidy pursed his lips and nodded. “Maybe so,” came the reply. “Mayhap he lit out. Didn’t consider that.”

  “I’ll bet you didn’t,” McMahon said curtly, and went back behind his desk. He signaled to Cassidy to get the hell off his desk—which he did, albeit slowly—then slid out a piece of stationery.

  He should have done this in the first place, he thought as he scribbled out the message. He blotted the ink, then folded the paper. He handed it to Cassidy.

  “Take that to the telegraph office,” he said.

  Cassidy didn’t accept the paper, though. He just stood there, frowning. “What? I’m your errand boy, now? Seems to me you hired me for a whole different kind of job.”

  “I did,” snapped McMahon. “But if you don’t want to be fired, you’ll go send that wire. It’s my suspicion that Slocum’s reputation is what caused our Mr. LeGrande to leave in the middle of the night. Perhaps it’s true. Perhaps only half of it’s true. But I want two men on my side.”

  He looked Cassidy up and down. “Perhaps just one and a half,” he said, sniffing.

  Cassidy, expressionless, snatched the paper from his hand, then nodded.

  “Anything you say, boss,” he said.

  Cassidy walked until he knew he was out of McMahon’s sight, then stepped into the mouth of an alley.

  “A man and a half my aunt Betty, you shiny, slicked-up sonofabitch,” he muttered as he unfolded the paper. He held it at arm’s length and squinted.

  The proposed wire was addressed to somebody named Jeb Crowfoot in San Francisco, and the message included a “Please Forward.” The rest of the message was filled up with telling Crowfoot that McMahon had a job for him—and telling the telegrapher to put the wire on McMahon’s bill.

  “Hell!” Cassidy muttered, in the throes of a new surge of disgust. “He’s payin’ this Crowfoot a thousand!”

  His first inclination was to simply crumple the paper and forget he’d ever seen it. But then, maybe this Crowfoot would prove interesting. He’d sure buy them some time, having to come from San Francisco and all.

  Carefully, Cassidy refolded the paper and stuck it into his breast pocket.

  He’d send McMahon’s damned telegram, he thought, stepping back up on the boardwalk.

  And then he’d take himself a little ride out west of town to see old Slocum.

  15

  “He’s callin’ in somebody named Jeb Crowfoot,” Cassidy said. Behind him, through the open doorway, Slocum could see a neatly put together but plain bay gelding tied to the porch rail. Cassidy handed his hat to Tia Juanita. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  The housekeeper pointed to his boots. “No spurs in this house,” she said firmly before she hung his hat on a peg by the door and went down the hall, presumably to clean something.

  “She always like that?” Cassidy asked.

  “Yeah,” Slocum replied, glad to see that Tia Juanita’s bossy attitude wasn’t reserved just for folks she already knew. “And no,” he added with a smile before Cassidy could ask the question, “she ain’t the one.”

  Cassidy returned the grin. “That’s a relief.” He sat down at the table and obediently took off his spurs, then slung them up on the table with a clink and a jangle. He looked around him. “Nice roost you fell into, Slocum. Real nice.” His gaze fell on the portrait above the mantel. “Who’s the character in the painting?”

  “Former owner,” Slocum said without further explanation. He pulled out a chair, turned it around, and sat down with his arms draped over the back. “So, who’s this Jeb Crowfoot feller? You know anything about him?”

  Cassidy shrugged. “You got me.”

  Slocum’s brow furrowed. “Seems to me I heard somethin’ or other, but I guess it wasn’t important enough to stick to my brain.” He shook his head. “I’m drawin’ a blank.”

  “Back to square one,” said Cassidy, rubbing his neck. “What beats me, Slocum, is why the sonofabitch wants these ranches, anyhow. Can’t see that he’s doin’ anything with ’em. There’s no point to it, unless he just wants to be king of his own little country or somethin’. The part of it that’s flat is only fair grazing land, and the other half’s too up-and-down and goddamned rocky for anything. ’Cept maybe raisin’ horny toads and diamond-backs.”

  “Unless . . .” Slocum stared off into the distance, thinking. Something was brewing at the back of his brain, but he couldn’t quite get a handle on the pot.

  The screen door banged, and both men looked toward it.

  It was Becky, just coming back from the old Bar S, her arms full of sacks filled with goat cheese. The sunlight from behind her lit her with a kind of halo, and for a second, Slocum went all mushy inside. Then she took a step into the house, and it was gone.

  She still looked mighty good, though.

  She smiled and said, “It’s surely warm out, considering how chilly it was last night. How’s Pete?”

  “Up and walkin’, and gone down to the bunkhouse,” Slocum said. “Those three hands I sent with you look after you all right?”

  Before she had time to answer, Cassidy got to his feet, whispering, “Nice goin’,” and said, more loudly, “Ma’am.”

  Still seated, Slocum said, “Sorry. Becky, honey, this here’s Drug Cassidy.”

  Becky stepped right up, shifted both bags to her other arm, and extended her hand. “Delighted, Mr. Cassidy. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

  Cassidy took it. “Yes, ma’am. Likewise. I mean,” he hastily added, “I ain’t heard all that much about . . . I mean . . . Aw, hell.”

  Becky, bless her heart, laughed, and Cassidy flushed. “That’s all right, Mr. Cassidy. I think I know what you meant to say.” She turned toward Slocum and announced, “I’ll be back in a minute. And no, thank you, I don’t need any help with these parcels.”

  Chagrined, Slocum belatedly jumped to his feet and was reaching out for the sacks when he collided with Drug Cassidy, who was trying to do the same thing. Becky slipped away, chuckling softly, and went into the kitchen.

  Which left Slocum to ease back down in his chair. Cassidy was still standing, though, staring after Becky, his mouth agape.

  Slocum frowned. “What the hell’s wrong with you, Drug?”

  Cassidy, never taking his eyes from the now-vacant kitchen doorway, whispered, “Good glory, Slocum! I do believe she’s the prettiest little thing I ever did see.”

  Slocum’s chest swelled with pride, but Cassidy wasn’t looking his way. Just as quick as he’d puffed up, Slocum went flat.

  “She’s taken, Drug,” he said curtly.

  Cassidy seemed to get control of himself, and returned to his chair. Sheepishly, he managed a weak grin. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

  Without smiling, Slocum grunted and said, “S’all right. So, it’s gonna take a few days for this Crowfoot to show up. If he does. In the meantime, I got sort of a hunch what McMahon might be up to.”

  Cassidy leaned forward. “What’s that?”

  Slocum shook his head. “Right now, it’s just a hunch.”

  Just then, Becky came in from the kitchen, bearing a tray. “Limeade, gentlemen? Or coffee? There’s pecan pie, too.”

  Late that afternoon, Tate McMahon was just locking up his office when a shadow fell over him. Thinking it was Siddons, come back because she’d left something or other behind in the office—which she was wont to do—he muttered, “Forget your handbag again?” before he turned around.

  But it wasn’t Siddons.

  Big as life, wearing a tidy outfit consisting of a starched white shirt, tan britches with a knife’s edge crease, a sleek deerhide jacket—sans any fringe—and boots without a spec of dust on them, stood Jeb Crowfoot.

  McMahon actually jumped. If he hadn’t grabbed the doorknob, he would have fallen all the way down.

  “Wha-wha-what?” was all he managed to get out.

  “You sent for me,” came the deep, resonant voice. Although Crowfoot spoke perfect English and wore white mens’ clothes, it was obvious he was Indian, or at least, part Indian. McMahon didn’t know what tribe—or tribes—had produced him, or where he’d come from. He didn’t much care.

  He straightened, gave his vest a tug, and said, “How’d you get here so quick?”

  Any way you looked at it, San Francisco, California, was a long haul from Indian Springs, Arizona. Although, quite frankly, if Crowfoot told him that he’d summoned up the god of wind to carry him aloft, McMahon would have been inclined to believe him.

  But Crowfoot, who kept his distance and kept his gloved hands at his sides, said, “I have an assistant in San Francisco. He forwarded me your message.” He paused a moment, then added, “I was over in Prescott. On business.”

  “That’s still awful damn fast,” McMahon said.

  Crowfoot scowled, as if McMahon was a blithering idiot. He said, “You mentioned a thousand dollars.”

  “Yes, yes, I did,” McMahon said, then belatedly realized they were standing on the street where they could be seen by any passerby. Hurriedly, he fumbled for the key, stuck it in the lock, and opened the door. “Come in, come in,” he said. All his words seemed to be coming in doubles.

  He was a little afraid of Crowfoot.

  All right, he was afraid, period. The man was an Indian, all his white-man’s trappings to the contrary, and on top of that, he was crazy. A crazy Indian. What had he been thinking when he sent for him again?

  Crowfoot stepped in and, with the tip of his boot heel, closed the door behind them.

  “It had better be a thousand,” Crowfoot said. He looked as though a smile had never crossed his face. “I’m making an exception. I don’t like to visit the same town twice.”

  McMahon swallowed. “Yes, I know,” he said, sounding a great deal calmer than he felt. “That’s why I doubled your price.”

  Crowfoot just stared at him.

  “I had two hired guns,” McMahon continued, unable to stop himself. “Teddy LeGrande and Drug Cassidy.”

  Crowfoot sniffed derisively and said, “LeGrande. Ha!”

  “He rode out,” continued McMahon. “Scared off, I guess. Cassidy’s still here.”

  “Why?”

  The question was so blunt that it took McMahon aback. However, he recovered quickly. “I’m not sure, now that you mention it. I won’t need him now, I suppose.”

  “Who do you want me to kill?”

  Again, no bones about it. Crowfoot was as subtle as an oncoming locomotive.

  “A man named Slocum. Heard of him?”

  Crowfoot didn’t flinch, nor did he relax. Still totally without expression, he nodded curtly, saying, “I’ve heard things.”

  McMahon would’ve liked to ask just exactly what Crowfoot had heard, but he was anxious to get the man out of his office as soon as possible. He shifted his weight to the other foot.

  “He’s staying out at the S Bar J.”

  “Same as last time?”

  “Same as last time.”

  “Picture?”

  “No,” said McMahon. “But he’s tall, about six-one, six-two. Dark hair, more rugged than handsome. My boys tell me he always rides—”

  “An Appaloosa,” Crowfoot cut in. “I know.”

  McMahon wondered how he knew, but once again, he didn’t ask.

  “I’ll do it tomorrow,” Crowfoot said. “Have the money ready. And this time, boil it first.”

  “Surely,” said McMahon, nodding like an idiot.

  Crowfoot looked at the doorknob, then looked at McMahon.

  McMahon hurried to open the door, then watched while Crowfoot stepped through it and walked down the street. He mounted a sorrel horse, flecked with a little white on its rump and tied in front of the McMahon Dry Goods. Slowly, he jogged down the street.

  McMahon heaved a sigh. Thank God that was over with. Crowfoot made his skin crawl.

  But Crowfoot would get the job done quickly and efficiently. Of this, he was certain.

  And McMahon was also certain that he’d go into the bank the first thing in the morning and withdraw a thousand dollars in gold coins, boil the damned stuff, and put it neatly into a tidy cloth pouch. Which he wouldn’t borrow from Siddons this time. The notions store had them. He’d asked.

  Crowfoot was out of sight, by this time. He wouldn’t stay in the hotel. He wouldn’t even stay in town. At least, he hadn’t the last time. The man was just plain spooky. Wouldn’t touch anything. McMahon wondered if he boiled his blasted horse before he rode him.

  Snorting, he stepped outside and locked the door behind him again. Perhaps he’d stop up at the notions store now. Mildred wouldn’t have closed quite yet. And then he’d go back to the hotel and have a little talk with Mr. Drug Cassidy. Tell him he was no longer needed.

  As he made his way up the street, he considered that he’d only have to see Crowfoot one more time, to pay him off. And by then, all his other troubles would be in the past. No more Slocum, no more Crowfoot—who would be loathe to ever show his face in Indian Springs again—and, in short order, he’d have Becky Jamison’s hand in marriage.