Free Showdown by Edward Gorman / Ed Gorman Page B

for the foothills to the west.
    The day warmed up. By midmorning, the temperature was in the high sixties. The haze burned off the pines early, too.
    They stayed on the road for a long time, watching for the ill-fitted horseshoe pattern the blacksmith had told them about at such length. They saw nothing.
    "They either didn't come this way or they stayed off the stage road here," Prine said.
    He had to be careful. Because he knew who'd taken her and where she was being held, he had to be very careful. He didn't want to say anything that would make him sound as if he had some knowledge he was keeping from Neville.
    Neville had two moods for the first ninety minutes. He was either silent or so angry he could barely shape words.
    "When we find them," he said, "I'm going to kill them."
    "Well, if it's in self-defense, that'd be fine, Neville. But if it's not—it'd be murder."
    "Why should I worry about murder? They sure as hell didn't worry about kidnapping. She's an innocent young girl. I've kept her sheltered all her life. I didn't see any reason for her to get filthy by rubbing up against the rest of the world."
    "She must've picked up a few things working in the church basement."
    Neville frowned. "Do-gooder stuff. She doesn't have to live with them. Get to know them. She gets to hand out food and clothing and feel that she's doing something with her life. Then she runs right back to our house with the servants and all the luxuries."
    Neville probably didn't even know how contemptuous he sounded. She was his little sister, a pretty piece of fluff he needed to protect because that was what honorable gentlemen did—protected pretty pieces of fluff. Prine was resentful. Cassie was such a part of his imagination now that he wanted to defend her. Say that she was a grown woman and a smart one and a good one. Say that she had a laugh like music and eyes that you couldn't ever forget. Not ever.
    But he knew better, of course. He rode on.
    Just after noon, they reached the timberland. Prine himself had a few bad moments—doubt and fear that maybe he'd done the wrong thing. Maybe he should have stopped this kidnapping the moment he found out about it. What if she tried to escape and got killed in the process? It was possible. Things went wrong all the time. All the time.
    Neville's shout jerked Prine from his thoughts.
    Neville drew his horse up short and flung himself from his saddle. He was a lot rougher man than Prine would have guessed from meeting him at the recital. He looked comfortable with a six-gun and even more comfortable with his fists.
    By the time Prine dismounted, Neville had hunched down over something in a patch of crusty soil and said, "Shit."
    Then he was up on his feet, scowling.
    "Thought I saw that damned crooked horseshoe print."
    "You need to relax. That's the best thing you can do for yourself right now."
    Neville scowled. You could see the calculation in his eyes. He wasn't sure he could whip Prine, but he was about ready to try. Then he took a deep breath and visibly relaxed. "I don't always treat her the way I should, Prine. And she resents it. And I promise not to do it anymore. And then I go right on treating her like this little child. But for all of that, I love her. I love her more than anything on this earth." Anger seized him again. "So it's not real easy to relax. Not when you love somebody the way I love her."
    He stalked back to his horse and rode off.
    Prine gave him some time alone and then caught up with him.
    Neville surprised him by saying, "Sorry I ran my mouth back there. I guess I forgot you want to find her as much as I do."
    "I sure do," Prine said. "I sure do."
    Â 
    B y the time he got done testifying in court, Sheriff Daly had missed not only both posses but also the chance to talk to Richard Neville.
    One of Neville's men came to the sheriff's office a few minutes after he returned from the courthouse.
    Hank Cummings was the man's name. He probably changed clothes