CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Blake was at the livery, a wooden box of horseshoes hefted in his arms, when the tolling of the church bell brought him up short. Shoving the container over the open tailgate of the buckboard, he looked across the vacant field and picnic grounds to the church. A small boy was hauling up and down on the bell rope.
Maverick Daves, the smithy, stepped to his side. He wiped his smudged hands on a towel looped through his thick leather belt. His bare arms were moist from his work over the forge. Rings of sweat stained his shirt. “I wonder what that’s about.”
Several townspeople had already gathered around.
Blake pondered the same thing. The Brinkman girls? Naw, couldn’t be. But I won’t get a lick of work done until I know.
“I’ll go see,” he called over his shoulder, already on his way.
“What’s this about?” Blake called out as soon as he was close enough.
The boy stopped ringing. “Sheriff had me sound the alarm. Seems a girl’s gone missing. John Brinkman’s youngest. Her sisters think she’s in trouble.”
Blake cut his gaze up the road. “Where are they?”
“Don’t know.”
Confound it! He should have left one of the hands with them at all times, just until they were familiar with the town and with what they could and couldn’t do alone. If they weren’t so shorthanded, he’d have escorted them himself.
He ran back to the livery, informed Maverick what was going on, then veered behind the building, cutting through the paddocks. May as well begin with the older, rougher part of town, he thought, taking the footpath to the Old Spanish Trail.
Scents wafted over from Mrs. Gonzales’s food stand. The old woman was hard at work over her comal. The flat cast-iron pan appeared plenty hot as she fried a large white tortilla over an open fire.
“Buenos días, senor Harding,” she said as she watched him approach, sweeping her leathery arm over her offerings of tortillas, black beans, and rice. She hadn’t yet started her beef strips, but when she did, the aroma would pervade the whole town. The small shed with a long, colorful Mexican blanket hanging over the door was her office, and gave her a bit of shade to work in. In less than an hour there would be a line ten men long, waiting patiently for a midmorning meal. “Why the bell? Trouble?”
“I’m looking for a young woman.” He put out his hands and mimed a pretty shape.
Her creased bow crinkled.
“A niña. Gringo. Pretty. You see this day?”
She took a moment to flip the tortilla, which was browning nicely around the edges. “No.”
“No?”
She shook her head.
“All right. Have you seen anyone leaving town?”
“Vendedor ambulante,” she said, pointing to the trail leading past the Spanish Trail Cantina toward Santa Fe.
“A peddler’s wagon?” he mumbled to himself. On its way out of town. Surely Katie would know better than to engage with a stranger. “How long?”
Her brow wrinkled again, and then she held up her hands, placing one finger over the other.
Half hour. He needed a horse. He’d come to Eden in the wagon, but there was no time for that now. “Gracias!” he called over his shoulder as he sprinted toward the cantina. The town seemed unusually quiet. Horses were usually tied everywhere, and now he didn’t see a one. He took the cantina steps two at a time and crashed through the front door. The old man the Alvarados had tending bar looked up, as did the few men at the bar. Santiago appeared on the landing at the top of the stairs.
“You have a horse saddled?” Blake called up.
“Yes, my gelding out back. What’s—”
“I’m taking him!”
“No problem, amigo.”
A few seconds later, Blake galloped down the trail, the sun glaring under the left side of his Stetson. Today would be unseasonably warm. But that didn’t matter. All he could think about was Katie in the back of that peddler’s wagon.
The narrow road was no more than five or six feet wide. Ironwood, scrub trees, and taller pines spotted the surrounding hummocks, making visibility difficult. The road swung around a slight hill to the right. Blake knew this territory well. Too bad he’d shed his weapon when he’d gotten hot, stashing the Colt under the wagon seat. He felt naked without a gun.
Instead of following the road, he reined the gelding to the left to climb the gently sloping ground. He slowed as the terrain became steeper, letting the animal catch his breath. Women were bought and sold around these parts all the time—a crime, of course, but a crime difficult to stop with so many men and so few women. Heading straight up, the horse dug in, pushing off with strength on every step. Nearing the top and wanting to stay out of sight, Blake dismounted, tied the reins to a tree, and proceeded the rest of the way on foot.
There it was, just moving out of sight: a small peddler’s wagon and a rider alongside. The red-and-white paint made the wagon easy to spot in the distance. He knew a few of the dealers that came through Eden, and some even stopped out at the ranch now and then, but this wasn’t one of them. He backtracked to the horse, mounted, and galloped off.
As he got closer, he slowed to a walk, dried his face with his bandanna, and then stuffed it back into his pocket. A group of five or six buzzards circling slowly in the sky sent a warning down his spine. A young woman was worth a good sum of money. If indeed these men had Katie, they wouldn’t just hand her over without a fight. He needed to slow down, be careful. Bungling this could get Katie Brinkman killed, as well as himself.