Chapter Two
Do you see what I see?
His eyes lifting, he followed along the horizon until he reached the northern edge and there his eyes stopped. Of course he saw it. Likely everyone in this region of the territory had seen it by now. A storm was coming. He refrained from clapping his gloved hands together. Not that it would get mistaken for excitement. There were enough men around Laramie doing a similar pat, anything to get warmth circulating in the fingertips again.
Hearing a clop, he turned his head toward the source. An old man stood outside of the stage depot, stomping out a tune with his heels. He would have shaken his head in irritation, what with the racket that seemed to spread along the entire boardwalk, but since his toes were feeling a similar tingle, he might be inclined to do the same kind of jig.
He shook his head. No. There was no need for being the old man's echo, not when it was time to put his feet in motion, and definitely not with the kind of path he was about to take. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he put the staccato sound behind him and walked toward the sheriff's office.
There was a chance it wouldn't be out there. With the wind's ferocity equal to a wildcat's call, although without the hot breath that went along with the scream, pages that were tacked to the wall might be too tattered to read. Or altogether absent. Stopping at the bulletin board, he stared at the one with the biggest rip and put his finger in the center to hold the poster down long enough to see if his name was printed on it.
Nope. This one said Barry Cornwell.
"Not even close," muttered the man underneath his wrapped layers. "Well, now. What's this one say?"
The next poster down was gone. All that was left a rough-edged triangle underneath a thumbtack, he ticked a short thrum off of his pursed lips as his head wandered back and forth in mock dismay. Hearing a snap of paper about to give way, both hands pressing down the sheet, he gave it a lengthy look. It fit his description. Blonde hair, brown eyes, medium height, the same in-between size in weight, but the name was wrong.
"What's the matter with this town, anyway? Haven't they heard of me?"
Hearing the doorknob rattle, a definite precursor to an opening creak, his startled jump took him behind the jailhouse. The nose of his gun sat just around the corner, out of sight, but ready. It wasn't in his plan to leave a star-studded carcass outside of the front door that housed him, but if the sheriff was outside sniffling for reasons beyond a cold, he would have to pull the trigger.
His plan didn't have to grow a hiccup, at least not during this early part of the journey.
"I don't know why I put these up," said the sheriff, his voice accented by a hammer's pound, "when the blamed wind just tears them down again. There. Try to stay in place this time."
Leaning his ear toward the front of the building, he counted out a full minute after the door slammed shut. Not quite ready to step into the open, he shoved his gun barrel into the space first. Silence the friendliest greeting he could hope to have, he then let his head peek around the corner.
The front stoop empty, he turned the corner to finish reading the posters. There were two new ones, either freshly delivered by the postman or a reprint of one of the old, but the very notice he had come to see was tacked right in front.
"Aw. Now that's what I like to see. And what do you know? The sheriff was right." Giving the page a tug, the paper ripped away from all four corners. "No sooner did it go up, it came right back down."
Voices, albeit muffled ones, made his beady eyes flash and blink as they wandered around town. There was no need to jump back for cover. It was just a pair of men up the street hurrying toward their mounts, likely in a rush to get back to wherever they belonged before the wind wasn't merely cold, but carrying something wet along with it. He couldn't help but snort out his laughter. He wasn't the only one on Laramie's streets wearing proper outlaw attire. These two riders had their faces covered up just as snug as he.
"But only I get the fancy print. Am I right?" Holding out the page in front of him, he let his eyes wander up and down. "Sylvester Singer. Wanted for robbery and murder. Notify Sheriff, Medicine Bow, Wyoming."
He had always hated his name. Not just the front, but the second handle was also a victim of his loathing. How many nicknames did the school kids tack onto his hide? Silly Singer, Silver Singer. Vestry Singer. Even now the memories pinched. But there was no point in letting it grow to where his insides boiled. Memories were all that they were. These days he was making new ones, by making his name get tacked onto every lawman's wall in the territory.
"I doubt anyone's poking fun now. I bet they're shaking in their boots, and not because snow's about to blow." Singer's laugh was quick to sober, but it wasn't because his eyes had pulled away from the page that was making him famous to view the growing cloud. While he reread his name, description and sin, he hadn't forgotten the main part, after all, it was printed bigger than everything else. "One thousand dollars. What do you know? I'm one of the big boys now!"
And he was about to get even bigger, at least, where the dollar signs were concerned.
His eyes roving to the bank's front door, Singer's feet followed the same direction. "I sure hope the good folks of Laramie didn't pull too much from the vault for Christmas this year. I want a big package, tied off with a pretty bow."
The bank wall behind his back, Singer took one last look into the north. It was speeding up, which meant that he would have to work at the same pace. Reared up in the Dakotas, Singer was no stranger to this kind of weather. He had waited for this day, planned it out exactly. It was the sheriff and anyone stupid enough to ride with the badge that was to get stuck underneath snow's fury, not his own running hide.
He flashed a grin toward the sheriff's front door. "Maybe you'll turn into a high and mighty snowman."
A gust of wind tearing at his hat, Singer changed the direction of his glance. No more fooling around. It was time to tuck whatever the bank kept out of sight under his arm. Looking through the window, Singer gave a single nod. It couldn't be more perfect. Only one man was home. Opening the door, the wind added its own push to his entry. Now he would add one more thing, his purpose of being there.
The gun out of his holster, he dropped the hammer back. "Fill up these saddlebags. And mister, don't leave a single penny behind."
Beyond his gun's point, he watched every stack of bills get shoved inside the leather flap. The color of green was so refreshing, it almost made him forget about the white perils that were about to take control. Even with springtime there at his fingertips, there was another color that Singer wanted to see. He had always been rather fond of red. Roses, lips, sunrises and its evening equivalent. And blood.
The last piece of cash in his possession, the butt of Singer's gun went over the bank clerk's head. While it was a hard jab, all it did was pull a grunt out of the man's mouth as he fell to the ground. It didn't dig his grave. It didn't even open oblivion's door. That job would go to his knife. Messier, but quiet, and where it counted the most, permanent.
A puddle on the floor, some dripping from the blade, Singer dabbled the bright color across the wanted poster that bore his name. Satisfied with how the splatters circled his face, smeared through the reward number, Singer laid the stained sheet on the counter.
"This'll let the sheriff know who came to call."
Through a back door, Singer mounted his waiting horse and pointed the steam-circled nose to the east. This is when bankrobbers, killers, or just a kid swiping a piece of peppermint from its glass jar would make their hasty escape. Not Sylvester Singer. Being the kind of outlaw that could never go out quietly, he turned his horse away from a sure getaway and onto the main street. He was far from wearing St. Nick's garb, but there was still reason in giving Laramie an old-fashioned Christmas parade. After all, he was carrying the biggest package anyone in town could offer. He might as well show his appreciation, his admiration, his affection.
"That's probably a bit much," he said, but it didn't matter how much exaggerated mush was in the prancing of hooves and bobbing of his horse's head, for the celebration had just been completed at the passing of the Livery Stable.
Lifting his hand in a parting wave, Singer galloped away from town, a parting cry belting from his tongue. "Merry Christmas, Laramie!"
.:.
"Mike!" His cupped hands couldn't feel the heat of his breath through his gloves, but they felt the pressure of his call. As did his chest. Jess' heart was pounding louder than his shouts. "Mike!"
The horse underneath him given a spin, Slim aimed the white stream of his breath into the south, away from the wind, but nothing could put away the worst of winter's threat. "Mike! Answer us!"
"I don't like this, Slim." Jess pulled his eyes away from the darkest corner to follow his partner's gaze. "I don't like any of this."
"Me either. I wish we could split, but one thing we've got to do inside a snowstorm is to stay together."
Jess tossed his thumb to the gray above them. "It ain't snowing yet."
"It's taking its time, all right. That could be a merciful gift, you know, straight out of heaven. Whether the snow's piling up in drifts or stuck up in the clouds like it is right now, I don't think we should part."
"So we'll stick together. And while we're sticking together, we better decide where we're gonna ride next. I certainly can't sit still for long."
"I know. I thought we'd find him at the timber line, but you can see the same thing I can. He's not here."
Jess' fist bounced off of his thigh. "I knew we shoulda taken him along."
"Now's not the time to argue, Jess. Let's just find him."
Nodding, Jess turned in the saddle, giving a hard stare into the darkening limbs. He had already tried to see through every tree trunk, but not even the kind of gaze that made an opponent back down could trim off enough bark to know what was among the woods. Wildlife, of that they were certain. They had watched a buck take a leap, a squirrel shimmying to a higher branch, but there was no sign of their boy.
Pulling his gaze away from the timber, Jess' eyes took in the entire horizon in a rapid sweep. "Where else would he go to look for us?"
"What if he wasn't looking for us?"
"You think he struck out on his own? Like running away?"
"No, Jess. I don't think Mike's upset enough to take the long road to nowhere, but I am wondering if we were wrong in thinking he was just trying to join up with us fetching a Christmas tree home."
"Even if you're right, that still don't tell us which way to look."
"I know. That makes it worse. He could be anywhere."
Jess looked up, somehow knowing its presence without seeing its slow fall to the earth. He wouldn't have needed to search hard for the cloud's next release. A snowflake was drifting past his nose. "We better find that anywhere. Quick!"
The hooves jumped underneath him as he gave the command to run, but the shoes were soon stilled as Slim pulled hard on the reins. "Look, Jess. Down there!"
His heart thumping in anticipation, Jess followed Slim's point. Excitement couldn't remain in control of the rhythm for long. Jess had been expecting a single silhouette, not the number of men that were coming around the bend, riding with purpose, almost as if they were riding with vengeance. Maybe they were.
Slim pushed the air out of his lungs in a long whirl toward the group. "I wonder what a posse's doing out here."
There was a stiffening of his shoulders, yet the deepening sense of alarm in Jess' belly was even stronger. "I reckon I don't wanna know."
"Come on, Jess. There's reason why they're on Sherman land. Let's find out what's happening."
"Like I said, I reckon I don't wanna know, but I reckon we're gonna have to," Jess said, encouraging his mount to run toward the group of ten with Slim alongside of him.
Slim was the first to draw back on the reins, making every other man follow his lead, and Slim pulled up beside the actual leader. "Mort."
"Slim, Jess," greeted Mort, the loss of his usual smile as cold as the air around them. "I'm glad I ran into you two."
Slim gave his partner a glance before dropping the shared question in front of Mort. "What's wrong?"
"The Laramie bank was robbed. What's even more, Grady O'Rourke was killed. It's hard to pick up a trail with the ground frozen like it is. I'd sure appreciate it if you both would join up with me."
Slim shook his head. "We can't ride with you, Mort. Mike's missing."
"What?"
"He disappeared while Jess and I were out hunting down a Christmas tree. We figure he felt bad being left out and struck out on his own. He must've got lost somewhere."
"Lost?" The incredulous tone in Mort's question was the actual voice of Slim and Jess, for it was the very thought they had been unable to put into sound. "He knows the land as well as if he were born here."
"That's what's been worrying me. If he ain't lost, then where is he?"
"Maybe he's just staying out of sight," Slim answered, waiting for Jess' shrug, but not getting one. "He knows he's due for a tanning."
"It won't be me giving him one. All I wanna do is give him a hug a bear'd be right proud of."
"Unfortunately Mike doesn't know that."
"Yeah, but he should know we'll be worrying. Especially that Daisy'll be worrying."
"I'm afraid the entire town will be worrying now, Jess," Mort said, his head in a slow shake. "The bank was holding a lot of hope in its vault. And at Christmas. Lord, have mercy."
"They get it all, Mort?"
He nodded. "It was just one man, though, named Sylvester Singer. As if he was giving me a present, Singer left his wanted poster for me to find, right under the teller window. It was wrapped in red, all right, using the dead man's blood."
"Dadgum. What makes you think Singer came this way?
"Doc was coming in from a call and saw a man wearing Singer's description riding pell-mell east of town. That was good enough for me to run the ground the same direction."
"Onto Sherman land?"
Mort gave a single nod. "It's the same road, Slim."
"Yeah, and Mike could be on the same one. What if…" Fear held Jess' tongue hostage.
Slim's fear was his tongue's release. "…Singer and Mike crossed paths?"
"I told you I didn't wanna know what the posse was doing out here," barked Jess, spinning his horse around to face the higher terrain.
"Easy, Jess."
"Easy, nothing. Mike's missing and there's a killer running loose!"
Slim sighed, so far from exasperation that the dread in his core had to push out a rush of air a second time. "What do you want to do, Jess?"
"Well, we ain't finding anybody sitting here. Let's ride together a few miles, see if I can pick up any tracks and go from there. And I'm telling you right now that we better not find them together."
"All right, Jess," Mort said, nodding his friend forward. "Lead the way."
Jess preferred this position when tracking an outlaw. He liked pushing ahead of the rest, liked using his inner sense to search just as hard as how his eyes roved back and forth. Dropping his gaze in just the right places to look for marks in the ground wasn't going to work this time. The ground already frozen, there was nothing to stop the snow from sticking. Even if there was a fleeing print left by the outlaw to point him in the right direction, it would be covered in white. All that remained was what sat inside Jess' mind. That should have been enough, it always had been in the past. Today was different. The great worry in Jess' present could have crowded out everything he learned in his past. Could have, but didn't. The instincts that had been riding along with Jess could never really let go.
Eyes in a squint, Jess pulled hard against the reins.
Beside him in a moment, Slim lifted his eyes to the kind of ground that grew rocks instead of grass. "What's the matter, Jess?"
"I see something."
"Is it Mike?"
"No. A horse. Saddled up, but standing alone."
"Singer." Mort whispered, yet the heat that lined his throat couldn't be dimmed. "Then he's up in the canyons."
The rifle in Jess' scabbard went into his hands. "Somebody is."
His pistol pulled, Mort waved the posse on. "All right, men, let's circle around him. If anyone gets a clear shot, take it."
A clear shot was taken, all right, but it wouldn't be from any of the posse men lining up their sights. It came from the rocks above them. The bullet wasn't like a wild gust of wind, swirling and carrying its vengeance along with it. This was a straight scream, and it crashed into its victim with the same kind of force.
A grunt of surprise through his mouth, his body recoiled with even harder reaction and flipped Mort out of the saddle. Landing on his stomach, the hard slap against the solid earth stole the breath from his lungs. It was the cough that snatched the sheriff out of oblivion's tunnel and back into the light.
Off his horse, Slim placed his protective stance over the fallen. "You all right, Mort?"
"My leg's not," Mort answered, his hand grabbing for the liquid pulsating out of his thigh. He could have used both hands, as the bullet went all the way through, leaving two holes in his flesh. "But otherwise, I'll live."
"Not if he takes another shot," Slim said, the tip of his rifle searching for even the smallest piece of the opposing flesh. "I can't see him. It's obvious that he can see us, though. And take any shot he wants. What do you think, Jess?"
"I don't see anything, either. He's got us cold if he wants to."
Dropping the badge had been his first pleasure. Singer would have admitted being ready to drop the tall man next to him, puffing out the life before his finger could react on the trigger would have been his second thrill, but that would have to wait. This next bullet had to give a warning, it had to help get him in the clear. Changing the direction of his rifle, Singer landed a bullet at Slim's feet.
"Not another step! If all of you men don't disperse in one minute, I'll keep firing until all of you are on the ground!"
There were family men in the posse. When they first saddled up, they knew there was risk. But there was risk in everything. Ranching, farming, just living their daily lives an unforeseen challenge could come their way, scaring them, hurting them, killing them. This was different than just knowing the risk, thinking about the possibilities. The risk of death was right in front of them, and they couldn't do anything but respond in obedience, returning to where they were safe, to where their loved ones didn't have to mourn this Christmas.
With silent glances at each other, a few agreeing nods, the posse backed away, one by one until all that was left were two men and the one lying on the ground.
Jess stared at the last back until it disappeared. "You just gonna let them do that, Mort?"
"Don't blame them, Jess. It's Christmas. And don't you go charging up after Singer either. It's Christmas."
"Dadgum."
Not wanting his own response to remain in silence, Singer's next bullet took Jess' hat off. "That goes for all of you! Get moving!"
"Do as he says," commanded Mort, using an attempt to raise his body from the ground to add emphasis on his order. "I won't have another funeral in Laramie for the Holiday!"
"You win, Mort," said Jess, even if his rifle couldn't leave his hands. "Lemme get my hat first, though. Last thing I want is a bare head in all of this."
Hauling Mort upright, Slim eased the bent frame into the lawman's saddle and then walked the horses until they were out of the outlaw's sight. "Well, we can put away one fear."
"What's that, Slim?"
"He doesn't have Mike. He wouldn't have needed to point the gun at us if he did. The only one staring down his gun barrel would be Mike."
Mort tried to smile, but the only thing his face could create was the wince that depicted his pain. "I guess that's something."
"It ain't enough."
"It is for now," said Slim, mounting his horse. "Mount up, Jess. We'll take Mort to the house and go from there."
"No. You'll take Mort to the house. I'm staying right here."
"But Jess, you heard Singer."
"I don't care. Mike's still out there somewhere, Slim. There ain't nothing else I can do but keep looking for him. And pray that Singer don't find him first."