Under different circumstances, it would have been a very pleasant passage. But Conn spent his time peering into the gloom, wanting to make sure they were still following the right trail.
They rode out of these trees into mixed forest, a thinner woods that blended dark ponderosas and skeletal hardwoods that had already dropped most of their leaves.
Then, as they moved lower, the forest thinned further, giving way to sagebrush and sand and stony outcroppings as they rode into the valley, a sweeping, beautiful spot that reminded Conn of his brother’s homestead.
Right down to the burnt home beside the creek.
What had once been someone’s cabin was now an untidy heap of ash and charred timbers. Smoke lifted faintly from one corner. Conn guessed the place had burned yesterday, maybe late in the day.
The tracks of Toole and his riders went straight toward the devastation.
Were they still hanging around?
He doubted it but held his shotgun against his saddle horn as he rode up for a closer look.
Sheffield, gripping his lever-action, hung back, watching everything like a supremely deadly hawk.
Conn circled around to the back of the place. Toole and his men were nowhere to be seen, but they had certainly left their calling cards: the burnt house, a busted corral, and dead steer missing a hunk of one shoulder.
They’d killed a full-grown steer to fill their bellies and ride on, too stupid to even claim the tenderloins.
Toole and his friends embodied the worst of humanity. They were chaos and destruction. Nothing more. Just reckless, soulless men on a bloody rampage.
Then, following their tracks away from the destruction, Conn saw something that made him forget all about the steer.
A man hung from the lower branches of a cottonwood along the creek. For just a second, Conn saw Cole’s face all over again. He instantly broke into a cold sweat.
Then, he turned in his saddle and called to Sheffield, who came riding over and looked at the dangling corpse and shook his head and spat.
“Pack of rabid dogs,” Sheffield said. “We gotta find these men and put them down.”
“Yes, we do,” Conn agreed, “but first, I reckon we gotta get this man down out of that tree and give him a proper burial. He didn’t deserve this.”
They rode over and cut him down. Sheffield did the cutting, and Conn caught the man, not willing to let him drop. The man wouldn’t feel anything, of course, but it just didn’t seem right, treating his body that way.
It was gruesome work.
They stretched him out on the ground and closed his eyes and went into the corral to hunt for shovels. An orange cat trotted out of the shadows, mewing plaintively.
Conn squatted down and loved up the cat, who set to purring. She was just a little thing. Not young but little.
“You all right, girl?” he asked. “You a good mouser?”
Then he grabbed a couple of shovels and walked back out to where Sheffield was staring solemnly down at the body. Every step of the way, the little, orange cat weaved between his feet.
When he stopped beside Sheffield, she rubbed against Conn’s legs, lifting up on her hind legs to run her head above his boots just below his knee.
He reached down and picked her up. She was as light as a feather.
“You sure do got a loud purr on you,” he told the cat, who rolled over on her back in his hands and blinked up at him.
Sheffield reached over and put his hand on her belly. She grabbed him with her paws and pretended to bite him while she kicked her hind legs, raking her feet against his wrist, apparently without unsheathing her claws based on Sheffield’s chuckle.
“You’re a little fireball,” he told the cat. “Well, Sullivan, let’s dig this grave and put this poor man to rest. The sooner he’s in the ground, the sooner we can take after those monsters.”
Conn nodded but looked up at the sky, which was growing dim. “We won’t get far tonight. But we can’t be more than ten or fifteen miles from Poncha Springs now. If they kept going that way.”
“Wherever they went, I’m following them,” Sheffield said. “I’m gonna kill these men or die trying.”
