Читать книгу Firestick - William W. Johnstone - Страница 17

CHAPTER 12

The stern-faced woman on the seat of the small buckboard expertly handled the team of horses pulling the rig as she swung them smoothly in alongside the section of iron fence bordering one side of the cemetery. When she had both team and buckboard aligned parallel to the fence, she reined to a halt so that her rear wheels stopped just ahead of an arched gateway.

Well-crafted cursive lettering, fashioned from iron and welded between the top and bottom frames of the arch, read BUFFALO PEAK CEMETERY. An eighth of a mile to the northeast, the town, only just starting to bustle with activity at this early hour, was crowded in on either side of the old trail. The latter, continuing on toward the west, made a long, gentle northerly curve away from the cemetery, as if in respect to its privacy and sense of isolation.

The woman climbed gracefully down from her seat and spoke a word to the well-trained team, commanding them to hold in place. Then she walked around to the rear of the buckboard and withdrew from its bed a basket of brightly colored flowers, their different hues brought out nicely by the early morning sun. The woman, by contrast, was dressed rather dully—dark blue bonnet and matching dress, full-length skirt and collar buttoned at the throat. Her form was trim, and her face might have been called handsome not too many years prior; perhaps still would be if not for the stern, chiseled expression that looked as hard as some of the tombstones that dotted the cemetery. Under the bonnet, her hair was reddish brown and pulled back into a severe bun.

Carrying her basket, the woman passed through the gate, under the lettered arch, then angled a short way to her right, where a pair of tombstones stood slightly apart from any others. She stood for a long moment, just gazing down at them. The inscription carved on one read HIRAM ROCKWELL . . . 1835–1879 . . . Beloved Husband and Father . . . Called by God too soon; on the other, OWEN ROCKWELL . . . 1859–1881 . . . Beloved Son and Brother . . . Taken too soon, too tragically. The ground in front of the latter had been disturbed not all that long ago, and the outline of a rectangular blanket of sod, still taking root, was plainly in evidence.

Folding the front of her skirt down over her knees, the woman sank onto the soft, greening grass between the two stones and began distributing the flowers from her basket. As she did this, she murmured softly to each, and from time to time she would hum strains of the popular hymn “In the Sweet By and By.”

After the woman had been thus occupied for some time, a man emerged from behind a tall cottonwood atop a low rise toward the middle of the cemetery and began slowly walking toward her. The man was of average size and build, clad in a gray frock coat, white shirt, black string tie. The hair visible under his wide-brimmed hat was thick and wavy, yellow in color. On his hip rode a .45-caliber Colt revolver in a black leather holster.