Jack lay on his back in bed, one arm folded beneath his head, his face turned toward the window. His eyes were open, as they had been much of the night, watching the narrow slit beneath the window shade as the soft gray of pre-dawn replaced the nocturnal blackness of night. He usually left the window shade up, day and night, to allow the sunlight and the moonlight to penetrate the enterior of the rather dark cabin, but last night, knowing that Oliver Knapp was gunning for him, it seemed prudent to draw the shades for his own safety. At this point, he would not put it past the Englishman to gun him down while he slept in his bed.
Troubled throughout the night by the events of the previous evening, he had not slept well. Jack had faced death many times during the past twenty years. Beginning with the War Between the States, half a lifetime ago, he had been looking toward the wrong end of weapons that could claim his life. He had been hunted by revenge-seekers, ambushed by outlaws, and had been wounded many times in the execution of his duty. This time, it was different. This assault was not in the line of duty. This time, Oliver Knapp wanted him out of the way because he saw the marshal as a threat to his complete domination of Marie Dumont. This time, it was personal.
With sleep out of the question, Jack tossed back the covers and sat up on the edge of his bed. He paused to yawn and stretch, feeling as tired as he had been when he had lain down hours earlier. His trousers lay on the floor beside the bed, where he had dropped them the night before when he had undressed for bed, so he leaned over to pick them up, stepped into them, and stood up to pull them up over his long underwear. Next, he looked through the array of shirts that were hung over the backs of chairs and draped over the bedposts, and selected the one that demonstrated the least amount of grime. He couldn't remember when he had last washed his clothes. He pressed his face to the shirt, inhaling the faint aroma of dirt and sweat that lingered in the fabric. Maybe it was time to see to that task.
Later.
He put the shirt on and buttoned it down the front, tucked it in to his trousers, then pulled on his boots and put on a pair of chaps, for he would be spending a lot of time in the saddle, today. Last, he slapped his hat on his head, fastened his gun belt around his waist, and selected his favorite Winchester rifle.
Suitably dressed and ready for action, Jack turned the doorknob, but the door did not open. Following the advice he had given Marie, he had locked his cabin door upon returning last night. Irritated with himself for not remembering, he turned the latch, then opened the door and stepped outside into the cool air of dawn. The sun was just peeking over the eastern horizon, chasing away the last retreating shadows of night, but he did not pause to observe the beauty of sunrise. He jumped off the edge of the porch, and strode toward the alley between the bank and Marie's store, the alley from which Oliver Knapp had concealed himself during the attempt on his life.
It required only a few moments to locate the empty shell that had been ejected from the Englishman's rife. It had rolled across the boardwalk and came to rest in a crack between the boards against the store's outer wall. It glistened in the early morning sunshine, a glaring reminder that the bullet it had encased had come so close to taking Jack's life. He squatted down and picked it up to examine it. It was a standard variety metal casing, manufactured for the Winchester rifle and sold at any general store, a popular weapon used by most of the men in Bordertown.
Following the bullet's path with his eyes, he saw Clive Bennett standing in front of the saloon, examining the hole in the wall left by the bullet. He had apparently been attempting to extract the bullet from the wall, for as Jack watched, he returned his long slender knife to its sheathe on his belt. Turning, Clive spotted the marshal, and crossed the street to join him.
Jack stood up and held out the empty casing for him to see.
"Bullet's too deep to dig out of the wall," Clive said. He examined the shell, then returned it to the marshal. "I hate to tell you this, Jack, but if he'd been a better shot, you'd be dead right now. That bullet is right at head-level."
"Yeah, well, he's a better shot than you realize. I bent down just as he fired."
They looked at each other for a moment, thinking about how different the result would have been if Jack had not bent down at that precise moment. "Good timing on your part," Clive said.
Jack pocketed the shell, and nodded with a wry chuckle, but there was no humor in it. "Yeah. Thanks to the cat."
"What?" Clive asked, puzzled.
"Nuthin'."
"He fired the shot from here," Clive observed, getting a feel for the scene of the attack. "Probably hid behind the corner of the store. You chased him down this alley?"
"Yeah."
The two lawmen walked down the alley, down the back steps, and stopped in the grassy field behind the store, examining the path of Oliver's escape.
"He must've tied his horse to the woodshed, 'cause that's where he came from," Jack explained. "He galloped across that meadow toward them woods over there. I'm pretty sure I hit him."
"Well, maybe that will slow him down," Clive commented.
By mutual, unspoken consent, they turned and walked to the stable, removed their horses from their stalls, and began saddling them.
"Clive?" asked a soft voice from the direction of the stable door.
Both men turned toward the door and saw Grace Upton peering inside at them, as if reluctant to enter without an invitation.
"Good morning, Grace," Clive said.
Reassured by his pleasant greeting that it was all right to intrude, she stepped into the stable, and moved closer to Clive's horse, which was tied to a support post. The animal stretched out its neck, reaching toward her with its inquisitive face, and she stroked its soft muzzle as she watched them heft the saddles onto their horses' backs. "I heard those gunshots last night," she said. "I was afraid you might have been hurt."
"Nah," he told her, pleased that she was concerned for his safety. "By the time I got outside, it was all over. I guess I should have come by your house to let you know everything was all right, but it was late, and I wasn't sure it had awakened you."
"It did. I spoke to Mrs. Metzger this morning. She told me that horrible Englishman had tried to kill the marshal last night," she said, casting a quick glance at Jack, who seemed none the worse for wear by the encounter. Grace knew she would have been a basket case had someone taken a shot at her.
The two men exchanged surprised glances, marveling at how rapidly news traveled in Bordertown.
"Maybe we should appoint Mrs. Metzger the town crier," Jack suggested.
Clive gnored the comment, answering Grace's statement instead, "That is true," he said, then gestured toward Jack. "But, as you can see, he failed."
"Fit as a fiddle," Jack agreed.
"I'm glad you're all right, Marshal," she said. Turning to Clive again, she asked, "Where are you going?"
"Just out to scout around a bit," he replied, evasively.
Fear widened her eyes. "You're going to try to find that man, aren't you?"
Clive hesitated before speaking, but the hesitation was long enough to confirm her fears. "It's my job, Grace."
"But it happened on the American side," she protested, cringing at the whiny, childlike tone she heard in her voice. "It isn't really a Canadian matter."
"Oliver Knapp is a potential threat to a Canadian citizen, Grace. That makes it a Canadian matter."
Grace knew without being told that the Canadian citizen he referred to was Marie Dumont, and she fought down the twinge of jealousy inspired by the realization that Clive still cared for the lady doctor. "Do you have to go after him?" she asked. "Couldn't you just let him go? Maybe he won't come back."
"We have to know for sure," he told her. "But it's nothing for you to worry about. Jack is pretty sure he hit him when he fired back at him last night, so we'll just find out if he's still alive, and if he is, we'll bring him in to jail."
"And if he ain't, we'll dig a hole and push 'im in," Jack added. "Don't wanna foul up the town cemetery."
Grace shuddered at the thought that a man had been shot and possibly killed by one of those gunshots she had heard, and she felt horrified that the two lawmen could be so nonchalant about it that they could even joke about what had happened. "Please be careful," she pleaded.
Clive reached out to grasp her hand. "It'll be all right, Grace. I promise. There's an old Mountie saying that goes: 'I won't die before payday, and they payroll wagon is always late'."
She did not find the pun very humorous, and her eyes stared back at him, critically.
"When are you woodpeckers gonna come up with a new sayin'?" Jack asked. "That one is gittin' kinda stale." He mounted his horse, and waited while Clive shoved his rifle into its scabbord. He then gathered his reins, and mounted.
"I'll try to be back before lunch," he promised.
The two men rode their horses out the back door of the stable, whirled their mounts toward the south end of town, the direction taken by Oliver as he had fled the scene of his crime, and cantered away.
Grace watched them ride away, unable to soothe the worried ache in her heart. When they had disappeared from sight, she made her way back through the stable and exited through the front door, pausing when she saw Marie Dumont filling her bucket with fresh water from the pump near her house. After a moment's hesitation, she approached her.
"They've gone after that man," she said, helplessly.
Marie nodded. "I thought they probably would."
Grace watched as Marie pumped the handle, and the water sloshed into the bucket. When it was a little more than half full, the most she could carry without spilling it, she released the handle, and the water ceased. "Doesn't it bother you?" the younger woman asked.
"All the time," Marie answered, truthfully. She observed the young teacher for several moments, noticing the way she was twisting the ends of her shawl in her nervous hands as she glanced over her shoulder in the direction Clive had ridden, and she felt sympathy for her. Probably, the notion of going to the west had been initially exciting to her. Now, she had found herself thrust into a world far different than the peaceful existence she had known in her parents' home, and she was discovering the harsh reality that the frontier could be a dangerous place for those she cared about. "Have you had breakfast?" she asked.
Grace's head jerked back around to face her. "Um, no," she answered, distracted.
"Come inside. We'll have some breakfast, and talk about it."
Grace hesitated. It was not her intention to intrude upon the other woman, the woman who was apparently her rival for Clive's affection, but she yearned for another woman to talk to, someone besides Iris Metzger, whose gossip could not be trusted as fact. "All right," she agreed. "If you're sure it's no trouble."
"No trouble," Marie told her. She picked up the bucket, and they walked up the path to the house together.
With the confidence of a skilled tracker, Jack led the way from the meadow into the wooded area south of Bordertown where Oliver Knapp had made his escape. Even in the tall meadow grass, he was easily able to follow the tracks left by the chestnut horse he had purchased on Monday. Inside the perpetual shade of the woods, tracking was easier, for the soil was soft.
Clive followed, improving his own tracking skills by observing the marshal. For all their differences in law enforcement technique, in spite of their rivalry and their disagreements, he had to admit that Jack's sklills at times like this were invaluable.
Jack rode his horse at a walk, his eyes intent on the ground while constantly remaining aware of the low-hanging tree limbs and shrubs that grew thick in the undergrowth. Last year's fallen leaves had been reduced to a fine leafy mulch in which the hoof prints could easily be seen. Soon, the leaves would fall again, covering the mulch with a new layer, and the process of natural composing would begin again.
They continued in silence for a while, until Jack finally reined in, abruptly. Reaching out, he grasped the leafy tip of a low-hanging tree limb to examine it. "Dried blood," he announced. "He brushed against this limb."
Clived nudged his horse closer to look, impressed that the marshal had noticed it. "I would have missed it," he admitted. "So, you did hit him."
"Yup."
"Maybe the blood loss will slow him down a bit," Cliver suggested.
"Or maybe he'll bleed to death, and save the taxpayers the cost of a trial," Jack added. He nudged his horse's sides with the calves of his legs, and they pressed forward, still following the signs left by the wounded man and his horse.
They emerged from the wooded area a short time later, and entered a large expanse of flat prairie. Jack stopped and dismounted periodically, squatting down for a closer look at the tracks, then he remounted, and they continued onward.
Clive's mind began to drift to the new schooteacher, wishing he had gone to her cabin the night before to let her know that he was unharmed. They had known one another only four days, but it was obvious that her feelings for him were more than casual, and he could not deny that he felt the same way.
But what about Marie? Where did she fit into the equation? He had been interested in her for years, now, without making much progress toward a permanent relationship. She continued to resist the idea of marriage, insisting that she was not ready. He wondered if she would ever been ready.
His eyes fell upon the back of the marshal, still riding ahead of him, and he wondered if Jack could be part of the reason she was so reluctant to commit to him. She obviously cared about both of them.
He sighed, heavily, still puzzled by her curious behavior the evening before. It had finally occurred to him during the night that she might be resentful of the time he was spending with Grace. Did he ever complain when she spent time with Jack? Well, some, he conceded; but he never gave her the cold shoulder, like she was doing to him.
The morning sun was warm on his face, and he turned toward it, suddenly realizing with a jolt that the sunshine was on his right cheek. "We're going north!" he exclaimed.
Jack glanced over his shoulder with an amused smile. "You catch on real quick, there, Mountie. We've been moving north for twenty minutes, or so."
Clive grimaced. He would have to do better about keeping his mind on his work. "He was trying to lead us away from his original destination, then doubled back."
"Well, I don't know if it was intentional, or if he just decided to change direction," Jack said. "He weren't doin' nothin' to cover up his tracks. Bein' a foreigner, it could be that he didn't stop to think that we could follow any tracks he left. He's a hard one to figure out."
Clive nodded in agreement.
They continued onward, proceeding into Canada.
Grace sat glumly at Marie's kitchen table, watching as the doctor worked at the stove to prepare breakfast for the two of them. Her offer of assistance had been refused, and Marie had urged her to sit down with a cup of coffee, so she sat and stared in wonder at the beauty of the home's decor.
The young teacher had been startled by the contrast of the house's exterior in comparison to the interior. Outside, the house was constructed of plain gray boards, totally unadorned, but inside, she had felt like she was stepping into one of the finer homes in some large eastern city. Beautiful ornamental lamps sat atop exquisite lamp tables, and other equally expensive furnishings adorned the rooms. The wallpaper was brightly colored in the fashion of the day, and a variety of pictures and photographs were scattered about on the walls and on tabletops.
"You're home is lovely, Mrs. Dumont," she commented.
"Thank you. My husband and I brought much of it over with us from France. The rest, we ordered after we got here. There aren't many luxuries out here, but Jacques wanted to indulge as much as was practicable."
"You have wonderful taste."
"Thank you."
"Where is Lucy?" Grace asked. "Will she be joining us?"
"I allowed her to sleep a little later," Marie replied. "I'll prepare something for her when she gets up. It was a long night, and she had trouble going back to sleep."
"So did I," Grace told her. She sighed, wearily. "I think I made a mistake coming here."
"Because of what happened last night?"
Grace nodded. "I heard those gunshots, and I was worried that Clive might be involved." She glanced up, quickly, her eyes meeting Marie's eyes in an apologetic fashion. "Forgive me. I know you and Clive are good friends, but I don't understand how you can be so calm about it."
"I've been here a long time, Miss Upton. He has a job to do, and he cannot do it effectively if he's worried about how I'll react to it. Or you," she added, meaningfully.
"I just don't understand why Clive feels it's his responsibility to help track down that man. It happened on the American side. Why can't he let the marshal handle it?"
"The marshal is only one man, as is Clive. They help each other whenever the need arises. If the incident last night had occurred on the Canadian side, the marshal would be helping him."
"But he could be killed!"
Marie filled two plates and carried them to the table, and sat down across from her. "That is true. I worry every time I see them ride away, but they are lawmen, and they take their jobs seriously. I cannot interfere with that. And when the two of them are working together, it improves their chances of resolving the issue safely. For both of them."
Grace nodded. That made sense, but it did nothing to ease her concern for Clive's safety. "I'm so scared. What if they are ambushed by that man?"
"That is something you are going to have to reconcile yourself with if you intend to be friends with a lawman," Marie pointed out. "There is always going to be dangers for him to face."
Grace's eyes were imploring. "You knew that Englishman," she said. "How could you not know what he was capable of?"
Marie fought down a twinge of resentment. "I did not know him that well. I was merely acquainted with him in Paris through my husband. And, he covered his true self very well."
"I'm sorry. I had no right to say that."
Marie shrugged. "You care about Clive, and I know you're seeking answers that I cannot give. The point is, Miss Upton, this is the life he chose for himself, and you're going to have to decide if you can accept that."
Grace knew that was true. "I just never expected anything like this when I accepted this job," she said, confirming what Marie had already expected. "I've never lived away from home before this, and it just seemed like a good way to gain some independence before I settle down and get married."
"Why did you decide to come west?" Marie asked. "There must be schools back east needing a woman of your skills."
"Not that many," she said. "Most positions are filled by men, and they are given the courtesy of having the first choice of where they are sent."
Marie gave an understanding nod. "These are the 1880's, and still it is difficult for women to find suitable positions. There aren't many towns that would accept a woman doctor," she said. "So I have some understanding of your problem."
She offered an embarrassed smile. "My parents didn't want me to come here. Maybe that is part of the reason why I did. I'm not prone to rebellion, but I guess I just felt it was time to make my own way. I thought this would be a good experience for me, sort of an adventure, which is something I've never had in my whole life." She laughed with wry humor. "I think I got more than I bargained for."
"I think you'll adjust, in time," Marie told her.
Grace looked at her, carefully, and could easily understand why Clive found her fascinating. Her French accent was both alluring and exotic, and she was as attractive as any woman she had seen. "You think so?" she asked.
"Of course. Believe me, if I can adjust to life here, you can. Its very different here than it is in France. We came to Bordertown because my husband, Jacques, wanted to set up his practice in a place where a doctor was severely needed. He had barely seen his dream come true when I lost him."
"It must have been awful for you," Grace said, sympathetically. "Why did you stay here instead of returning to France?"
"This is my home, now. And the people here need me."
"I hope I can come to think of it as my home, too."
"I'm sure you will."
The two women fell sielnt for several moments, each one deciding that, even though they were rivals, they considered the other one a friend, and both of them were concerned about the two lawmen who were out in the hills searching for a potential killer.
Jack knelt on the ground inside the dense undergrowth of the heavily forested hills of Alberta, and examined the hoofprints that were plainly visible in the soft earth, observing the trail that wound its way out of sight through the trees. His horse, standing patiently behind him, playfully nuzzled the fabric of his shirt. "Still moving north," he said.
Clive stood in front of him, observing the trail, and he nodded in agreement. "Wonder how far he intends to go?"
"I dunno."
"Could be he's headed for Antler Cove," Clive mused. "There's a doctor there."
Jack looked up. "Ain't there a telegraph in Antler Cove?"
"Yes." They fell silent for several moments, reluctant to proceed on a course that would lead them into the territory of another lawman. Finally, Clive suggested, "Let's go on back to Bordertown. We'll stop at the nearest station and send a wire to tell the policeman there to be on the lookout for him."
"Yeah, he's probably hightailed it on outta here." Jack stood up, and the two men mounted their horses.
Samuel Jenkins lay on his belly on the summit of a shallow, rocky ridge, and watched as the two lawmen turned their horses south, and rode away, disappearing into the lush foliage. Common sense told him that he sould immediately flag down the two men, send them to Knapp's hiding place, and then go home to England, where he belonged, before he involved himself any deeper in his employer's foolish shenanigans. He could still hear the horses picking their way through the dense undergrowth, and he could hear the two men in conversation, but he did not call after them.
He had been a servant since childhood, conditioned his entire life to do the bidding of his employer, and he did not have the courage to alter his station in life. If he turned his employer over to the law, no one else in the peerage would hire him. On the other hand, if he got caught assisting Mr. Knapp in committing a crime, he would go to jail, and he would have no need of employment, anyway.
The two men were gone, now, and silence fell over the forest. He continued to linger on the ridge, marveling at the fact that they had tracked Mr. Knapp so far, and were, at that very moment, less than a quarter of a mile from the place where the Englishman was hiding. The only thing that had kept them from continuing the search was their assumption that he was riding toward another town to seek medical attention.
Mr. Knapp had confidently explained to him that he had purposefully ridden south the previous night, intending to give the impression that he was fleeing into Montana. He had assumed they would ride south to search for him. The fact that they had figured out his ploy and had tracked him this far was a revelation. Back home in England, he had read books describing the capabilities of Indians to track people and animals over great distances, but he had never really believed it. Where he came from, tracking dogs were used to trail criminals and other animals, so he had never known that the Indians' unique ability was actually true, and that tracks could be followed over almost any terrain.
This was not good. Mr. Knapp was not going to like this, and Jenkins worried that his employer would take out his rage on him. Then again, perhaps he would recognize the futility in the event, and agree to continue on to Vancouver and pretend this horrible event had never taken place.
Rising to his feet, he slipped and slid down the backside of the bluff, and began walking back toward the abandoned house in which Oliver had been hiding since he had been run out of Bordertown two days prior. He was walking because there was only the one horse, and Mr. Knapp had not allowed him to take the animal. Instead, it was left for him to use in the event he must make a quick getaway. Fortunately, it was not a long walk, and he soon reached the house.
In spite of its frontier location, it had once been a rather attractive house, nestled deep in the wooded hills of Alberta northwest of Bordertown. Time and elements had eroded the home's appearance, and Jenkins regretted that it had been allowed to sink into decay. There was no clue to describe what had happened to the owners. Presumably, they had moved on many years ago.
Jenkins could not imagine how Mr. Knapp had found the house. It was so well hidden by the growth of foliage around it that a traveler would have to be right on top of it before he could see it.
When he reached the house, he entered through the front door, then stopped abruptly, his heart leaping into his throat, when he saw the rifle that was pointing at him.
Recognizing him, the English aristocrat lowered the weapon to the floor, and Jenkins breathed a sigh of relief. With the door still open, he quietly observed his employer, who sat on the floor beneath the staircase, his back pressed against the wall, for there was no furniture inside the house on which to sit
Mr. Knapp was badly wounded. Even with his inexperienced eye for medicine, Jenkins could see that. The bullet had ripped through the shoulder blade, exiting beneath the collarbone. It had missed any vital organs, but without medical attention, the risk of infectin was high. With Jenkins' rather squeamish help, Knapp had cleaned and bandaged it as well as he could, but most of his medical supplies, as well as the bulk of his belongings, had been shipped ahead to Vancouver, believing they would not be needed.
Knapp took a deep draw on a bottle of whisky he kept in his luggage, then laid his head back against the wall and tried to ignore the pain caused by the movement. "Took you long enough," he complained. "Close that door and get in here."
Jenkins shrugged, pushing the door closed behind him. "Had to be sure. The lawmen tracked you all the way to that rocky bluff before they finally turned back. They think you're headed toward another town farther north, so they're going to wire the law up there to watch out for you."
Knapp looked up, surprised and greatly concerned that the marshal and the mountie had come so close to discovering him. "That ridge is less than a quarter of a mile from here."
"Yes, sir."
He took another drink of whisky. "Out of curiosity, who was doing the tracking?"
"Not the Mounted Policeman, but the other one. The sheriff --"
"The marshal," Oliver corrected. He laughed, sarcastically. "I should have guessed. Is there nothing that man cannot do?"
Jenkins did not know the answer to that question, so he did not respond.
"You're certain they turned back?" Oliver asked. 'There is no chance that they followed you here?"
"I watched them ride away, sir. They were never aware of my presence." Jenkins cleared his throat, wary of the volatile temper that was likely to result from his suggestion, but he knew he must speak his mind. "Mr. Knapp, let's get you healed up, and then proceed to Vancouver, like you had initially planned. Forget that woman, and forget this revenge nonsense."
"Nonsense!" Oliver roared, then grimaced at the fresh wave of pain that ripped through his injured shoulder. "That man put a bullet through me!"
"Respectfully, sir, that was after you tried to assassinate him," Jenkins reminded him.
Oliver's glare was harsh, but he knew he could not afford to offend the servant too greatly. His need for assistance was great, and at that moment, Jenkins was all he had. "You listen to me, Jenkins. That man will rue the day he ever met me, and you're going to help me!"
Jenkins felt his heart plummet with nervous anxiety. "Me, sir? I'm no vigilante, Mr. Knapp. Surely, you can't expect me to --"
"Why do you think I got you off that stagecoach before it reached Bordertown? They've never seen you, and that fact will benefit my plan." The whisky was beginning to make him feel giddy, and he chuckled. "Don't worry, Jenkins. You won't have to do any of the bloodletting. I know how squeamish you are at the sight of blood. No, I intend to have the pleasure of dispatching Jack Craddock myself. But you will have to help me. By aiding and abetting a fugitive, you are already an accessory to a crime, Jenkins, so think about that if you take a notion to run."
Jenkins swallowed hard, his heart pounding faster. "What is it you want me to do?"
"For starters, I want you to practice speaking with an American accent. In a few days, you're going to pay a little visit to Marie Dumont. In the meantime, there is an old codger a little way from here who is hunting gold in an abandoned mine. He's got some dynamite. I want you to get your hands on some of it."
"D-dynamite!" He shook his head, vigorously. "Mr. Knapp, I must object! I've never handled explosive materials! I wouldn't know how to do it safely!"
"Just handle it carefully. It'll be all right. If that old drunk can manage it, I'm sure you can."
"Wh-what are you going to do with it?"
"I'm going to blow Marshall Jack Craddock to Kingdom Come!"
As he listened to the maniacal laugh that made his skin crawl, Samuel Jenkins could only wonder what madness had he gotten himself into.
GO TO CHAPTER TEN