“Why, I ain’t no stranger,” Gaines said. “For your information, little lady, I was acquainted with your pa, rest his soul, and your brother, before he suddenly left town. In fact, you might be interested to know I was one of the last people to visit ’em both. Before they departed, I mean.”

He laughed as he spoke, a dry, cackling laugh, though Idelle didn’t know what he found so funny. She knew only that she wanted to get away from the creepy lawman as quickly as possible.

“I have to go,” she said. “Will you let me pass?”

“My pleasure, ma’am,” Gaines said, removing his hat with a flourish and stepping aside with an elaborate bow. His collar-length hair was as greasy as his smile.

“Please send my regards again to your ma,” he said. “I just got back from escorting her out to your place. Too bad, about your house burning down.”

“Good day,” Idelle said, brushing past the deputy.

“I’ll be keeping my eye on you,” Gaines called after her. He stared at her as she walked away, his foul grin widening even more, if that was possible.

“Yes, indeed, Idelle Pritchard,” he said to himself. “I’m going to be watchin’ you grow up. You can count on that.”

Chapter 12

Chapter 12

“Stay quiet,” Ditch whispered to Pritchard. “Something is spookin’ the horses. Wait here, while I check it out.”

Ditch and Pritchard had spent the better part of the last two days hiding in an abandoned cropper’s shack. They’d been forced to take refuge after only a day on horseback, when Pritchard took a turn for the worse.

Ditch found the parcel left for him by Idelle, behind the woodpile at the Nettleses’s place, when he returned after dark. Silently thanking her, he tucked the burlap bag under his arm and made his way to the Atherton stables.

He hid, once again, in the loft, until the stable attendant left for the night. Once he’d gone, Ditch scampered down and saddled and bridled a pair of horses.

He chose the two finest mounts in the stable, both of which belonged to his father. One was a spirited brown quarter horse named Snake. The other, a two-year-old, chestnut-colored Morgan eighteen hands tall, was called Rusty. Ditch saddle-broke and trained them himself.

He stuffed the groceries in the saddlebags and helped himself to some grain and a couple of stable blankets. He’d just mounted Snake, and taken Rusty’s reins, when Marshal Stacy walked in carrying a lantern. Ditch couldn’t know it, but the town marshal had a fondness for his own horse, which was boarded at the stable. He’d brought a pair of apples as a treat for the animal.

“Hold it, right there,” Stacy ordered when he saw Ditch. He drew his revolver. “Get your hands up.” Ditch did as he was told.