Muldoon leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers across his belly. “And what would you like me to do with this fine tale?” he asked. “Ride out with a posse, kick in Vanburgh’s door, and ask real nice if he’s been misbehaving?”
“I’d like you to arrest Tate,” Anthony said, clenching his jaw. “At the very least, ask Vanburgh why his men are fouling the water supply.”
“Mm-hmm.” Muldoon rocked his chair back a little, the front legs lifting off the floor. “Problem is, Hawk, Tate ain’t in town to arrest. And I don’t go riling up powerful men over the say-so of one drifter who’s got a personal ax to grind.”
That landed like a slap. “This ain’t personal.”
“Everything’s personal,” Muldoon said. “Especially out here. And you’ve had your run-ins with Vanburgh before, haven’t you?”
Anthony’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “You think I made this up?” he asked. “That I rode in here because I’m bored?”
The sheriff’s gaze turned flinty. “I think you’ve got a habit of finding trouble where it don’t belong. And right now, trouble’s the last thing this town needs.”
Something in Anthony snapped. “Trouble’s already here, Muldoon. It’s riding under Vanburgh’s brand, and it’s carrying Lyle Tate’s gun.”
Muldoon’s chair came down hard on all fours. “That’s enough.”
Anthony took a step back, breathing hard. The lamplight threw harsh shadows across the sheriff’s face, deepening the lines around his mouth.
“Sheriff—”
“I said that’s enough,” Muldoon barked. “You come storming in here, accusing men without proof, stirring up the kind of dust I can’t sweep away. You want me to keep the peace? Then I’ll start by keeping you from lighting the whole damn town on fire.”
Anthony’s gut went cold. “You’re gonna do nothing.”
Muldoon stood, coming around the desk until he was close enough for Anthony to smell the faint tang of whiskey on his breath.
“No, Hawk,” he said. “I’m gonna do something. I’m gonna make sure you sit somewhere quiet until this fever of yours passes.”
Before Anthony could move, the sheriff’s hand was on his shoulder, guiding him toward the back of the office. The other hand rested near the butt of his holstered Colt. Not drawing, not threatening, just a reminder.
“You arresting me?” Anthony asked, his voice low.
Muldoon nodded once. “For your own good. Drunk and disorderly’ll do fine.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Then you won’t mind sobering up in my jail.”
The iron door creaked as Muldoon swung it open. The cell was bare except for a cot and a bucket in the corner.
Anthony turned to face him. “You’re making a mistake, Sheriff.”
“Maybe,” Muldoon said. “But it’s my mistake to make.”
The door shut with a hollow clang, the key turning in the lock. Muldoon pocketed it and went back to his desk without another word.
Anthony sat on the cot, his mind still in that canyon, still watching black liquid seep into the creek and knowing exactly what it meant.
The lamplight flickered against the bars, and for the first time since he’d seen Lyle Tate’s face, Anthony let the weight of it settle. Tate and Vanburgh together meant things were going to get worse before they got better.
And now, Anthony was in no position to stop it.
But the sheriff couldn’t keep him here forever. And when the time came, he’d be ready.
He had to be.
***
