Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [7]
He allowed himself a long sigh. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the men were holed up in one place like a typical gang. Then he’d just track them, find them, and capture them.
But nothing about Comer was typical. He took his time. He thought ahead. And he garnered citizen support.
Now he was spreading out his men. Turning them into farmers while things cooled down.
Luke repositioned himself in the saddle. For all he knew, they’d been farmers all along. Maybe they’d been living in Washington County for generations and came back to warm, cozy homes after every single job.
The boys he’d gathered up at this last robbery hadn’t told them much, but it would sure explain why he’d had such a confounded time finding a hideout. The only time he came close to catching them was right after a holdup.
He’d be right on them, then—poof. They were gone.
He lifted his hat, then settled it back on his head. Their living as farmers was going to complicate the tracking. Especially if they really did farm—which he figured they must or it would arouse suspicion.
Either way, he was going to have to cozy up to every farmer around. He’d have to sit there drinking coffee and spitting chew until he could encourage them to talk freely about themselves and their neighbors. It was bound to take the rest of spring and maybe even the summer.
He rubbed his eyes. A telephone salesman. He hated telephones—any communication that relied on man-made devices. He clearly remembered his hometown of Indianola after it had been hit by one of the biggest hurricanes the U.S. had ever seen. Trees were uprooted. Entire buildings were gone. Telegraph wires were down. Horses couldn’t get through. And two and a half miles of railroad tracks had been destroyed.
None of it had stopped Captain Heywood, then a young Ranger just starting out. Luke was ten when Heywood rode in sitting tall and ramrod straight in the saddle while wading through the debris which had, the week before, been a thriving coastal town. He’d helped clean up. Helped the injured. And helped bury Luke’s father, who’d lost his life in the tragedy.
Now, not only was Luke going to have to hoodwink folks into investing in those newfangled claptraps, he was going to have to waste time with niceties and social chatter. As different from Lucious Landrum as he could be.
Rule #11: Be courteous and polite, and don’t be afraid to hand out a little jolly occasionally. It doesn’t hurt anybody’s feelings to be jollied a little.
Slowing down his mare, he picked his way across a series of railroad tracks and reined in at the depot.
Inside the small clapboard building, every surface was covered with polished oak—the walls, the floor, the rafters, the bench. Two arched ticket windows directly opposite the entrance held a series of vertical wooden bars. No one stood behind them.
To his right, a group of boys between the ages of five and twelve faced the wall. They’d pressed themselves together so tightly, their bums looked like a cluster of oversized grapes.
Above them and mounted to the wall was a three-box telephone. The hand of the tallest boy covered its mouthpiece. The receiver was somewhere in the midst of them.
Sniggers, snorts, and giggles erupted spontaneously, followed by a series of shushes. Amusement tugged at Luke. Whoever was on the party line would have their business known all over town within the hour.
An explosion of guffaws rocked the boys backward, loosening the taller one’s grip on the mouthpiece. Several grabbed their stomachs and bent over. Another fell to the ground in an effort to outdo the rest. Their boisterous laughter bowed the walls of the depot.
Chuckling, Luke took a step toward the ticket window to ask for directions. Before he could reach it, the door flew open. A girl of about nine stomped in.
“Fellers! That is quite enough.” She stood in rolled-up, baggy overalls with feet spread, fists on her hips. If it hadn’t been for the dirty braids resting on her shoulders, he wasn’t sure he’d have even known it was a girl.
She marched