The sky continued to brighten and by the time they reached the homestead, the sun had topped the horizon, giving Conn his first real sight of the place his brother had been building.
The homestead sat in a high mountain valley. It was a good spot, beautiful, with plenty of grass and water and open meadows that sparkled in the morning light as the sun rose above the Kenosha Hills to the east.
To the west, the peaks of the rugged, snowcapped Mosquito Range gleamed bronze in that same sunlight. To the south, empty land spread away vastly, mottled green and gold withautumn. To the north lay Fairplay, presently hidden behind the low rise.
Cole had built his place close to Clearwater Creek but above the water at the base of foothills that stepped sharply up toward the mountains. It was a good place for a home, a place of morning light with unbroken southern exposure for crops, a place where a man could pause at his work and watch eagles soar or snow coming off the jagged mountain peaks in shimmering, sunstruck, crystalline clouds. He could stand there with the crisp wind rushing out of the mountains, fill his lungs with the good smell of pine, and enjoy the soothing sounds of the whispering aspens and gurgling creek.
Unless, of course, he was murdered in cold blood by ruthless savages.
Conn frowned at the burnt home, the shattered, empty corral, and the many tracks scarring the ground.
He saw no sign of Mary.
He rode back by the tree where Henry Toole and the others had hung his brother, and there she was. At least the top of her.
Mary stood hip-deep in a half-dug grave, pitching dirt onto a large pile.
Cole lay a short distance away. A piece of stiff canvas covered him from toes to chin, as if to keep him warm.
“Mary?” Conn called softly.
She jumped a little, stopped her furious digging, and turned to him with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, which were hollowed out with grief. Most of her long blond hair had come undone and hung in straggling tendrils, framing a dirty face streaked by sweat and tears.
“Good morning, Conn. I’m about halfway there, I think.”
Conn reined in and dismounted. “You should have waited. I told you I’d do the digging.”
Mary’s smile wriggled, and he could tell she was trying not to cry. “I am not an idle woman, Conn. Besides, digging gave me something useful to do.”
“Fair enough,” he said then nodded at his companion. “This is Bill Sheffield. He’s helping me track down the men.”
Sheffield, still sitting his horse, tipped his black hat. “Mrs. Sullivan.”
Mary’s smile brightened. “I thank you, Mr. Sheffield, for helping Conn. My husband was a good man.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sheffield said.
“Please do climb down and join us, sir,” Mary said, then turned her attention back to Conn with gleaming eyes. “Did you find them?”
“Some of them,” Conn said. “Four of them are dead.”
Mary closed her eyes and whispered inaudibly. In prayer, Conn supposed.
When she opened her eyes again, she lifted her chin a little. She was still standing in the hole, leaning on the shovel. “Tell me about it.”
“Let me help you up out of there first,” Conn said.
“Thank you,” she said.
He reached down and took her small, calloused hand and helped her out of the half-dug grave. She was small and light but clearly a sturdy woman.
He told her about the previous night’s events and the plan to hunt down the survivors.
Mary took it all in, seeming pleased, and thanked them again for all they were doing. “I do wish I could offer you men breakfast, but…” she gestured toward the charred remains of her home.
“We’ll get breakfast in town,” Conn said. “I’ll put you up in the hotel before we pull out.”
“I can’t stay in town, Conn. There’s too much to be done here.”
