XII.
She was coming back along the boardwalk – alone.
"Miss Dulcey!" Crown hailed and trotted quickly to her, his back protesting with each step. "I thought Matthew was with you."
"Oh, he was," Dulcey nodded. "He stayed behind to chat with Seth – something about horses. I told him I'd be fine walking back." She gestured to the foot traffic flowing around them. "I know everyone on this side of the street so I felt safe enough…"
Crown nodded, but his gaze was already moving toward the livery. Talking about horses. The alarm in him edged upward. But he smiled down at the girl, kept his features even. "You head straight back to the Inn, Miss Dulcey. Please," he added more softly, seeing the protest appear on her lips. His hand found hers and squeezed it. "It's important," he told her, capturing that blue gaze of hers. "You'll be all right the rest of the way? I have something to ask Matthew."
She nodded but frowned, and caught her lip between her teeth. "Marshal, you're not…? Well, I know he's been nice to me…"
"It's your affair," he told her. But it's going to be ending soon. She'd be upset at that, at the way Hastings had put himself close to her in a way she did not expect. And upset at him for what he was going to do… He touched the brim of his hat – he couldn't wait any longer. "Pardon, Miss Dulcey. I need to attend to this business."
She glanced behind her and saw the questions forming in her gaze, knew her mind was working to put it together. And saw something else, too; she suspected. It raked him.
"Be careful," she said, worry puckering her brow. "He just – well…he seems…"
He released her hand. "Go on – straight back to the Inn. He might've had time to leave Seth's," he told Francis once she was out of earshot and taking a relieved breath when she stepped through the Inn's doors. "We need to be careful."
"I can try the old sheriff's office," Francis suggested. "That's where he's been most afternoons."
Crown paused, considering. If Hastings was truly weaponless then there'd be no issue taking him, not with a gun trained on him, and in front of others. "All right," he nodded. "If you find him you just tell him I want to talk to him. You take him to my office and let Mac lock him up, you hear? You keep a good eye on him. And Francis," Crown gave his deputy a strong eye. "If he tries to run you stop him, got it?"
"Got it," Francis nodded, if a little nervously.
They parted. Crown quickly moved off. He couldn't let the boy to get away – he'd jail him on something, anything, but get him behind bars until he found out just exactly who he was. March him all the way back to Texas if he had to.
There were no voices at the edge of the livery. Crown stepped in quietly, heard no movements other than the shift of horses in stalls as they dozed. It was too blessed quiet. He pulled the .44, the grip perfectly familiar to his palm, set it to half-cock, eased forward on silent steps. Seth – where was he? He found the man's stool at the back door, the basket Dulcey had been carrying on the floor beside it – the meal was eaten. But there were no signs of the man – or anyone else. Crown moved back out into the sunshine, crossed the space to the second smaller barn at the back where the livery owner kept his hay and feed and extra tack, casting a fast but thorough glance across the corral – nothing there but one bay and one spotted mare dozing in the heat of the sun.
He paused at the half-open door to this barn, eased in, softly cursing the readjustment to his eyesight. There – dammit!
A set of feet protruded from the end of an empty stall – Crown neared, refrained from speaking, used his peripheral vision to keep track of any moment around him, ears listening behind him. Nothing. He stepped noiselessly forward. It was Seth. Crown stared; the other man was—
Sleeping. Even as Crown watched the hostler snorted lightly, turned himself over. Crown sighed, holstered his gun, and prodded the man.
"Hey…oh, Marshal." Seth rolled up, wiped at his face and his bald head. "Rocky okay? I just checked him…"
"He's fine." Crown straightened. "Where's the boy that came in here with Dulcey?"
"Who?" Seth shrugged himself, scratched.
"The boy with Dulcey," Crown patiently repeated. "Dulcey said he was talking to you."
"Oh, him," Seth grunted. He began limping back toward the corral. "He asked about a horse, did I have any to sell. Then he asked me did I need anything needed mending, fence, stalls. Offered himself for the job. Nice boy, polite. Miss Dulcey sure seemed to like him…"
"Where'd he go?"
"Go? Not sure." Seth stepped back into the livery and immediately began counting muzzles. "Talked on for a few minutes about his working over at Kilgallen's building while I ate and then he left."
No horses gone and Dulcey was alone. Wasn't likely he'd run out on foot, except maybe to hide. But a man with that much bloodlust in him would not walk away from a kill. No, he was still in town. Maybe Francis had found him. Crown took his leave of Seth, crossed the wide avenue, aware that traffic had thinned; most folks were partaking of the noon meal. Kilgallen's block was mostly empty anyway, due to the ruined conditions of the buildings grouped there. MacGregor's blast had not only taken out the sheriff's office, but had damaged the walls of the businesses on either side. Crown moved noiselessly up to the doorway, and then changed his mind. In this situation he'd feel a lot better coming in the back door rather than striding through the front.
He swung around to the rear, saw a load of fresh lumber piled beside a haphazard stack of splintered boards, a few sawhorses, a couple cans of nails, and a toolbox overflowing with implements. Crown stepped carefully around tumbled bricks and broken glass, trying to remember the arrangement of the former sheriff's office; his previous examination had only been a cursory one as he'd picked over the salvageable contents. All he could recall were blown walls, fallen brick, the cells with bars listing, both the front and rear doors torn off.
There were no sounds – no hammering, no sawing, no voices. Maybe Francis had already found Hastings and marched him back to the Inn. Still, long experience made him ever-cautious. He eased his .44 into his hand once more, crept forward, cursing the glare of the sun overhead. Held his breath, paused to listen again. Nothing, not even any breeze. Crown's back pulled up tight; sweat ran under his shirt, front and back, worked around his collar, slipped past his temples. He reached the back entrance, grateful for the thin shade afforded by the roof overhang. Flattened himself against the broken wall, tore his hat from his head, carefully peered inside, saw empty space, iron bars, slats of sunlight skimming across the floor. And something else…
"Francis?" he called in a low voice.
The rustle of clothing. "In here," croaked a voice from within. "Marshal…"
A blur of movement dropped into the edge of his vision, close – too close. Crown whirled, readied a shot-
Something struck him, vicious; he felt his cheek split over the bone. He staggered back as the pain shot into his brain, white and hot; it cut off his vision, deadened his nerves. The .44 fell from his grasp. He began to topple, clawed to maintain consciousness, pull himself back away from any more blows, but another struck him in the ribs, propelled him to one side. He felt himself slide along the dirt; tried to push himself upright, but his head was exploding and he couldn't find his way. He shoved his knees up under him, rolled over. He didn't know if he made it upright – a great wave of black pain swept him and pushed him down into nothingness.