waspish.
"Three. Ace, David, and Esa. David's the marshal who was here last night. Today he's going to question a couple people to see if he can find out who shot Darby. Since I'm as eager to find out as he is, I'd like to ride along."
Rachel returned her gaze to the plate in her hands. An iridescent soap bubble slid brightly over the white porcelain surface, caught at the fluted edge, hovered there in trembling splendor for an instant, and then vanished as if it had never been.
She closed her eyes, thinking of her little sister, Tansy, who had glided so brightly through life and then had vanished just as completely as the bubble. No one wanted her killer to be caught more than Rachel did. If there was a connection between the attack on her family and the attack on Darby yesterday, how could she, in good conscience, ask Joseph Paxton not to leave?
Chapter Six
Jebediah Pritchard owned the spread that adjoined the Hollister ranch to the north. The Pritchard home was little more than a one-room shack, its shake roof sagging along the center pitch, the two front windows covered with tattered isinglass, and the porch littered with all manner of objects, most of which needed to be thrown on a garbage heap. A fat brown hen had made her nest in a washtub to the left of the battered front door, inarguable proof that the Pritchards bathed infrequently.
As David and Joseph rode up, Jeb came out onto the dilapidated porch. A short, beefy individual with grizzled brown hair, beady brown eyes, and skin darkened by sun and grime, he stood with his trunklike legs slightly spread, a shotgun cradled in one arm. The creases on his unshaven face were a slightly deeper brown where dirt and body oil had collected. His attire of the day was the same outfit that he'd been wearing for over a year, patched and faded dungarees over white longhandles that had long since gone gray with filth.
Content to let David do the talking since he was the one wearing the badge, Joseph relaxed in the saddle and lighted a cigarette. At least, he pretended to relax. He'd learned early on never to let down his guard around polecats or sidewinders.
"Whatcha want?" Jeb demanded.
Joseph exhaled smoke, thinking that that was a hell of a way to greet one's neighbors. Evidently Joseph and his brother thought alike, for David replied, "That's a downright unfriendly way to say hello, Jeb."
Silver-streaked, stringy brown hair drifting in the crisp afternoon breeze, Jeb leaned slightly forward to spew a stream of brown spittle through a gap in his decayed front teeth. The tobacco juice nearly struck the front hoof of David's gelding. "I'm never friendly to a man wearin' a badge."
"Ah, now."
"Don't you 'ah, now' me. I know why you're here, sniffin' around. It's because Darby McClintoch got hisself shot in the back yesterday. Well, I'll tell you right now, I don't know nothin' about it."
Joseph was pleased when David replied, "That's interesting. If you know nothing, Jeb, how is it you even know Darby was shot?"
"Got it in town from Slim Jim Davidson."
Slim Jim, the bootlack? Joseph dropped his gaze to Jeb's manure-encrusted plow shoes.
David glanced at Jeb's feet, too. "Got your boots shined, did you?"
"Hell, no. What do I look like, a Nancy boy? I seen
Slim Jim when I dropped off my other boots at the cobbler shop."
Jeb's oldest son, Hayden, emerged from the house just then. His weapon of choice was a Smith & Wesson revolver. He wore the gun belt cinched tight at his waist, the holster hanging free. Stocky like his sire, he stood to his father's left, puffed out his chest, spread his feet, and planted his hands on his hips. He wore nothing over his faded red undershirt, the tattered sleeves riding high on his thick, hairy forearms.
The stench coming from the porch grew stronger with Hayden's arrival. Soap and water being cheap, Joseph could only wonder why some folks refused to wash. Though he couldn't imagine it, he guessed there was some truth to the saying
"Three. Ace, David, and Esa. David's the marshal who was here last night. Today he's going to question a couple people to see if he can find out who shot Darby. Since I'm as eager to find out as he is, I'd like to ride along."
Rachel returned her gaze to the plate in her hands. An iridescent soap bubble slid brightly over the white porcelain surface, caught at the fluted edge, hovered there in trembling splendor for an instant, and then vanished as if it had never been.
She closed her eyes, thinking of her little sister, Tansy, who had glided so brightly through life and then had vanished just as completely as the bubble. No one wanted her killer to be caught more than Rachel did. If there was a connection between the attack on her family and the attack on Darby yesterday, how could she, in good conscience, ask Joseph Paxton not to leave?
Chapter Six
Jebediah Pritchard owned the spread that adjoined the Hollister ranch to the north. The Pritchard home was little more than a one-room shack, its shake roof sagging along the center pitch, the two front windows covered with tattered isinglass, and the porch littered with all manner of objects, most of which needed to be thrown on a garbage heap. A fat brown hen had made her nest in a washtub to the left of the battered front door, inarguable proof that the Pritchards bathed infrequently.
As David and Joseph rode up, Jeb came out onto the dilapidated porch. A short, beefy individual with grizzled brown hair, beady brown eyes, and skin darkened by sun and grime, he stood with his trunklike legs slightly spread, a shotgun cradled in one arm. The creases on his unshaven face were a slightly deeper brown where dirt and body oil had collected. His attire of the day was the same outfit that he'd been wearing for over a year, patched and faded dungarees over white longhandles that had long since gone gray with filth.
Content to let David do the talking since he was the one wearing the badge, Joseph relaxed in the saddle and lighted a cigarette. At least, he pretended to relax. He'd learned early on never to let down his guard around polecats or sidewinders.
"Whatcha want?" Jeb demanded.
Joseph exhaled smoke, thinking that that was a hell of a way to greet one's neighbors. Evidently Joseph and his brother thought alike, for David replied, "That's a downright unfriendly way to say hello, Jeb."
Silver-streaked, stringy brown hair drifting in the crisp afternoon breeze, Jeb leaned slightly forward to spew a stream of brown spittle through a gap in his decayed front teeth. The tobacco juice nearly struck the front hoof of David's gelding. "I'm never friendly to a man wearin' a badge."
"Ah, now."
"Don't you 'ah, now' me. I know why you're here, sniffin' around. It's because Darby McClintoch got hisself shot in the back yesterday. Well, I'll tell you right now, I don't know nothin' about it."
Joseph was pleased when David replied, "That's interesting. If you know nothing, Jeb, how is it you even know Darby was shot?"
"Got it in town from Slim Jim Davidson."
Slim Jim, the bootlack? Joseph dropped his gaze to Jeb's manure-encrusted plow shoes.
David glanced at Jeb's feet, too. "Got your boots shined, did you?"
"Hell, no. What do I look like, a Nancy boy? I seen
Slim Jim when I dropped off my other boots at the cobbler shop."
Jeb's oldest son, Hayden, emerged from the house just then. His weapon of choice was a Smith & Wesson revolver. He wore the gun belt cinched tight at his waist, the holster hanging free. Stocky like his sire, he stood to his father's left, puffed out his chest, spread his feet, and planted his hands on his hips. He wore nothing over his faded red undershirt, the tattered sleeves riding high on his thick, hairy forearms.
The stench coming from the porch grew stronger with Hayden's arrival. Soap and water being cheap, Joseph could only wonder why some folks refused to wash. Though he couldn't imagine it, he guessed there was some truth to the saying
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