“But I know one thing,” she said, drilling him with a hard gaze. “They aren’t here.”
“An astute observation, Mrs. Sullivan,” Mayfield said.
“At least Conn is after them,” she said, glancing toward the south. “I have faith in him.”
“Few things are more destructive than misplaced faith,” Mayfield said.
Now her anger came to the surface. “Why would you say that? At least he’s doing something about it. He’s already killed a few of them.”
Mayfield nodded. “He’s a killer. I’ll give him that. But it’s dangerous, putting your faith in a man like Conn Sullivan. Do you know who killers associate with? Other killers.”
He let her chew on that for a second. The boys flanked her, looking dumbstruck.
“I hear you’re a killer, too,” Mary Sullivan said. “Do you associate with killers?”
Mayfield smiled. “I associate with no one.”
“I heard you had words with Conn in town,” Mary Sullivan said, and Mayfield finally understood the source of her irritationtoward him. “I heard you tried to stop him from hunting the men who did this.”
“Yes,” Mayfield said. “Vigilantism is against the law, ma’am. This is my job, not his.”
“Well, you sure are taking your sweet time about it. You should have waited a little longer. We would’ve had the cabin built. I could have invited you in for coffee.”
“I don’t drink coffee,” he replied. “I drink tea. But I can see I’m not wanted here. That’s all right. Wherever I go, I’m rarely wanted… even where folks need me most.”
“I also hear you had trouble with Conn,” Mary Sullivan said. “A grudge?”
“The past is the past,” Mayfield said. “But speaking of the past, you folks might want to reconsider the trust you put in Conn Sullivan. Like I said, killers associate with other killers. Sometimes, they split up. Get hard feelings. Sometimes, killers end up going after men they used to ride with.”
“What’s your point?” Mary Sullivan demanded.
Mayfield climbed back on top of the big, white horse. He liked the animal. It felt sturdy. “I heard the Sullivans were twins. You ever wonder why those men came here and killed your husband? You ever wonder if maybe they thought he was Conn?”
He turned the horse and rode off, not waiting for her response.
30
Conn and Sheffield rode on and on.
Conn had expected to reach Poncha Springs by day’s end, but travel was slowed by rocky stretches where they lost the tracks of the outlaws.
This mountain trail was not a single road but rather a braid of numerous paths that wove in and out, breaking apart, fading away, meeting new trails that rose up through the scrub and lodgepoles to further confuse the way.
Multiple times, they had to double back after realizing they had followed the wrong tributary.
Then, as afternoon was giving way to evening, they saw where Toole and his men had clearly plunged down a side trail through heavy pines toward the valley below.
Conn stopped his horse, staring at the tracks and scanning the valley below.
“Change of plans,” Sheffield said.
“Looks that way,” Conn said.
“Maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe they rode down there and holed up in a farmhouse.”
“One way to find out.”
They followed the steep trail down into the trees, where everything was dim and quiet and redolent of pine.
