women screaming.
Donât think about it. Donât remember.
He tried to even out his breathing, but he couldnât control the panic. The feeling of helplessness. And the impotent, searing rage that poured over him when he remembered how it had been.
Maryann. Maryann, I tried. I tried so hard.
On days like this he wished it had been him. Heâd begged God to let it have been him.
But He had taken Maryann instead.
* * *
The next night, Cole stopped in at the Golden Partridge, ordered a shot of whiskey and nursed it while keeping his ears open to the talk going on around him. Often while lounging at the bar he uncovered a lead on a good story.
âNot much support for Conway Arbuckle after his debate with Sheriff Silver,â the stocky barkeep intoned while topping up his shot glass.
âWhat else do you hear?â
OâReilly leaned over the polished wood bar. âCouple of sleazy-lookinâ types behind you, talkinâ kinda dirty about the Sentinel .â
âYou know them?â
âNope. Never seen âem before.â
Cole studied the reflections of the two men in the mirror behind the bar. Unshaven. Sweat-soaked hats with brims curled up like dried orange peels. Filthy-looking leather vests. And, he noted with a jolt of alarm, both were packing revolvers.
As he watched, a third man pushed through the batwing doors and sauntered across the room to join the other two. One stuck out a dusty boot and shoved a chair toward the newcomer.
Something about the trio made the back of Coleâs neck prickle. He tried to overhear their subdued conversation, but no luck. Their damn hats were tipped so low he couldnât even read their lips.
He motioned the bartender over. âHow long have they been here, Tom?â
âMost of the night. Seemed like they were waitinâ for that third one. I checked the horses tied out front earlier and they looked mighty played out.â
âAnything else?â
âWell, yeah. One of âem keeps askinâ for my dirty bar rags. Funny thing, though, none of themâs cleaning their weapons or anything else.â
Cole swiveled to face the room, planted both elbows on the bar and hooked his boot heel over the brass rail. The third man had a bulge in his jacket pocket that Cole guessed was a concealed revolver.
His skin felt as if ants were crawling over his body. As he watched, the three men hunched close together over the table, talking low.
Cole turned back to Tom. âThink Iâll pay a visit to Sheriff Silver.â
âGood idea. Donât want any trouble here, even if it is Saturday night.â
At the sheriffâs office, Jericho Silver listened carefully but said little until Cole finished describing the three strangers whoâd apparently just drifted into town.
âSorry to disappoint you, Cole, but I canât lock up somebody just because he looks suspicious. And itâs not illegal to carry a weapon. Itâs only illegal if he uses it.â
âI see.â The sheriffâs explanation didnât satisfy Cole, but there wasnât a thing he could do about it.
The lawman stood up and donned his black Stetson. âIâll walk the streets twice more tonight, just to check things out.â
âThanks, Sheriff.â
Even after a juicy steak and some apple pie at the restaurant, Cole couldnât stop thinking about those three disreputable-looking men. Couldnât shake the bad feeling down deep in his gut, either.
Back at the Lark office he finished writing his editorial for the Tuesday edition, then paced back and forth across the plank floor trying to shake the feeling of foreboding that hung over him. Finally he stuffed his pencils in the desk drawer and went up the stairs to his bedroom.
Not one chance in a thousand Jessamine would keep her lamp on while she undressed tonight, he reasoned. Made him wish sheâd never found out.
He shucked his boots and
Marion Chesney, M.C. Beaton