Chapter Two

Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul,
Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society.
The Grave (l. 87), Robert Blair (1699-1746), Scottish poet and clergyman

Aware that he was the object of interest as he rode down the dusty street just after midday, Jim kept his gaze mostly ahead, glancing only to the side occasionally, finally reining his sorrel horse toward the building designated as the sheriff's office and jail. Some of the observers undoubtedly remembered him from his last visit, but other than that, strangers were a novelty in this part of the country. Dismounting, he tied the horse's reins to the post, and stepped up onto the rough wood porch. The door was standing open against the warmth of the day.

"Sheriff Rivers?"

The middle-aged man standing near the rack of rifles on the wall turned, some surprise registering in the blue eyes above the walrus mustache. "Why, it's Mr. West, ain't it? Wasn't sure we'd be seeing you again."

Jim stepped inside. "The murder of our agent has not been solved yet."

Rivers sighed. "That's true, ain't it? I just ain't so sure it's ever gonna be."

"It will if I have anything to say about it."

The sheriff moved to sit on a mended chair in front of a battered roll top desk. "Well, I'll tell you, Mr. West, it's gonna take more information than I got to find out who did it. A thirty-caliber slug is pretty common around here. No witnesses. Nothing."

"I'm hoping that my presence will make someone nervous enough to make a mistake."

Rivers' eyes widened. "You're thinking he might come after you? That ain't smart. He got away with one killin'. Chances are he can do it again!"

Jim folded his arms across his chest, gazing coolly at the older lawman. "That's not saying much about your abilities as a law officer."

Rivers shrugged. "I never said I was a big city copper. I handle horse thieves and cattle rustlers just fine. Back-shootin' murder is above my head, and I ain't ashamed to admit it!"

Jim sighed. "Well, that's why I'm here. Have there been any strangers in the area recently?"

"Just a fellow that rode in yesterday. Took a room at the hotel and then asked some questions about Mr. Manwaring. I guess he rode out to the ranch to visit, and Mr. Manwaring invited him to stay there, on account of he came back and got his gear and went back out there."

Good going, Artie! At least that part of the plan was working. "Any idea who he is?"

"Nope. I didn't talk to him. Southerner, though, accordin' to the ones what did talk to him. Maybe some kin to Mr. Manwaring. You still think Mr. Manwaring is some kind of criminal?"

"I don't know. I'm trying to keep an open mind." Jim hoped his own beliefs were not showing in his face. Apparently he was successful in hiding his thoughts, for the sheriff just shrugged and shook his head.

"Well, I can tell you again, you're barkin' up the wrong tree. Mr. Manwaring might have been supportin' the South, but there's lotsa men done that, even in this county. Ain't no crime far as I know, long as they don't do nothin' against the government now that the war is over."

"Very true, sheriff. However, that's what I'm looking into, whether he—or anyone else—has committed any recent crimes."

Rivers sighed. "You're a stubborn young fellow, ain't you?"

Jim had to smile slightly. "So I've been told. I'll be around awhile, sheriff."

"Well, if I hear anything, I'll be sure to tell you. But you watch your back, Mr. West. Whoever killed Galvin sure ain't gonna like you nosin' around again."

"That is exactly what I hope will happen." With a wave, Jim left the office. He took the reins of the horse and walked down the street to the small building that passed itself off as the hotel, really just a large house that rented rooms. The proprietor had a very pretty daughter, and she was at the desk in the large foyer when he stepped inside.

The brown eyes of Holly Cormack widened in delight. "Why, Mr. West! I didn't expect to see you again!"

He grinned. "There are certain charms of this town that I couldn't forget." She was eighteen or nineteen, and Jim knew she had a steady suitor, but that did not stop her from flirting with him.

"Are you going to stay long?" she asked as she opened the register book for him.

"A few days at least, I'm sure. Depends on how soon my business is completed."

Her smile vanished. "Are you still looking for the man who killed your friend?"

"Yes."

"Oh, that's so dangerous! You really shouldn't!"

Jim gazed at her. "I'm a federal agent, Miss Cormack. The man who was killed was an agent as well, along with being my friend. We cannot allow someone to get away with that."

She sighed noisily. "I suppose not. But you will be careful won't you?"

"I will. Same room as before?"

"Yes, it's still vacant." She handed him a key. "It is nice to see you again, Mr. West."

He grinned. "The feeling is mutual, Miss Cormack."

She blushed.

Jim took his gear to the second floor room in the front. Not a large room, but he did not need much space. The bed was comfortable and the window overlooked the street. After putting his few possessions in the small bureau, he went back downstairs, smiling toward Holly as he headed out the door.

The town had three saloons, and on his previous visit, Jim had learned that MacNulty's was the hub of the town, and where he would find the most information. It was also the largest of the three. One of the others, called the Oaken Bucket, was a place where older men gathered to play checkers and talk over a drink or two. The other one's principal operation seemed to be to provide "ladies" to entertain the gents. MacNulty's had a few women, and they could be bought, but nowhere near the population of "Helma's Haven for Gentlemen."

As he entered MacNulty's, he knew that his appearance was no surprise to the current patrons. The word had already spread that the government agent had returned. He went up to the bar and asked for a beer, which was delivered by the stoic bartender who had not cracked a smile during his previous visits to MacNulty's either. The barkeep took his money and moved away.

"West, isn't it?"

Jim turned to the man standing next to him, picking up his glass of beer as he did so. He saw a man a few years older than himself, a half-foot taller, with a bushy blond beard and broad shoulders. "That's right. Mr. Cooley, as I recall."

"Correct. What brings you back to Carvers Landing?"

Farold Cooley was the local blacksmith, but Jim had noticed on his previous visit that he seemed to spend more time in MacNulty's than at his forge. Upon mentioning this to another man, he had learned that Cooley inherited the business from his father, but preferred to let a hired man do most of the work. His face had the dissipated appearance of a man who imbibed far too much. Jim had also been told that Cooley liked a fight and was known to pick one just for the fun of it.

"Nice town," Jim said easily.

"Figured you was nosing around about your friend. You think someone here done that?"

"I don't know. It's a possibility."

"You accusing friends of mine?"

"Who are your friends?"

"Mr. Manwaring."

Jim took a swallow of his beer, keeping his eyes on Cooley. He had never openly accused Marston Manwaring of any crime during his previous stint in this area. Jim had introduced himself and his official status to Sheriff Rivers as a matter of courtesy to the local law, not realizing how much of a gossip Rivers was. Obviously Cooley had learned of Jim West's interest in Manwaring through that lawman.

"Why would Mr. Manwaring want to harm my friend?"

Cooley took a swing then. Expecting such a move, Jim ducked it easily, placing his glass on the bar top. "Slow down, mister," he warned. But the blacksmith had had a few too many and was intent on trouble, sending a second fist toward Jim's chin, this time barely grazing it as Jim jerked back. Jim grabbed that arm, twisted it behind Cooley's back, and shoved the man forward with a knee in the rump.

Cooley sprawled on his face, but was on his feet more swiftly than Jim expected. He charged, eyes blazing, and Jim found himself trapped momentarily between the bar and a patron who could not move fast enough to give him room. Cooley grabbed him by the shoulders and hurled him toward a nearby table. Crashing into it, Jim felt the edge jam into his ribs before it skittered and tipped over. He went down, but as Cooley had, came up quickly.

This time when the bigger man hurtled toward him, fists flying, Jim fended them off with his forearms, and got in two quick punches to the midriff that sent Cooley staggering back, bent over and gasping for breath. He was not out of it however, and his rage seemed only to increase. Once more he stormed in, getting a solid punch against Jim's jaw that caused him to spin and stagger, stunned. Cooley took advantage, moving in and wrapping his muscular arms around Jim's body, with Jim's back to his chest.

Jim immediately tried to kick Cooley's shins, but the bigger man spread his legs apart, making them more difficult to reach. Prying at the vise-like hands that clenched him was of no avail, nor did trying to use his own head as a weapon against his assailant's chin. Cooley squeezed tighter, laughing softly in Jim's ear as he did so. Jim West knew that if he did not break the hold soon he would be lightheaded from the inability to breathe fully.

His opportunity came as Cooley became overconfident, swinging his victim slightly until Jim found himself just a couple of feet away from the saloon's heavy, polished bar. Swiftly he lifted his legs, allowing Cooley's grip to support him, jammed his boots against the bar's wooden side, and pushed hard. The move surprised his antagonist. Cooley staggered back, his arms loosening.

That was all that Jim needed. He burst completely free by spreading his arms wider in one quick, forceful move. Taking a moment to gulp in a couple of full breaths of air, he went after the blacksmith, fists pumping and taking advantage of the bigger man's slower reflexes. Cooley got in one more punch, one that grazed Jim's forehead, and that was all. Within minutes, he was on his knees, then face down on the barroom floor.

Jim stepped back to the bar to pick up his waiting beer, took a long swallow then turned to face the gaping onlookers, which now included Sheriff Rivers. The local law officer moved forward, taking a long look at the man sprawled on the floor.

"It's been a while since anyone took Cooley down like that. He ain't gonna take kindly to it, Mr. West."

"I can't help that, sheriff. I have work to do here."

"What started it?"

Jim shrugged, taking another swallow of his drink. "He seemed to take offense after hearing somewhere that I questioned Marston Manwaring in connection with Tim Galvin's death."

The sheriff pulled off his hat and ran his fingers through his graying hair. "Well, I expect a few folks wouldn't take kindly to that."

Another man stepped forward, a thin man dressed all in black except for a snowy white shirt. "We didn't meet last time you were here, Mr. West. I'm Willis Newhouse. I own the funeral parlor and the barbershop."

"How do you do, Mr. Newhouse."

The undertaker-barber seemed momentarily taken aback by the young agent's polite greeting. He blinked rapidly. "The point is, Mr. West, that the sheriff is right. Mr. Manwaring is our good friend. We don't like hearing that someone thinks he's involved in murder."

"I spoke to Mr. Manwaring about Tim Galvin's death because Galvin worked for him."

Rivers pointed an accusing finger. "Yeah, but you said—"

Jim cut off the sheriff's words. "Sheriff, a serious crime that threatens the United States may be originating in this area. Mr. Galvin was sent here to investigate it. Someone killed him, possibly because he came close to discovering the culprits. I questioned Mr. Manwaring because, as I stated, Mr. Galvin was on his ranch for a short while. Mr. Manwaring informed me he had no knowledge of anything. That's where it stands. I've been ordered back here to continue the investigation."

The room was very quiet as the men in attendance digested his words. Newhouse's eyes again fluttered rapidly. "Mr. West, folks are law-abiding here. Good number of us supported the Union in the late war. My own son fought in it, and thankfully came home. A couple of boys didn't. Reckon you know about Mr. Manwaring's brother."

"I do."

"Mr. Manwaring supported the South, which some of us don't agree with. But he's a good man. He's done a lot for this area. We don't want him harassed for no good reason."

Jim smiled slightly. "Don't worry. That won't happen. I'm not even sure I'm going to talk to him on this trip. Not right away, at least." Not until I hear from Artie!

Once more the eyes blinked, apparently a nervous habit. "Well, that's fine then. Like I say, we're law-abiding. If you can prove that anybody—including Mr. Manwaring—is guilty, we'll go along with it. But you better have very good proof."

"You can be assured of that, Mr. Newhouse. I do not intend to railroad anyone for a crime they didn't commit." Jim reached down to pick up the black hat that had fallen off his head to the floor. "Good day, gentlemen."

He was aware that someone followed him out the door, but did not look around until he was halfway across the street and heard his name called. He paused. "Yes, Sheriff Rivers?"

The older man hurried up to him and they continued to the other side. "Mr. West, you never did tell me what kind of criminals you are looking for here."

"I'd rather not give you the specifics at this time."

Rivers' cheeks reddened. "I reckon I spoke out of turn when you was here the other time, telling folks more than they needed to know. I apologize for that. I guess I didn't know how serious things are."

"They are serious," Jim nodded. "I can't give you any further information now. I have to wait for clearance from my superiors."

"Oh. All right. Well, if I can help you, just let me know. I never seen anyone handle Farold Cooley like that. He's pretty loyal to Mr. Manwaring mostly, I guess, on account of the business thrown his way. Farold always had leanings toward the South too, even though his folks came here from Illinois."

Jim thanked him and continued on his way to his waiting horse. Mounting, and aware of his slightly sore ribs with the movement, he headed out of town toward the river and eventually came to the area where Tim Galvin's body had been found caught in some bushes along the bank. He had inspected the area previously, yet felt drawn to return, even while knowing that determining the exact site of Tim's death was nearly impossible at this time. Chances were it had occurred somewhere upstream, and possibly not even on the riverbank. The killer or killers very likely thought that the body would continue to wash downstream, perhaps never be found, or never identified if it had been. Tim had not been carrying any identification in his guise as a drifter.

If only I hadn't been delayed! If only that telegraph message had been delivered on time, I might have been here and Tim would still be alive!

Or else they would both be dead. Jim knew that was a possibility. Whoever ambushed Tim would have had no qualms about killing a second agent. Nevertheless, he could not help but feel that mix-up in Denver had cost Tim Galvin his life. Jim knew his feelings were irrational. What had occurred had been beyond his control. He had not been expecting a communication from the other agent, and his plans had been to join Tim as soon as he finished his testimony. Had he known Tim was telegraphing him, he would have gone to the telegraph office himself…

But he had not known. He had slept soundly that night, unaware that his friend was probably already dead, or at least doomed. And now I'm involving another friend in this! What was I thinking of? He gazed out over the muddy, swiftly flowing waters of the river, fed by recent storms. First chance I get, I'm telling Artie to clear out. I should have followed my first instincts back in Chicago. This is not his concern. He's not a spy or a scout now, definitely not an agent. He has no business risking his life!

He rode along the riverbank, unknowing of what he was looking for, just looking. He had ridden this same path a few weeks ago, with the same sense of futility and helplessness. He had no clues. As far as the sheriff was concerned, Tim had been slain by someone passing through, maybe in a robbery. Rivers could not say for sure that Tim had any money on him prior to this death, but he certainly had none when the body was found.

Suddenly hearing a shout, Jim's hand went to the butt of his gun as he twisted in the saddle to determine the source. He saw a horse and rider coming across a field at a fast lope toward him, waving a hand. For one moment, Jim considered seeking cover in a nearby copse, but recognized first the buckskin horse, and then the man in the saddle, despite the heavy beard.

"What are you doing out here, Artie?" he asked as Gordon pulled up his mount beside him.

"Looking over the countryside. What about you?"

Jim glanced around then jerked his head for his companion to follow as he headed for the clump of trees and brush fifty feet away from the riverbank. Once inside that cover, he dismounted, and Artie did the same.

"I'm looking over the crime scene."

Artemus stared toward the river. "Is that where Tim was killed?"

"His body was found about a mile downstream. The actual murder site has never been determined."

"And you thought you might be able to find it? After all this time? It's been raining around here, Jim."

"I know. I was just… looking. What are you doing?"

"As I said, just exploring the countryside. Manwaring has pretty much given me the run of the place. I am all but certain the counterfeiting press is not in the house or any of the buildings at the main ranch. No place it could be hidden."

"So he's accepted you as his brother's commanding officer?"

"Seems so. As planned, I've been careful to not make it seem I was close to Nelson. Don't want to run the risk of making a mistake there. But Manwaring is still grieving for his brother. He told me he looked on Nelson as his heir, being as he was so much younger."

"Doesn't mean he's not plotting to damage the country's finances," Jim growled.

"I know that. I'm just saying that thus far I have seen nothing to indicate his complicity. I also know that I've been there only a short time. Manwaring has invited me to stay as long as I care to." And I'm already feeling guilty about deceiving him. I like the man!

Jim looked down at the ground for a moment then lifted his gaze. "I think you should get the hell out of here, Artie."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"I should not have involved you, Artie. This isn't your business anymore. You have a life…"

"Which I love. I love the stage and the acclaim. But the last few days have caused me to realize how much I miss the excitement of what we did together during the war, James."

"Artie, it's dangerous!"

"No kidding!" Artie grinned broadly. He could see the worry in the depths of Jim's green eyes. Jim would not come right out and say what he was feeling, but Artie knew him well enough now. After losing one friend, and blaming himself at least partially for it, Jim did not want another one hurt.

Jim exhaled loudly. "Artie, you…"

"Forget it, Jim. I'm in and I'm staying. I'm going to say it flat out, too. I think you are wrong about Manwaring."

Jim shook his head firmly. "No. No, I'm not. Tim thought…"

"You already said you don't know exactly what Tim found. Just because he worked for a few days on the ranch does not mean that Marston Manwaring was his prime suspect. He may have found some indication of who the counterfeiter was there, but not necessarily Manwaring!"

"Then who, damn it?"

"I don't know, Jim. I've talked to some of the ranch hands, and mentioned I heard gossip in town that one of their fellows had been murdered. Most of them liked Tim, but thought he was secretive, and also nosy. One told me Tim asked him all kinds of questions about Manwaring's political beliefs and seemed to be trying to find out if Manwaring still held a grudge against the Union."

"What did the fellow say to Tim?"

"Well, I wasn't able to dig that deeply. Not yet. This ranch hand, Ormsby by name, was the only one who did not seem to have liked Tim too well. Another told me Ormsby was jealous because Tim was a good hand, and was receiving praise from others. Ormsby considered himself the top hand. By the way, what happened to your face?"

Jim lifted a hand to touch the sore spot on his jaw. "Had a bit of a run-in with one of Manwaring's supporters in town. The blacksmith."

Artie's brows lifted. "The blacksmith? Seems to me you could have chosen a smaller fellow, James. I got a peek at that blacksmith when I was in town."

Now Jim unconsciously rested a hand against his still-aching ribs. "Believe me I would have if I had had the option."

Now Artemus frowned. "Think he was sent to choose you?"

Jim thought a moment. "No. Not really. He was already in the saloon when I went in. I'd only been in town an hour or so. Not time for…"

Artie finished the sentence as Jim's words halted. "No time for Manwaring to have sent word into town? Jim, I hate to say this, but if you're going to make any progress on this case, you're going to have to stop being fixated on Manwaring."

Jim turned his back, staring out toward the river. "He's guilty, Artie. I know it."

"All right, so you know it. You have to prove it. And you're not going to prove it unless you allow yourself to see the broader picture. I just told you I'm certain the counterfeiting is not being done at the main ranch. I'm going to continue to probe Manwaring, as well as his hired men, and to ride over his property as far as he allows."

Now Jim swung back. "And if he warns you away from an area…"

"Then I'll definitely investigate it." Artie grinned.

"Then you'll get word to me and I'll investigate it! Artie, remember, you're not an official agent."

"Oh? Then why am I planted in the hornet's nest?"

"That's what I mean! You need to ride away."

"James, you always were the most single-minded man I ever knew! I am not leaving. Not until the job is done, or…"

"Or you're dead." Jim's eyes blazed. "That's what I want to prevent, don't you see? Go back to Chicago and your acting. That's where you belong!"

"Is it? Was that where I belonged when we stole the battle plans out from under the nose of that South Carolina colonel? Or when we hid out for three days without supplies in order to watch Early's movements in the Shenandoah? Or how about the time—"

Jim stopped him with a wave of the hand. "That was wartime, Artie. We were ordered to do it!"

"Yes, we were ordered," Artie said softly, keeping his brown eyes locked on the green ones. "But in more than one case we were given the option of refusing. We never did. Why? Because we knew we were the best; that we had the best chance of succeeding; that other men might lose their lives if we did not succeed. Men did die, just as Tim died, but not because we failed, James. More lives were saved because we succeeded! Together, James, we were the best the army had. And who knows… maybe we still are."

Jim finally dropped his eyes. "I know, Artie. I know. It's just…"

Artie reached out, clamped a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "I know, Jim. I understand. I remember the feeling when friends died. Even when we provided the best information possible to the commanders, men still died. You are not responsible for what happened to Tim Galvin. It was simply a quirk of fate."

"I should have been here!" Green eyes blazed again as they lifted.

Now Artie folded his arms across his chest. "So, you are prescient, now? You carry a crystal ball with you at all times?"

Jim could not help but smile a little now. "You always were able to put things in perspective."

"I try, James my boy. I try."

"Okay. You'd better get moving before someone spots us. I—I could be wrong about Manwaring. I'll try to have a more open mind. But remember, Artie, things are not always what they seem!"

"I will keep that in mind, and suggest you do as well. Take care of yourself, James." Artie swung into the saddle. "And stay away from burly blacksmiths. See ya!" With a wave he guided his horse out of the brush and headed across the field again.

Jim watched him until he vanished over a rise then exhaled another gusty sigh. It was true. Artie always had the ability to make him see more clearly. He needed to push aside his grief and sense of guilt, and stop focusing entirely on Manwaring. Even if Marston Manwaring was responsible, he could be—and was—a clever man; a man with the ability to hide his tracks completely.

However, if he was guilty, Manwaring was not in it alone. He had to have accomplices, someone to procure supplies, to help print the money, and then to distribute the counterfeits. Above all, someone had to be creating the plates from which those counterfeit bills were produced. Those accomplices might not be as sharp; they could make mistakes. That was what he had to look for, to watch for. He needed to ask different questions as well. They had a few clues regarding the men who passed the bills in the cities where the money had turned up. Focus. I need to change my focus.

Jim was smiling as he mounted. He had forgotten what it had been like to have Artemus Gordon at his side. Not really forgotten, but shoved into the back of his mind, never expecting to experience the camaraderie and sameness of thought again. They were so different in personality and abilities—yet they had blended together perfectly. Something I'll never understand!

W*W*W*W*W

When Artemus entered the ranch house, he found Manwaring had a visitor, a short and stocky man with wiry dark hair that seemed to stand straight out from his head in all directions, although he kept it cut fairly short. Artie suspected that no amount of pomade would control it. His mustache, on the other hand, lay neatly against his upper lip.

"Major Hannon, I'd like you to meet Hiram Doolin, my second in command here on the ranch. He's been away for a few days on business."

Artie extended his hand. "How do you do, sir." What kind of business, sir? Distributing fake money?

"Pleased to meet you, major." Doolin had a gravelly voice. "I hear you were in the same regiment with young Nelson."

"Yes, that's true. As I told Mr. Manwaring, I had the good fortune to make his acquaintance, but I was not fortunate to know him well. I learned from his comrades what a fine young fellow he was."

"I can assure you that was the case, Major. I knew the boy back in Georgia, and then here on the ranch when I came to work for Mr. Manwaring. Fine young man."

"Indeed," Artemus concurred then excused himself saying he wanted to wash up after the ride. He went through the door that opened into the hallway where the bedrooms were, where he paused, leaving the door open a crack. Manwaring spoke first.

"Hi, make sure that shipment gets on its way promptly. We don't want to miss this opportunity."

"Sure thing, Mar. I've got it ready. Just a matter of getting it into town and onto the stage that'll go through tomorrow. I'll get one of the boys to take it to town right now."

As the meeting broke up and Doolin departed, Artie went on to his room. Deep in thought, he stripped off his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and poured cool water from the ewer into the matching basin. Doolin's accent was southern, but sounded more Virginian than Georgian. Perhaps he had relocated there from somewhere north.

But what was the important package? Artemus did not like the sound of that, especially after he had just expressed his doubts to Jim. Not that he worried about being wrong; that had happened too many times to both of them in their work together. What concerned him was that Jim would not be watching for a Manwaring man to be putting a package on the next stagecoach through town.

There's still time for me to go into town and get the information to him. But I doubt even a Secret Service man has the authority to disrupt the U.S. Mail without a court order. Nonetheless, I need to think of a reason to go into town, today if possible.

As it turned out, Mother Nature had other ideas. After washing up as he had said he was going to do, Artemus returned to find Manwaring seated in the front room reading a newspaper. After a few minutes of casual conversation, Artie mentioned that he thought he would ride into town to mail a letter. "I promised my niece I would write faithfully. I'm her only blood kin now, and she worries. Do you know when the next mail pickup will be?" He already knew the answer to that, having noticed the schedule on the outside wall of the general mercantile where the stage stopped and the post office was located.

"Tomorrow morning," Manwaring responded. "Stage comes through about midmorning, as a rule. Too bad you didn't mention it before. Hi Doolin is planning to head into town with some mail to post. May have already left."

"I'm afraid I'm not as diligent as Emily would like me to be," Artie smiled. "But that's fine. I suppose there's still time for me to ride in this afternoon. No real hurry."

He went out to retrieve his horse from the stable where he had left it after his return from meeting Jim, and noticed with alarm that some very dark clouds had rolled in very suddenly. Before he even reached the outbuildings, the rain started, and came down heavily. He was forced to remain in the stable with a couple of other men who got caught, and then during a lull, trotted back to the house. He knew weather well enough to realize this was not the end of the storm.

He was right. The rain pelted down in buckets, interspersed with hail, strong winds, lightning and thunder, and continued well into the evening. To attempt to ride into town would have been foolhardy—as well as suspicious. He had already indicated to Manwaring that no urgency existed. The only good news was that one of the men in the barn told him Doolin had told another man to saddle up for a trip to town, but canceled the order when the storm seemed imminent. So the package had not been taken into the post office.

Confined to the house by the weather meant more time to talk with Manwaring, but it also made things a bit trickier. With more conversations, the chances of a slip-up grew likelier. Artie continued to be very careful with what he said to Manwaring, particularly about his brother and the state of Georgia. He had spent time in that area, before, during, and after the war, so he was not completely unfamiliar with it; still he did not know the details a long-time resident might be aware of.

Most regiments north and south had been formed from companies recruited in a specific area of a state. Sometimes officers were moved from one regiment to another, and Hannon had been with the same regiment for all but the first few months of the war, having been transferred after the loss of the Twenty-fourth's original commanding officer. He should have been at least familiar with the Manwaring's home area even if he had not lived in that specific county. When the conversation turned to landmarks, or other residents of that area, Artemus deftly steered the topic away after a noncommittal remark. Manwaring did not appear to notice anything amiss.

They discussed literature, art, and music and Artemus was pleasantly surprised to find that Manwaring's tastes paralleled his own. He found he had to watch himself lest he launch into a description of his own experience acting in the Shakespearean dramas Manwaring admired. During the pre-War days in Georgia, in particular, Manwaring had traveled to the larger cities to catch performances by well-known musicians, actors, and other personages. A couple of times, Artie had to prevaricate to state he had also seen those performers in a southern city, rather than northern. Because he had actually visited, or even performed, in a few of those venues, he at least could describe the surroundings with accuracy.

He was able to guide the conversation to politics, and Manwaring opened up further regarding his feelings where the causes of the war and its results were concerned. He staunchly supported the South's purported "states' rights" issues; he had had no problem with the institution of slavery, even if he had subsequently learned that the black men could be good workers without the lash at their back.

Manwaring also fervently believed that the Confederacy had capitulated too soon, agreeing with those few who were of the opinion that a guerilla war would have eventually won it for the South. At no time in the conversation, nonetheless, did Manwaring allude to personal plans to damage the United States government in any manner, even when "Palmer Hannon" agreed wholeheartedly with all his statements, expressing disappointment that he, one man, could not do anything to alter the current situation.

Artie also wished he could ask Manwaring more about the package he was shipping, if only to comment on how the weather might interfere with its shipment and observe what reaction the question received. But he could not, seeing as how he had eavesdropped to gain that bit of insight and should not know that the "mail" Manwaring had mentioned later was a parcel. However, as the evening drew to a close and Artie rose to go to his room, he offhandedly inquired whether—if he was able to make the trip to town in the morning—he could do anything for his host. Manwaring immediately nodded.

"Perhaps so. I had asked Hi Doolin to take a package into town for me. I'm not sure if he made it out before the rain hit. If not, I would be grateful if you could take it to the post office for me. It's just a gift for a friend."

"I would be delighted, sir. Delighted." More than you could possibly know!

W*W*W*W*W

Jim stepped gingerly up onto the porch of the mercantile then stomped his boots to try to clear them of some of the mud. The street was a quagmire after the storms of yesterday afternoon and evening. He had barely made it back to town before the deluge hit, and except for brief trips to talk to the sheriff and to the restaurant for supper, had spent the remainder of the day inside, either in his room or, when he got desperate, across the street at the saloon.

This morning the sun was shining brightly, the temperatures were warming rapidly. Soon the street would dry to hard clay, which would be pounded to dust by hoofs, wagon wheels, and foot traffic. For now, however, anyone with business taking them outside—and particularly if they needed to cross the street—faced a difficult journey. Jim had seen one man lose his footing and sit in the sloppy mud. That man's curses had resounded up and down the street.

He knew that the roads and trails throughout the area would be in similar condition. No use trying to find any signs of where Tim's murder occurred. If previous rains hadn't washed them away, this storm certainly did! Almost as though the fates were conspiring against him.

Entering the mercantile, he wiped his boots as best he could on the rags just inside the door, and then approached the counter. Another charming young lady was employed here, one with sandy hair and freckles and flirtatious blue eyes. He chatted with Annie Wagner a bit as he selected some cigarillos, glancing toward the front door as it opened again.

The man who entered was on the short side, heavily built. His hat barely fit on his head over wiry hair that wanted to throw off the attempted cover. His mustache, however, was neatly trimmed. Jim did not remember seeing him on his previous visit, but the way Annie greeted him as "Mr. Doolin" indicated he was a longtime and well-known customer. Jim paid for his purchase before stepping back to browse other merchandise.

He could not say why this man interested him, but he did. Annie led the newcomer down to the post office window. Jim idly wandered in that direction and pretended interest in a display of buckhorn knives as he kept an eye on the proceedings. Mr. Doolin posted a rather small but apparently somewhat heavy package to go out on the morning stage. "Provided," Doolin chuckled, "the stage hasn't sunk out of sight in the mud!" Jim tried to position himself so as to read the addressee, but found he could not without being too obvious.

When Mr. Doolin departed, Jim turned to Annie. "One of the ranch owners hereabouts?"

"Oh, no. He's the foreman out at Manwaring's. Been there forever I think. Has the funniest hair, don't you think? I know Mr. Newhouse despairs every time Mr. Doolin comes in for a haircut!" She giggled.

"I can well imagine." So he works for Manwaring. Will have to see what Artie learns about Mr. Doolin. Something about Doolin sent prickles of unease along Jim West's spine. Not often had he reacted to another man like that. The last one he could remember was a ragged fellow he and Artie came across in the Shenandoah Valley one evening. Artie took pity on the man, invited him to share their campfire and rations. Awhile later, while they slept—or the man thought they slept—he had tried to cut their throats. Fortunately, Jim had remained awake, unable to sleep with that man nearby.

Because the store was void of customers, he remained with Annie for a while, encouraging her to gossip. She had known Nelson Manwaring, but not well. He had been several years older than her. Just before he left for the war, Annie said, Nelson had been keeping company with Cora Mayne, who was now Cora Schiff. She had married the local gunsmith just last year.

That's probably the most useful information Annie passed along, he mused as he stepped outside to light up one of his newly purchased smokes. Hard to say what a former sweetheart might reveal about either of the Manwarings, but it might be worthwhile talking to Cora Schiff if the opportunity arose.