“I saw a lot of Springfields during the war. Not near as many of the Enfields except when I was a prisoner in Georgia.” Call saw that raised the sheriff’s eyebrows. He didn’t think the man’s surprise was feigned and that meant Carter didn’t know about his conversations with veterans in town. No one had placed any particular importance on them, certainly not enough to mention them to the sheriff even casually. “I guess you’ve heard of Andersonville.”
Carter nodded. “You own a Springfield?”
“No. Sold it after the war. That money helped get me home.”
“Huh. You looking to buy one now?”
Call lied without compunction. “I got to thinking aboutit when I saw yours. It’s a good rifle, that Springfield. How’d you come by it?”
“Same way you got yours, I expect. Army put it in my hands and told me to shoot the Grays.”
“What about the Enfield? I never heard of the army giving out two rifles to a soldier.”
“That rifle belonged to the last Johnny Reb I killed. I took it out of his hands before he was cold on the ground. I guess he could have stuck me with his bayonet but he didn’t have any fight left in him. I stayed beside him until he passed. It just struck me as the right thing to do before I left the battlefield.”
Laurel did not give herself time to wonder what part, if any, of what Carter said was true. She spoke up. “Is the Enfield for sale? I have my brothers’ Springfields, but I liked the other rifle. I’m the one who took them down.”
The sheriff spared her a glance. “Then you should have returned them to the same place.”
Would that she had, Laurel thought. Carter wouldn’t have known anyone visited his office while he was sleeping if she hadn’t been careless. He wouldn’t have asked Mr. Beckley about visitors, and Mr. Beckley might never have mentioned they were there. After all, the undertaker didn’t know the sheriff was sleeping in a cell. It took considerable strength of will not to cast a guilty look in Call’s direction.
“I apologize,” she said. “You’re right, I should have returned them properly, or better still, not touched them at all.” Carter grunted something that she supposed was acceptance of her apology. “Is it for sale?” she asked again.
Carter responded curtly. “No.”
“What about the Springfield?” asked Call.
“I might part with it for the right price.”
“Think about it. Get back to me when you’re certain.”
Carter nodded. “Guess I’ll be going, then.”
Finally, Laurel thought, and tried not to let it show in her expression. “Good day, Sheriff.”
Carter pushed away from the corral and tipped his hat. “Good day, Miss Laurel. Mr. Landry.”
Call and Laurel watched him mount and ride away. He was well off the property when they spoke. Laurel leaned a shoulder against Abby while she recovered her bearings.
“Awful man,” she said.
“Hmm. Should I have made my presence known earlier?”
She shook her head. “No. I think he’d been drinking before he came. He was annoying but essentially harmless.”
Call wasn’t as confident about the harmless part. “I didn’t know he saw me picking flowers.”
“Oh, you heard that part. Why do you think he didn’t show himself to you?”
“I imagine he wanted to see what else I was going to do up there. I’m afraid I disappointed him. I was only after the flowers. We already had what we needed.”
“I wonder if he found anything. He said he didn’t, but I don’t know that I trust him.”
“I know I don’t,” said Call, “but even he probably tells the truth from time to time.”
“Did you give me all the flowers you picked?”
He frowned, regarding Laurel narrowly. “Yes. Why in the world would you think—” Call stopped because he divined the source of her suspicions. “Wait. You just told me you’re not sure you can trust Carter and yet because of what he said, you’re wondering whether any of the flowers I picked went to Desiree?”
