Chapter 27
Cheyenne, Wyoming - June 1874
Desperation gnawed at Buck's gut as his meager supplies dwindled. Days blurred into one another. He'd followed the river for miles, the water a grim reminder of where he'd last seen Gabrielle's tracks. But instead of her lifeless form, he'd stumbled upon a different kind of clue – wheel marks etched into the soft earth near the riverbank.
Had someone found Gabrielle? Was she dead or alive? The lack of a nearby grave offered no answers. Perhaps they'd taken her body to a town, hoping to find her family. Or perhaps, just perhaps, she was still alive.
Buck followed the tracks south of Cheyenne, a flicker of hope guiding his steps. He needed food, rest, and some shred of information. Several small tribes, Kiowa and Cheyenne, called this land home. A silent prayer escaped his lips – that whoever had Gabrielle hadn't crossed paths with any of them.
While the tribes had largely kept to themselves, tensions simmered with white settlers. It wasn't just the fear of the Indians, but any man on the prairie with a nomadic existence – trappers, drifters, even outlaws who might be drawn to the fringes of civilization. Buck knew all too well the fate that could befall a beautiful woman like Gabrielle in the hands of some men, regardless of their skin color.
Stepping into the dusty Cheyenne jail, Buck straightened his badge and greeted the man behind the desk. "Marshal," he announced his voice firm. "I'm Buck Cross, Sheriff of Butte Meadows."
The man, weathered and grizzled, looked up from his paperwork, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. He had heard there was a half-breed Sheriff just across the Nebraska Territory. While not fond of Indians himself, the marshal held a reputation for fairness. He'd heard good things about the man and aimed to treat him with respect.
"Quite a ways from your territory, wouldn't you say?" He drawled, taking in Buck's weary appearance.
Buck nodded, his gaze scanning the man's face, searching for any flicker of recognition. "Indeed, sir. I'm looking for my sister," he explained, reaching into his vest pocket. He produced the worn tin Violette had entrusted to him, carefully opening it to reveal the two portraits. "The one on the right. I found wagon tracks leading south from the river."
The Marshal squinted at the portrait, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. He shook his head slowly. "Nope, can't say I've seen her around these parts."
"You sure?" Buck asked insitantly.
"I ain't blind son. Even an old coot like me wouldn't forget a pretty face like that." A hint of a smile played on his lips as he scratched his chin through his beard. "You said sister, huh?"
"Step-sister," Buck clarified, understanding the flicker of confusion that crossed the marshal's face.
He didn't want to delve into the intricacies of their relationship, the truth that they weren't blood-related but as he uttered the words "step-sister," a fierce protectiveness flared within him.
"Well, any man with a pulse would remember a face like that," the marshal chuckled, handing the photograph back. "You're welcome to stay in our town for a spell, Sheriff. Best bet's to start at the saloon – those fellas tend to have a keen eye for a pretty face passing through."
"Appreciate the tip," he said, tucking the photograph away carefully.
"If you don't have any luck, down that way across the river we got Kiowa, and to the north the Cheyenne I would hate to think either of them got a hold of her."
"Truth be told, Marshal, there wasn't much to suggest Indians took her,"
"There's a small town south of here called Sunriver," the Marshal continued, gesturing towards a map hanging on the wall. "Good folks there, Sheriff's a decent man. And just outside Sunriver, you'll find the Zion encampment."
"Zion?" Buck raised an eyebrow, a flicker of curiosity sparking in his eyes.
The Marshal's expression darkened. "Mormons," he muttered, his voice laced with disdain. "Nothing but trouble, those folks. About as bad as some of the Indians, if you ask me. No offense intended, of course."
"None taken," Buck replied, a tight smile playing on his lips. "Thank you, Marshal."
The Marshal nodded curtly. "Good luck on your search, Sheriff." He watched Buck head out the door, a determined glint in his eye.