The Fire in Ember - DiAnn Mills [85]
John noted the blue columbines — one of Mama’s favorite wildflowers—blooming in the front of the house, and a rocker on the porch. A calico cat sat on a rag rug. Homey. It looked like a place where folks could be happy. Not a place where two potential cattle thieves might be hiding.
The two men dismounted and tied their horses to a hitching post. Revolver in hand, they scanned the area for signs of an ambush. The blood in John’s veins flowed like a flash flood. Mixed emotions always accompanied him with deputy work. He enjoyed the excitement of the chase, but he dreaded the possibility of spilled blood.
Wirt nodded and John crept around to the back of the house in case the two suspects decided to make a run for it. Chickens pecked at a sprinkling of corn on the ground. Birds sang. A butterfly fluttered past. But no sounds from inside the house. Memories of Leon’s demise filled John’s thoughts. He wasn’t about to get shot this time. Neither did he want to turn his gun on another man, unless he had to.
A small dilapidated barn stood about forty feet from the house, a good place to hide. He crouched low and hurried across the yard separating him from the barn. He waited outside and listened.
Wirt pounded on the front door of the house. “Miss Hanson, this is US Marshal Wirt Zimmerman. Ma’am, I’d like to speak to you, if you don’t mind.” The man’s booming voice could wake the dead. “Ma’am, if you’re here, I’d like to talk to you. The marshal told me you live alone, and I assure you I only want to ask a few questions about your brother Ralph.”
John glanced about. A fence needed mending. The house and barn roofs were in sad repair. A window on the side of the barn caught his attention, but he’d stay put until he heard from Wirt.
“Ma’am,” Wirt said. “I’m asking you one last time to open the door. If not, I’m coming inside.”
A few moments later, Wirt appeared from around the house. “The door’s locked.” He turned the knob to the backdoor, and it creaked open. He nodded for John to join him.
John clenched the handle of the weapon in his hand. Lingering smells of bacon and eggs from breakfast clung to the air. Wirt motioned for John to cover him before he stepped inside. In the kitchen, a small table covered with a blue and yellow tablecloth sat under a yellow curtained window. The curtains were drawn, decreasing the men’s view in the small shadowed house. Gun positioned, John scanned every corner while Wirt moved on to a bedroom. A single bed and trunk filled the area, definitely a woman’s quarters with a quilt and what looked like embroidered pillowcases—hard for John to discern in the dark shadows.
“Miss Hanson. Don’t be afraid. We only want to talk to you.” Wirt kneeled and looked under the bed. No one hid from them there.
The men made their way into the parlor with its sparse furnishings. The only sound came from a mantle clock above the fireplace.
“Odd she’d leave the backdoor unlocked,” John said. “Let’s check the barn. I didn’t hear anything when I was out there, but a window facing the back side of the house would give somebody a clear shot.”
Wirt shrugged. “Then we’ll go out the front and circle around.”
A short while later, they slipped up to the barn door. This time John lifted the latch while Wirt covered him. The latch lifted and dropped with a dull thud. Sunlight lit a golden path down the middle of the neatly kept barn. A cow was tied on the left side and a swaybacked mare stood beside her. Both animals had fresh hay. A person could hide here but not for long.
Wirt pointed to the hayloft. John started up the ladder, tucking his boot into each wrung without a sound.
“We might as well give up and head on back to Rocky Falls,” Wirt said. “This place is deserted, and we’ve got plenty of work to do. What’s wrong with Miss Hanson that she won’t answer the door to a couple of US Marshals?”
By then John had climbed to the loft. The wound to his shoulder