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Reidsville, Colorado

September 1884

“I reckon you’re thinking this is a fool’s errand.”

Coleridge Monroe glanced up from closely watching his mare’s progress on the narrow mountain trail. He was convinced that her steadiness was directly related to his sharp eye, that if his attention wandered for long, she would happily throw him off. “You don’t strike me as a fool, Deputy,” he said.

Will Beatty turned easily in his saddle to get a look behind him. “Now that’s real kind of you to say so.” One corner of his mouth kicked up when he saw how closely Monroe was watching the mare’s step. The doctor had about as much schooling as a man could stand, but he didn’t know his way around a horse. “No point to you starin’ at her like that. I guess Dolly there knows this trail about as well as most trackers. Better than some.”

“Really.” Cole was skeptical.

“It’s a fact. She’s as sure-footed a mare as you’re likely to find in Joe Redmond’s livery, and she’s been all over the territory more than once.”

Cole dared to look off to his left where the side of the mountain seemed to have been sheared off by a single slashing stroke of the Almighty’s hand. He thought of the mountains back east, the ones with the rounded tops and less dramatic inclines, and decided that for all the majesty of the Rockies, he infinitely preferred the gentler, aged Allegheny and Appalachian ranges. He didn’t mention this to Will Beatty. The deputy was clearly comfortable with his surroundings. This climb was simply all in a day’s work, and this day being Monday, it was his turn to provide escort up the mountain to the town’s outliers and loners.

“You all right, Doc?” Will asked. His glance didn’t miss much as it took in Coleridge Monroe. The doc was long and lean, but he rode like he had a poker for a spine–one that had been inserted right up his ass, if Sid Walker was to be believed. Sid, who suffered from crippling rheumatism, made this pronouncement after meeting with Monroe for the first time and not caring for what the doctor had to tell him. Worse, he informed everyone, “He’s no Doc Diggins. Didn’t even offer me a drink.” Will was prepared to give the doctor the benefit of the doubt, if not quite as much leeway as the women were. Every female in town seemed to like Coleridge Monroe just fine. Most of them had already found a symptom of one kind or another that required the new doc’s attention.

Will didn’t see that a thick head of hair the color of an old copper and a couple of green eyes were all that much to stamp the doc as handsome, but even his wife seemed to think different. Normally she was sensible about men, which served her well enough when she had been the town’s sole madam, but now that she was his wife, she liked to tease him by waxing on about Coleridge Monroe’s fine looks. Patrician, she called them. Outside of her hearing, he’d asked the sheriff what that meant. Noble, he’d been told. Women apparently said that when a man had a nose like a blade, a jawbone set so tight it could grind glass, and a certain remoteness that was not unattractive. Be that as it may, right now the noble doc looked as though he’d like to puke. Will thought that was probably why he took some pleasure in pointing it out. “If you don’t mind me saying, you’re looking a little peaked.”

Cole refocused his attention on Dolly’s progress. “Peaked. That’s a good word for it considering our location.”

It took Will a moment to catch the doctor’s meaning.

When he did, he slapped his thigh. “Well, I’ll be.” He grinned, and two deep, crescent-shaped dimples appeared on either side of his mouth. “That ain’t half bad. A little peaked.” His smile faded when he saw Coleridge start to weave in the saddle. “Lean forward. Grab Dolly’s mane. You gotta help her up the slope.”

Cole was loath to release the reins, so he plunged his gloved fingers into the mare’s ebony mane with the reins still wound between them. Dolly tossed her head at the suddenness of his move, but she held steady to the trail. Cole caught his breath, sucking in air between clenched teeth. Light-headedness faded.

“How you doin’?” Will asked. “Should we stop for a bit?”

“No. I’m good. Just some vertigo.”

“How’s that again?”

“Vertigo. Dizziness.” He didn’t explain it was a common enough symptom in response to heights. He doubted Will Beatty had ever experienced it. “I don’t recognize this route we’re taking. I had a map the sheriff drew for me the last time I attempted this.”

“Oh, Wyatt wouldn’t have sent you this way. Not on your own. There’s another trail we could have followed, but that would have taken longer. I figured you were anxious to make the acquaintance of the Abbots and get back to town straightaway.”

Cole would not let himself dwell on what route the deputy meant for them to take on their return. It would be a true measure of Will Beatty’s compassion if he elected to follow the trail first suggested by the sheriff.

The deputy and his mount crested the ridge first, and Dolly dutifully followed. It took Cole a moment to realize they had ceased to climb. His grip on the mare’s mane eased, and he sat up straight, shrugging the knots out of his shoulders and between his blades. Will slowed and allowed him to draw close.

“Not bad for a greenhorn,” Will said. “You did all right,

Doc.”

Cole’s tight smile was more in the way of grimace.

“Thanks. I think.”

“No, I mean it. You spooked me a little back there. Dolly, too. Thought you might slide right out of your saddle, but you held fast. I don’t tell everyone this, but I had some of that vertigo once watching ol’ Doc Diggins take a slug out of Wyatt’s chest. Had to hold a bucket in my lap and my head over the bucket. I reckon that’s the kind of thing that doesn’t bother you at all.”

Coleridge Monroe regarded the deputy a long moment, this time with appreciation for the man’s forthrightness. “Was that the last time someone was shot in town?”

Will thought about it, then nodded. “Yeah, that’d be right. Guess that’d be a year and a bit now. We had a hangin’ since then, but that was after a regular trial. Judge Wentworth saw that everything was done proper. Anyway, Wyatt and me don’t hold with lynchin’, though Lord knows, it’s tempting when you gotta wait a stretch for the judge to make his rounds.”

Cole wasn’t certain how he should respond. He elected to offer up a noise from the back of his throat that could be interpreted as the deputy saw fit. It turned out to be enough encouragement for Will Beatty to continue in the same vein.

“Now, outside of the town proper we had a couple of miscreants–that’s the sheriff’s word for them, and he does set store by a particular word now and again. You know what that means, don’t you, Doc?”

“I do.”

“Figured you did, you being an educated man and all. Columbia, is that right?”

“Yes. How did you know? You weren’t on the search committee.”

“No, but my wife was. Still is, matter of fact, if you don’t work out like they hope. Contract’s for a year, ain’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, don’t you worry. I’ll put in a good word for you now and again. I can see you got grit, comin’ up here the way you are, ‘specially after being shot at on your last trip.”

Cole was fairly certain he didn’t want to think about that. The bullet had shaved the bark off an aspen only a foot away. His mount, demonstrating more skittishness than the stalwart Dolly, unseated and abandoned him. He’d walked most of a mile before he caught up with the horse, wondering a good part of the way if he could expect a bullet in his back. “What about the miscreants?”

“Uh? Oh, those poor bastards. Forgot all about them.” Will saw that the doctor was handling the pace he’d set well enough, so he increased it slightly as they rode the ridgeline. The goal he’d set for himself was to get where they were going and get home again with some daylight to spare. He didn’t think Monroe or Dolly would do nearly as well after dark. “Let’s see,” he went on. “That was about four or five months ago. They say trouble comes in threes, but these two didn’t need help. They rode out this way from Denver after getting drunked up and shootin’ off their guns in a fancy house. Killed one of the girls, though no one’s sure they meant to. Seems they were out of sorts with someone at their card table, and she happened to be sittin’ in the fellow’s lap. What I heard is that they finally got him and then they ran.”

Cole glanced around. The landscape was as rugged and harsh as it was breath-stealing. Much higher up, snowcapped peaks glinted in the bright sunlight. Rocky crags made the climb to their summits appear unforgiving if not impossible. Around him, aspens shivered one after the other as the air stirred, their timing and execution as exquisite as a corps of ballerinas. Cocking his head to one side, Cole sought out the sound of a mountain stream. The swift rush of water made its own music, a steady percussive accompaniment to the occasional cries of birds and the murmur of the wind through the trees.

There was a terrible beauty to the vista that could make a man admire it and be cautious at the same time.

“Why did they come this way?” he asked, though he suspected he knew Will’s answer. A man could get lost here.

“Lots of hidey-holes,” the deputy told him.

That was another way of saying it, Cole supposed. In aid of suppressing a wry smile, he raised his gloved fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. “You found them, though, didn’t you?”

“That’s a fact. Sheriff’s a member of the Rocky Mountain Detective Association. We went out as soon as we got the wire up from the Denver marshal, though I recollect now that there was a delay at the Denver end, and that gave them a good jump on us and every other lawman in these parts. Sheriff and I were out the better part of three days before we caught their trail. It wasn’t hard after that, what with them circling back on themselves. When it was all said and done, Wyatt thought we could have saved ourselves a heap of trouble if we’d stayed in one place and just let them come to us. O’course, that wouldn’t have really worked since they were dead when we found ‘em.”

“Dead,” Cole repeated. “Shot?”

“Hell, yes. That’s why I’m telling you this story, ain’t it? You asked about shootings, remember?”

Reflecting on their conversation, Cole thought he probably had. There was a lesson in this, he decided, one of many he was likely to learn if he stayed in Reidsville: don’t ask that no-account Beatty boy a question if you didn’t have time for the answer.

“One in the face, the other in the crotch,” Will said. “Wyatt thinks they had a falling out and turned on each other. Guns were right there beside them. The one shot in the face still had a cold grip on his. The one that took it in the privates dropped his Colt and was curled up like a baby, still clutchin’ his balls when he died. Guess that comforted him some, knowin’ he was leaving this world with his parts attached–even if he knew he was going to hell, which I think he must have suspicioned.”

“I’m sure he did.”

Will simply nodded. He pointed off to the right, indicating to Cole that he should start moving in that direction. “I guess it’s not all that odd that it should come back to me so clear now.”

“What do you mean?” asked Cole, ducking under the low spiny branch of a pine.

The deputy shrugged. “Don’t know exactly, except that I can see their twisted selves like they were lyin’ there on the ground in front of us. We found them in a scooped out section of hillside. Not properly a cave, on account of it not really going anywhere. Might have been a mine entrance once upon a time, though it didn’t look as though it had ever been shored up with timbers. Probably abandoned right off when there was a strike somewhere else. That happened a lot in these parts in the early days.”

Cole remained quiet, letting Will sort out his thoughts. A sideways glance revealed the deputy’s contemplative profile.

“What I mean about it not bein’ odd,” Will said at length, “is that it wasn’t but a piece from here that we found them. Seems like it might be natural to see it so clear like in my mind right now.” He fell silent again, then said suddenly, “I could take you there if you want. That is, after we get you introduced proper to the Abbots. There’s enough time for that, I reckon.”

Coleridge Monroe had no idea what a proper response might be. He was saved from having to come up with one by the blast that reverberated through the mountain pass. He ducked instinctively.

Will Beatty was careful not to laugh, though one corner of his mouth twitched. “Been expecting that,” he said. “That’d be Runt warning us off.”

Cole was prepared to say that perhaps they should heed the warning when Will drew his rifle from the scabbard and fired a shot in the air. His ears were still ringing as the deputy paused for a ten count and fired a second round.

“That’ll let Runt know it’s me,” Will said, sheathing the rifle. “He won’t know who you are, but he’ll give you the benefit of the doubt ‘cause I’m with you.”

Cole looked to his right and left, peering back over his shoulder as much as he was able.

“Don’t get all twisted there, Doc, and take a tumble. You won’t see him until he’s of a mind to let you. That’s how it is with Runt. He’s real cautious of folk. Always was more or less, but it’s worse now that his brothers are gone.”

“Runt? I thought the sheriff said it was Ryan Abbot that most likely took a shot at me the last time.”

“Ryan. Yeah. He’s the one. Call him Runt the same way folks like to call me that no-account Beatty boy. You get a name put to you around these parts and it pretty much sticks like pine sap.”

“Things aren’t so different where I come from.”

Will thought he detected an undercurrent in the doctor’s tone, not bitterness precisely, but something akin to resignation. “Reckon it’s a universal condition, Doc, unless you got something in your little black bag for it.”

“No.” Cole shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

“Well, then, back to Runt. You can guess how he got his name.”

“Smallest of the litter?”

“That’s right, though there aren’t but the three boys. Like I said, the older ones have moved on. Last I heard, Rusty–he’d be the oldest, about thirty-five or so, I’d guess–”

Cole interrupted. “Redhead?”

“What? Oh, his nickname, you mean. No, he was born Russell Abbot and has hair as black as a sinner’s heart. He was called that on account of a crick in his knee that sounded like a hinge needin’ some grease. Like I was saying, last I heard he found religion and two wives when a group of pilgrims came through here a while back. Settled himself in Utah.”

“Mormons?”

“Seems like. If Runt’s in a favorable mood, I might ask after Rusty.”

The trail widened as they made a gradual descent. They left the relative protection of the trees for a gently sloping grassland. A scattering of black-faced sheep on the hillside suddenly huddled together and then moved as swiftly as a nimbus cloud toward a rough-hewn cabin and outbuildings set in the bed of the valley. Chickens ran in circles in the yard. A cow lowed mournfully.

Cole had come upon this scene before but not from this vantage point or at so close a distance. The shot that drove him away with his tail between his legs–if not his horse–had come when he was still on the periphery of the clearing, just barely revealed amidst a phalanx of aspens. He raised the brim of his hat a fraction and squinted against the sunlight glancing off the stream that ran through the valley.

“Where is he?” asked Cole. “I don’t see anyone.”

“Well, he sure as hell isn’t waiting for us on that sad excuse of a porch. C’mon, we need to keep going.”

“What about the other brother? You said he’s not around either.”

“That’s right. Randy left about the same time Rusty did. Now, he had a way with the ladies. Always did, though I think they called him Randy ‘cause his Christian name was Randall. Still, I remember people speculatin’ on whether he just grew into his name, like the egg maybe came before the chicken.”

Cole had been to Longabach’s restaurant with his sister several times since their arrival. Estella Longabach’s meaty stew was served with a side of speculation, giving her customers a double order of something to chew on. Cole could easily imagine the chicken and egg debate occupying the diners for an evening.

“Randy seemed the kind that would embrace his brother’s new religion,” Will said, “but he stayed a couple of months after that and took up with a half-breed Cherokee girl. Bought her from the trappers she was traveling with and moved on up to Leadville. Could be they have children now.”

“So Runt cares for the place.”

“His pa makes sure he does. He’ll be the one in the house.”

Cole tried to recall his conversation with the sheriff.

“Judah?”

“That’s right. But call him Mr. Abbot until he tells you otherwise. He’s particular about that.”

“Of course.”

“You should know that Runt’s ornery, and that he comes by it because he can’t help himself. Judah’s a hotheaded cuss and Rusty and Randy were just plain bad-tempered when I knew them. Both of them bullies, and with me being a few years younger, I felt the meanness in them more than once. That wasn’t anything compared to how they carried on after Runt. My ma says that Runt had to come into this world with his fists up and flailing, just to make sure he survived. It didn’t help that Delia Abbot died right off. I suppose there was a wet nurse for a while, but that was probably as much of a leg up as Runt ever got.”

“Could I have seen him around town?”

“No. He comes in maybe twice, three times a year for supplies. He hates leaving his rifle with the sheriff, but that’s the law. Still, he’s pretty good with his fists and doesn’t back away from a fight. I’ve never seen him not get his licks in.”

“So he’s a brawler.”

“No, not really. His brothers were brawlers. He did his share to keep up so they wouldn’t turn on him, but mostly it takes some provocation to get him goin’. Someone, usually someone who doesn’t know squat about him, gives him a reason to take a poke. He’s never done any time in jail, and he’s never been drunk. Wyatt just sends him off with his supplies and points out the doctor’s office to the one that tangled with him.” He gave Coleridge Monroe another glance and grinned this time. “Guess that’ll be your problem now.”

“Scrapes and bruises. The occasional black eye. It shouldn’t be so bad.”

“Dislocated collarbone or jaw is more like it. Cracked ribs. A broken arm.”

Cole’s dark copper eyebrows climbed his forehead. “He’s the runt? Are you sure?”

Will chuckled. “He’s that. Barely comes to my chin, and I know because he’s given me a few pokes in the chest. His size, or the lack of it, is usually what starts the fighting. Except for the ten-pound chip on his shoulder, he doesn’t carry much weight on him. Used to be when the Abbots were still performing, Runt’d have to play all the girl parts. Lord, but he hated that. He cleaned up kind of pretty, especially for Juliet and that other one–the wife of the Moor.”

“Desdemona,” Cole said. “Othello’s wife.”

Will snapped his fingers. “That’s right. Desdemona. Runt told me once that the only role he really liked was Portia.”

“From The Merchant of Venice.”

“That’s the one.”

Cole considered that. “Understandable.”

“How’s that?”

“A man playing a woman who disguises herself as a man. In Shakespeare’s day, men always played the women’s roles.”

“Could be so, maybe it was, but around here, we like the parts that are all woman. You take my meaning?”

“I do.”

Will thrust out a hand sideways to halt Cole’s forward progress. “We’ll hold up here. Wait for an invitation.”

Cole flexed his fingers around the reins, relieving some of the stiffness that had crept into them. “Sheriff Cooper didn’t mention that the Abbots were actors.”

“It’s been a while. I don’t suppose folks think of it much. When Judah and Delia came to town they just had the two boys and called themselves the Abbot Family Players. They sang, danced, and performed recitations. I barely remember that. I was pretty young myself. After Mrs. Abbot died they didn’t do a theatrical until Runt was probably six or seven. He did magic tricks then. Started playing parts when he was around eleven, I’d say. Quit everything … let me see, maybe six years back. He was probably seventeen or thereabouts. Couldn’t take the teasing any longer, I guess. Better for everyone, most likely. He was bound to kill someone for tryin’ to catch and kiss him. Don’t know that anyone would have done it, but it never came to that since he couldn’t be caught.”

“So that was the sort of teasing you did. You were hard on him.”

Will nodded. “Seemed harmless back then, just boys wanting to prove something we couldn’t even understand about ourselves, but I feel proper shame thinking about it now.”

“He’s come to trust you, though, so that speaks well of you.”

Will struck a thoughtful pose, rubbing the underside of his chin with his knuckles. “I wouldn’t say that he trusts me exactly. Tolerates, is more like it. He likes the sheriff well enough, so Wyatt doesn’t have to be as cautious. Of course, Wyatt always carries some of his wife’s biscuits when he travels. Makes him kind of popular with the outliers.” Will pointed to the cabin. “You might as well introduce yourself, Doc. Runt doesn’t seem to be of a mind to show himself without you giving him your credentials.”

Will tapped himself on the chest where his star was pinned to his vest. “I have mine right here.” He gave Cole an encouraging nod. “Go on. Tell Judah about yourself. He’s probably sitting on the other side of one of those dirty windows waiting to hear what you have to say. It’s a sure thing that Runt is somewhere close by.”

“Just talk?” he said, frowning. “About what?”

“Tell them who you are for starters. They know me, so it’s you that’s rousing their suspicions.”

Feeling perhaps as foolish as he ever had, Cole raised his head slightly and called out. “Hel-lo! Mr. Abbot! Ahoy, there!”

One of Will’s eyebrows kicked up. “Ahoy? We’re not exactly at sea, Doc.”

Cole very much felt as if he was. “It’s a perfectly acceptable greeting at a distance, one I heard employed at a demonstration of the telephone.” When Will simply stared at him blankly, Cole decided that explanation could wait. He tried again, shouting out so his voice would be heard clearly. “I am Coleridge Braxton Monroe.”

Will could only surmise the doc was nervous because there was no other reason to give all three of his names. Braxton? Rose never mentioned the patrician features accompanied a pretentious name. Will managed to keep from rolling his eyes but suspected that somewhere Runt was fixing to fire another shot, probably across the bridge of Coleridge Braxton Monroe’s noble nose.

“I’m the new physician for Reidsville,” Cole went on. “I was recently hired by the town to fill the position vacated by Doctor Diggins. I understand that you and your son Ru–” He caught himself and heard Will’s low whistle of relief. “Ryan may require medical attention from time to time. Sheriff Cooper encouraged me to get to know the outliers.” He loosened the strap on his black leather bag and carefully held it up. “I brought my medicines and instruments. If you will permit an examination, I will better understand how I may be of service to you and your son.”

There was no immediate reply, and Cole thought he would be forced to repeat all of it even more loudly. Will cautioned him to give it some time, and their patience was rewarded after a few minutes. The front door of the cabin opened and a man supporting himself with a cane limped out.

“Judah?” The question was reflexive. Even at his current distance, Cole could make out enough of the man’s features to know he had to be the father.

“Judah,” Will confirmed. “Don’t be fooled by the limp. He moves pretty well when no one’s watching him.”

“Why would he affect a limp?”

Will Beatty shrugged. “Acting’s in his blood, I reckon.”

It was as good an explanation as any, Cole decided, and he tucked it away until he had a better one.

“You invitin’ us in, Judah?” Will called out. “No biscuits, but I have Mrs. Easter’s rhubarb tarts. I know you like those.”

Judah shuffled to the edge of the canted porch and leaned his left shoulder into one of the supports. Still holding the cane he cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Does Coleridge Braxton Monroe come with the tarts?”

“Afraid so!”

Cole watched Judah’s hands drop back to his sides. Apparently he’d done all the talking he was prepared to do across a distance. Judah turned away, but at the last moment, he flicked his cane in their direction and gestured to them to come forward.

“That’s it?” asked Cole.

“That’s it.”

“What about Ryan?”

“He probably won’t shoot us now, not unless his pa says to. C’mon. Let’s go.” He clicked his tongue and let his mount feel his boot heels. As they rode toward the cabin, Will opened up his saddlebag and took out a neatly wrapped parcel. He opened it up with one hand and passed Cole a tart. “You sure as hell won’t get one of these out of Judah once I give them over. Better take it now. You’ll thank me.”

Cole did exactly that as they dismounted and tethered their horses. Mrs. Easter’s delicious tart was settling nicely in his empty stomach. In anticipation of beginning his day on horseback, Cole had passed on breakfast. Whitley was disappointed, but he cared more about not being sick in front of that no-account Beatty boy.

He let Will lead the way across the porch and into the house. Judah had allowed the door to remain open just enough to confirm that his gesture with the cane had indeed been an invitation. Upon entering, Cole removed his hat, although he noticed that Will did not. He transferred his hat to the hand that also held his medical bag and stepped forward to greet Judah Abbot.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Abbot,” he said, holding out his hand.

Judah did not make to rise from his rocker or take Cole’s hand. Suspicion was almost a tangible feature of his pale blue eyes. He looked Cole over carefully, taking his time, seemingly insensible of–or indifferent to–the rude nature of his regard.

Cole didn’t retract his hand. He was used to being on the receiving end of Judah’s type of scrutiny. At St. John of God’s, it had been the steely-eyed stare of Dr. James Erwin that most of the young doctors feared. Erwin had a manner about him that was simultaneously demanding and disapproving. Pity the poor resident that surrendered to the pressure of answering a question quickly and got it wrong. Just as withering to a new doctor’s confidence was the scornful look when the answer was right but too long in coming.

Judah Abbot, for all his cold and measured consideration, still had something to learn about intimidation from the head of surgery at St. John’s teaching hospital.

Judah slowly extended his hand. His grasp was firm, Cole noted, and the palm was dry. Not unexpectedly, the older man showed some stiffness when he released his grip, and his thickening knuckles looked as though they might cause him pain from time to time. The index finger of his right hand was missing down to the first joint. It was an old injury, and the skin around the knobby digit was smooth and pink.

“I can’t say that the pleasure’s mutual, Doctor,” said Judah. “Not at this juncture. Under the circumstances, it’s appropriate to reserve judgment.”

“As you wish.”

Judah absently stroked his iron gray beard and set his chair to rocking slowly. His wintry gaze swiveled to that no-account Beatty boy. “Didn’t you say something about rhubarb tarts?”

“Right here.” Will held up the parcel.

“Well, put them in the jar by the stove.” He jerked his chin in that direction. “Then hide the jar behind the molasses in the larder.”

“Keeping them from Ryan?” asked Will. “I don’t know if Mrs. Easter would approve.”

“She doesn’t have to know.”

Shrugging, Will did as he was asked.

Cole took advantage of Judah’s inattention to continue his visual examination. His new patient’s color was good, suggesting he did not spend all of his time indoors, although his lightly callused hands appeared to indicate he no longer did the hard labor. His long-sleeved chambray shirt and leather vest covered too much for Cole to make an evaluation. His eyes were clear, not rheumy, and while his facial hair concealed the true shape of jaw, Cole saw nothing that made him suspect Judah was hiding an extra chin. Cole had also seen enough past the man’s tight-lipped smile to know that he still had most of his teeth.

Judah’s physical presentation came as something of a surprise. During their journey, while Cole had been listening to Will talk about the man, he’d formed a picture in his mind. Except for the coldly suspicious nature of Judah’s glance, he’d gotten nothing else right. Cole had been expecting a robust figure, a man with fists like cured hams and a chest as wide as a wine cask. He’d anticipated a man who had little sense of his own appearance and would be disheveled, if not slovenly. Cole realized he hadn’t given enough thought to Judah’s days as a performer.

There was a resonance to Judah’s speech that Cole thought he must have used to great advantage in his Shakespearean roles. Even an actor whose audience probably first gathered in a tent would want to project his voice for better effect. Cole could imagine now that Judah had had little difficulty keeping attention on him.

Judah’s clothes were faded from repeated washing and his boots showed evidence of a recent spit shine. On closer inspection, Cole saw the cane that Judah had used to wave them into the house was more properly a walking stick. It was a polished work of art; a column of chess pieces carved into ebony from the pawn tip to the crown knob, and would have been coveted by any New York gentleman for a turn in Central Park.

The interior of the cabin was clean and tidy, completely at odds with the disrepair and neglect that was the appearance from the outside. The thin film of grime on the windows added to the illusion, but on the inside those windows were framed by lace curtains, yellow with age, but nonetheless clean.

Cole did not know what to make of it, so he continued simply to gather information for sorting out later.

Will returned from the pantry and pointed to one of the chairs at the table. “Mind if I sit?”

“As you like,” said Judah. He glanced at Cole. “You, too, Doctor.”

“Thank you, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to begin the examination.”

Will held up one hand as he dropped into his chair. “First things first, Doc.” He regarded Judah levelly. “Where’s Ryan?”

“Out.”

“I know that, but where does he go? I couldn’t make out the direction of his shot.”

“Upstream a piece, I expect. He usually walks that way when his tolerance for my company is at its nadir. I send him out when my tolerance for him has reached the same low point.”

“Which was it today?” asked Will.

“The latter.”

Will nodded. “All right,” he said, coming to his feet again. “I’ll leave you two here and go find Ryan. Maybe I can convince him to come back long enough to meet the doc and have a go at conversation.”

Cole thought Judah looked as though he wanted to object. There was just enough hesitation in his manner to suggest he was searching for a reason to keep Will in the house. He tried to set Judah’s mind at ease. “The examination is painless,” he said. “And I’ll be asking you to answer some questions about your medical history that you may not want the deputy to hear.”

“I may not want you to hear the answers either,” Judah said.

“That’s certainly your prerogative.”

Judah’s eyes followed Will as he crossed the cabin. They lingered on the doorway after he ducked out.

Cole set his bag on the table, opened it, and removed a small clothbound notebook and pencil. He held them up so Judah could see and didn’t miss the surprise in the man’s eyes. Cole’s tone was dry, the arch of his eyebrow ironic. “I don’t think I’ll be needing the bone saw just yet.”

Will chose to stretch his legs with a brisk walk rather than look for Runt on horseback. He knew his quarry couldn’t be too far upstream or he wouldn’t have been able to see his and Cole’s approach earlier. Every so often he turned, surveyed the point in the distance where he and Cole had been when they heard Runt’s shot, and figured as long as it was in sight Runt was still within a shout.

If he’d come alone to the cabin, Runt would have joined him, no matter how out of sorts he was with his pa. Escorting the doc, though, made Runt even more suspicious than Judah. And that was quite a feat since Judah didn’t trust his right hand with what his left hand was doing.

“Hey, Runt! Where the hell’d you get to?” Will waited a few beats, but except for his own soft echo, there was no reply. “Aww, c’mon, Runt. I had to bring the doc out. Sheriff’s orders. Wants him to meet everyone, including you outliers. He’s been to the Fabers, the Beauforts, and the Goodalls. He even went up to see Mrs. Minich on his own and managed to charm the old biddy. So far, you’re the only one that shot at him.”

Will sat down in the grass, stretched his legs out on the slope pointing toward the stream. He leaned back on his elbows and spoke conversationally to the trees at large. “The doc’s okay, even if he does have three names and doesn’t know much about anything ‘cept doctoring.” Will decided he wouldn’t mention that Coleridge Braxton Monroe had at least a passing familiarity with Shakespeare. That wouldn’t settle Runt’s nerves. “He actually thought you meant to kill him, if you can believe it. I didn’t have it in me to tell him that he’d be dead if that was your intention. I brought him up Colley’s trail just to feel him out, take measure of his mettle. It wasn’t right, I grant you, but he did okay. Stayed in his saddle and didn’t puke. Didn’t complain, come to think on it. Doc Diggins would have staked me out on the ridge and removed my entrails with a spoon for a trick like that.”

“Lord, but you’re grisly with your words.”

Will hadn’t heard Runt approach him from behind, but he had expected that would be the direction he’d choose. “Hey, Ryan.” He glanced over his shoulder and nodded once in greeting. “I do paint a picture, don’t I?”

“That’s a fact. You always did.”

“Have a seat.” Will patted the ground beside him. “Now that you’re here, there’s no hurry. Your pa’s being examined.”

“More likely, it’s the other way around.”

Will chuckled. “Don’t I know it.” He looked back again. “You’re not going to sit?”

“I don’t think so.”

Will’s easy smile faded as he regarded Runt more closely. “Are you all right, Ryan? You’re paler than the doc was on Colley’s trail.” Runt carried his prized Winchester rifle under his arm, but Will couldn’t help but notice that his hold on it wasn’t entirely steady. The barrel, while pointed downward, wobbled ever so slightly. So did Runt’s legs.

This was where Will knew it got as tricky as trying to balance a shot of whiskey on his nose. If he pointed out what he saw, Runt was sure to take exception. He might even take himself off. Then there’d be hell to pay, especially if something was really wrong with him like Wyatt suspected. Keeping quiet, though, didn’t seem like it had much to recommend it. Silence always suited Runt just fine.

Will decided that accusing Judah was the way out of his dilemma. “Your pa take his stick to you again?”

Runt hesitated. “How’d you know?”

“Thought I saw blood on it.”

“Could’ve been, I suppose. He walloped me pretty hard.”

Will saw Runt shrug. That, and the way he spoke, seemed to make his words more of a statement of fact than a complaint. “What’d you do?”

“Can’t say. Don’t know.”

“He didn’t tell you?” He waited while Runt lifted his hat brim a notch and wiped his brow with his forearm. The sleeve of his flannel shirt came away damp and streaked with dirt. Will always thought that even if Runt was held down in a tub of suds, he’d still emerge the worse for wear. Dust motes hung in the very air around him, suspended like cigar smoke in the Miner Key saloon. The corners of his eyes were creased black, and there was a muddy smear on his right cheek. He wore gloves, but it seemed possible the grime had worked its way through the leather a long time ago.

Squinting up at him, Will said, “You know you can leave, Runt. Like your brothers did. Judah would learn to manage the spread, or he’d come back to town. Maybe mine for a spell. Take his share of what he can bring up from the ground same as every other miner. I bet Abe Dishman would hire you to work on the spur. You could ride the rails between here and Denver for free.”

“Sounds like you have my life figured out.”

Will offered up a sheepish grin. “It’s always easier to do with someone else’s.”

“You still married to Miss Rose?”

“I am.”

“Then I think you’re doing all right for yourself.”

Will had to agree. “Thank you. I reckon I am.” Runt had sidled closer so Will no longer had to look over his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye he could still see the slight waver in Runt’s stance. “How old are you, Runt?”

“Twenty-three.”

“That’s what I thought. You think much about gettin’ hitched?”

“Now and again.”

“There’s some new girls at Miss Adele’s. Could be there’s someone for you.”

“I’m not sure I want a whore. No offense meant.”

“None taken. I made my peace with how Rose made her living before I started courting her. I can’t see that you saying it outright is giving offense. Hell, the hardest thing she ever did was turn the fancy house over to Miss Adele. She cried off and on for five of the worst days of my life. I never saw a woman use as many handkerchiefs as she did, and I had to keep a couple or three spares in my pocket every time we went out. It wasn’t the honeymoon I’d imagined.”

Will heard Runt chuckle but noted it was a weak effort. “You sure you won’t join me?”

“I’m sure.”

Will wondered if Judah had waled Runt on the ass. Maybe that’s why he didn’t want to sit down. Will smoothly rose to his feet and brushed off his elbows. “Might as well go down then and meet the doc.”

“I don’t think so,” said Runt. “Maybe next time. You go on, though. Don’t let me hold you up.”

Will wondered what he could offer as enticement. Runt’s jaw was set stubbornly, and the look in his eyes didn’t exactly hint at surrender. Even though Runt stood slightly higher on the bank, Will still felt as if he was towering over him. Not that Runt would give ground. Unless his knees were cut out from under him, he’d stay right where he was out of sheer cussedness.

“You know the sheriff’s going to chew me out if you don’t come with me.”

“I sympathize but remain unmoved.”

“The doc will probably complain the whole way back to town.”

“And yet I am steadfast.”

Will couldn’t prevent his short shout of laughter at Runt’s dry response. “Dammit, Runt, you ought not to do that. I’m serious.”

“But I am constant as the northern star.”

That gave Will pause. “Those are somebody else’s words, aren’t they?”

Runt nodded. “Julius Caesar, Act III, Scene I, by way of William Shakespeare.”

“I thought so. That man could sure strike a prose.”

This time it was Runt who gave up a chuckle. “Go on. Make some excuse for me.”

Will couldn’t see that he was getting anywhere, so he finally gave in. “Everyone knows there’s no excuse for you.” Confident that he’d at least had the last word, he walked away. By his measure, he’d gone about twenty-two yards before a sound at his back brought him up short. He turned, saw Runt stagger, slip on his heels, then try to use his Winchester as a crutch. The rifle went right out from under him, and it was a shock to see him let go of it. He fell hard on his ass, clutching his privates like he’d been mule-kicked. Even more surprising than Runt losing his rifle was the holler that followed. Will didn’t think he’d ever heard Runt cry out like that before, and he’d seen him take some pretty good wallops from his brothers. The Abbot boys hardly ever winced when they were in pain, let alone hollered like their hair was on fire.

Will Beatty’s loping stride swiftly carried him back up the hill. He hunkered down beside Runt and tried to get a look at what was wrong. Runt was curled tight, his hands still between his legs. “What the hell’s the matter, Runt? Let me see.” He put his hand on Runt’s shoulder and was immediately shaken off. He saw that Runt was biting down hard on his lower lip and still couldn’t silence the moaning. “Jesus,” Will whispered. “What did that bastard do to you?”

A deep shudder wracked Runt’s small, wiry frame. “Leave me.”

“Like hell.” He reached behind him for Runt’s Winchester, hauled it up, and stood. He stepped away from Runt and fired two shots in quick succession. The doc might not understand what he was hearing, but Judah would. Will was less certain if he’d come.

Will set the rifle down and knelt beside Runt. Without asking permission, he grabbed Runt’s wrists and yanked them away. Will was still surprised by the resistance that Runt gave him. The accompanying groan was something awful to hear, and he couldn’t stop Runt from jerking his knees all the way to his chest. It was a good attempt to hide the problem, but it came a hairsbreadth too late.

Will saw the blood soaking Runt’s britches. The center of the dark, wet stain was Runt’s privates, but the blossom had already spread to his thighs and lower belly. Will swore softly. “You sure you didn’t shoot yourself? Lord, but you’re bleedin’ like a stuck pig. Let me at least try to stop that.” Even as he said it, he was shedding his vest. He tossed it aside and began unbuttoning his shirt. He came close to tearing it off his body as Runt fell quiet. Will thought it should have been a relief from the moaning, but it wasn’t. The silence worried him more. He’d never heard of an Abbot boy passing out.

Will wadded his shirt into a ball and jammed it between Runt’s rigidly held legs. His efforts elicited a jerky objection, but that small protest gave Will some hope. He looked off toward the cabin, wondering if help was on the way. He couldn’t imagine that Runt would be able to walk the distance, and if he had to carry him, Runt would die of shame long before they reached the porch.

“I’m goin’ back,” Will said. “Won’t take but a minute.” He jumped to his feet. “Keep that shirt twixt your legs. And don’t move.” Will wouldn’t have bothered with this last directive if he had been talking to anyone but Runt Abbot. He wouldn’t put it past him to crawl off to some hidey-hole like any other wounded animal.

Will arrived at the cabin minutes later and flung the door open with enough force to shake the walls. Cole flinched, turning to face Will, but Judah’s fingers never faltered as he buttoned his shirt, and when he looked up, he expressed no alarm. “Bring the bag,” Will said, striding toward Judah’s bedroom. “Something’s powerful wrong with Runt. I’ll get some sheets. Take Dolly.”

Cole thought he could have hesitated only the span of a heartbeat, but it was long enough for Will to bark another order.

“Go, dammit!”

Cole closed his bag and jerked it off the table. He didn’t spare a glance for Judah, nor bother to ask Will what had happened. He felt the rush of Will’s urgency roil through his own blood and was convinced he had to act. Following Will’s direction, he mounted Dolly without taking time to strap on his bag. He held it close to his chest and managed the reins with one hand.

Will caught up to Cole at the edge of the stream. His arrival made Dolly pick up her pace. “Didn’t you hear the shots?” The loose bundle of sheets under his arm flapped and snapped, forcing him to raise his voice. “I fired two, for God’s sake.”

“I heard them. Judah said you and Runt were trading target shots.”

Will shook his head. “He knew better. The timing was all wrong.” He could see that Cole didn’t know exactly what that meant, but he gave him full marks for not asking. Up ahead, he could make out Runt’s curled figure in the grass. “Damn, if he didn’t try to crawl off just like I figured. He sure doesn’t want to make your acquaintance, Doc.”

Cole made no response to that. From the impression Runt’s body made in the short scrub grass, Cole guessed he’d crawled some ten feet from where Will left him. He was turned on his side, scrabbling at the ground with one bloody hand while the other was pushed between his legs. Before Cole reached him, he could make out the dark stain on Runt’s trousers. The outer edge of blood was soaking his thighs.

Cole beat Will to the dismount and had already dropped to his knees beside Runt when Will joined him. He set his bag on the ground and jerked off Runt’s hat and tossed it aside. Laying the back of one hand across Runt’s forehead and then his cheek, he noted the cold and clammy condition of his skin, the effect of the blood loss and the beginning of shock. He circled Runt’s outstretched wrist with his fingers and searched for a pulse. It was weak and thready. In spite of that, he felt Runt try to resist the grip. There was a measure of fight still left in the young man, and even if it ran counterpoint to Cole’s own will, he considered it an encouraging sign.

Without looking up, he told Will, “Drop the sheets. I need you to take Runt’s wrists. I have to see the injury.”

Will winced at Runt’s low keening cry and found himself hesitating.

“Do it now, Deputy, or you’re no use to me or him.”

“Sorry, Runt,” Will whispered. He took Runt’s wrist from Cole’s grasp then reached between Runt’s doubled up legs and yanked.

Cole replaced Runt’s hand with his own. It didn’t require as many years of medical training as he had on his curriculum vitae to make his diagnosis.

“What is it, Doc?” He regarded Cole anxiously, certain now that the only thing worse than Runt’s wounded animal cry was the doctor’s stony silence. “What’s wrong with him?”

Coleridge Monroe looked up from his patient and fixed Will with a glare that gave no quarter. “What’s wrong with him is that he’s having a miscarriage.”