“Ride on up to Stump Run, have a talk with him.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Boys need their fathers.”
“Junior’s a man.”
“All right, then. Men need their fathers. And from what I hear, Junior could use his now.”
“Quit talking out of the side of your mouth, Mayfield. What’s wrong with my boy?”
Mayfield lifted his palms, grinning slightly again. “I didn’t mean to anger you, Sheffield. I’m just saying, instead of going on a fool’s errand, you might want to visit your boy.”
“Thank you for your concern,” Sheffield said flatly.
“You’re welcome. I’m just a public servant, like a shepherd concerned for his sheep. That must resonate with you, doesn’t it, Sullivan? Wasn’t your daddy a preacher?”
“That’s right,” Conn said. “But if you’ll excuse me, marshal, I don’t have time to sit here, talking. I have to ride. See you down the trail.”
“I hope not,” Mayfield said. “Because if I do see you down the trail, you and I will be at odds.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Conn said. “I’ll be ready.”
“So will I,” the marshal said.
Conn turned his gelding and gathered the reins of the spare horses and headed down the street, followed by Sheffield.
When they were a good distance away, Conn said, “We can ride straight to Stump Run if you want.”
Sheffield shook his head. “Later. Men like Toole don’t sit still long. We gotta root him out before he does something stupid and has to go on the run again.”
“All right,” Conn said.
“That Mayfield’s supposed to be as deadly as cholera.”
Conn nodded. “Some folks say he’s the fastest gun in the West.”
“I reckon Mayfield believes that. He’s confident.”
“Confidence will get you there. But overconfidence will get you killed.”
“There is that.”
“Look, Sheffield. I appreciate you riding along with me. But this is my trouble. Mayfield means what he says. I can take this from here.”
Sheffield’s eyes hardened. “I meant what I said. I start something, I finish it.”
“I’m the same way. All right, then. I appreciate you riding along.”
Conn stopped at the livery.
Fifteen minutes later, he shook hands with the hostler, and rode off again, this time heading out of town with the two hundred and fifteen dollars in coins and greenbacks that he had gotten for Blake’s horse, saddle, and tack.
They rode south to the crossroads, headed west, and passed the old cabin where Danny Bump had been killed. A short time later, they were taking the Four-Mile Creek trail over the pass with Mount Sherman looming over them.
As they approached the top of the ridge, Conn knew he could turn around in his saddle and look down in the valley and probably pick out his brother’s homestead.
But he didn’t. He kept his eyes locked on the trail ahead.
