McKettrick's Choice - Linda Lael Miller [104]
An old codger belched. A young fella with bad skin hitched up his gun-belt. But nobody said anything.
Holt slapped Rafe on the shoulder. “Have at it,” he said. “I’ll meet you back at Heddy’s in time for supper.”
Rafe resettled his hat. “What are you figuring on doing in the meantime?” he asked, with a touch of suspicion.
Holt’s first instinct was to bristle, but he got past it soon enough. Rafe didn’t have to be there; he could have stayed on the Triple M, in the bosom of the family, and tended to his own business. Instead, he’d ridden all the way to Texas and offered his help. “I told you about Frank Corrales,” he said. “He was the one who sent that rider up to the ranch to let me know Gabe was in jail in San Antonio. Frank hasn’t been seen or heard from since. I mean to ask around, see if I can track him down.”
“You told me about him, all right,” Rafe said, keeping one eye on the wranglers, who were getting fidgety, standing in a row like that. “Gabe seems to think he’s dead. I gather you don’t agree?”
“Frank Corrales saved my life half a dozen times. I did the same for him once or twice. Even in the middle of an Indian fight, with our backs to the wall, we could practically read each other’s minds. If he was dead, I’d know it.”
Rafe considered the reply. “Good enough for me,” he decided.
“Get these sorry specimens off the street before they get arrested for loitering,” Holt said, and walked away.
THE CAPTAIN AND JOHN had set up camp out behind Heddy’s barn. Either they didn’t like the beds they’d been given, on the side-porch, or they didn’t want to get too used to fleshly comforts, knowing the trail ahead would be a rough one. Holt didn’t know which, and he didn’t give a damn, since they were both old enough to decide such things for themselves. The sun was low on the western horizon as he approached their fire.
John saw him coming and poured a mug of coffee without being asked. “Rafe was by a while ago,” he said, as Holt took the cup. “Told us you’d hired on a sad collection of barflies and drifters.”
Holt smiled grimly. The coffee was hot and strong, and it burned his tongue. “The pickings were slim,” he admitted. “By now, the best wranglers are driving the last of the summer herds up to Abilene and Kansas City.”
The Captain, hunkered down by the fire, poured a dose of whiskey into his own cup and looked up at Holt, squinting in the last blaze of daylight. “You find out anything about Frank Corrales’s whereabouts?”
A sinking feeling quivered in the pit of Holt’s stomach, and he shook his head. “No,” he admitted, at some length. “Plenty of folks know who he is, but if he’s been through Laredo in the last few months, nobody saw him.” He blew on his coffee, then ventured another sip. “Did you two sit around here on your hind-ends all day, or did you stock up on supplies for the trail like I told you?”
John smiled benignly. “Wagon’s full,” he said. “Good thing Tillie and the baby are staying here, ’cause there wouldn’t be room for them in the back.”
The reminder of the baby made Holt uneasy. “I spoke to the marshal today,” he said. “If the boy’s got folks anywhere, he’ll find them. It might take some time, but eventually Tillie’s most likely going to have to give Pearl up.”
John closed his eyes for a moment. “Yes,” he agreed.