Wyatt, Cheyenne, and Falcon followed the sheriff as he left the attic, leaving Molly alone with John.

“A man like that, who hurts women”—Molly crouched down to pet one of the hungry birds—“he’s not going to be concerned with the animals God gave him to care for. Just the opposite. He may enjoy knowing he left them behind to suffer.”

“We’ve got work to do, and we need to be on our way soon.” John opened the crate and caught the pigeon that’d been loose. It was frantically pecking at the grain he’d tossed on the floor. He caged it and dropped in more grain. Though he closed the lid of the crate, Molly felt certain the tame and hungry bird would have stayed in the cage, lid open or not.

Gently, he transferred each of the birds from their neatly built coop to the crate. And with the bottom of the crate solid, he could pick it up and let them eat. A couple of them fluttered their wings, and there were some of the pigeons’ familiar coos. But they were more pets than wild, and they accepted the transfer as if it’d happened many times before.

Molly grabbed the other end of the crate.

Every few steps, Molly squeaked, but she kept coming. They went down three flights of stairs.

“Are the pigeons pecking your fingers?” John did the hard part, backing down the stairs, bearing most of the weight, though it was more awkward than heavy.

Molly grinned. “I’ve been ignoring it the best I can. I’m sorry about the squeaking. But my first reaction was to drop the crate, and I didn’t. Consider yourself lucky.”

“I wanted to drop it, too,” John said with a smile. “But I managed not to drop it or squeak so I’m feeling pretty good about myself.”

Molly laughed. She liked the Pinkerton agent and wondered about his family. How did they all manage such an unusual career?

They got outside just as Wyatt pulled a small buckboard up in front of the door.

Falcon came running in from the north, silent in his handmade moccasins. “The chestnut mare Wyatt mentioned headed northwest. Away from Bear Claw Pass and Casper. We can follow Hawkins’s tracks for now and only release the pigeons if we lose the trail.”

Twenty-Six

Abullet crashed through the window of the jailhouse. Sheriff Gatlin flew backward, slammed into the wall, and sank to the floor, a bright patch of crimson blood blooming on his chest.

Kevin grabbed Win as another bullet exploded. Spinning to protect her, he felt the bullet hit. Thinking only of her, he dragged her to the floor as Rachel dove behind the sheriff’s desk.