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they’re after.”
    He stalked out of the barn, saying they’d better be quick about gathering their belongings ’cause he didn’t have all day. He had been so sympathetic and kind to begin with, but Sarah had brought out the worst in him and now he was impatient to see them to Rockley and off his hands.
    Elroy Brower’s body was found a week later by soldiers who were searching for the marauding Indians. John Handley left Rockley for parts unknown, as predicted. His father never heard from him again. There was news from Wichita that a homesteader near there had been hit by Indians too, but that was the last story of Indian attacks heard in the area. Probably unrelated was the killing of a rancher named Bill Chapman farther north, though some said he was the man who had led the attack on the Indians. Chapman had been found brutally slain in his bed, and some said it was an Indian killing, some said not. The killer might have been one of the men who worked for Chapman, for many of his hired hands took off right after the killing.
    No sign was found of Edward Harte or Dallas. Sarah Whitcomb Harte considered herself a widow. It was inconceivable that a wounded man could have survived as an Indian captive, especially a captive of Indians on the run.
    Courtney was too numb to think at all beyond the possibility that her father was alive.
    Sarah and Courtney were now stuck with each other, a most aggravating circumstance for both.

Chapter 6
    â€œW ELL, there’s another one, Charley. You reckon we’ll have us another shoot-out?”
    Charley spit a wad of tobacco into the spittoon by the porch rail before he eyed the stranger coming up the street. “Just might, Snub. There’s a couple more in town right now. Just might at that.”
    The two old-timers leaned back in their chairs in front of Lars Handley’s store. Handley’s porch was the spot where they whiled away most of every day talking about whoever passed near to where they were sitting. From their spot they could see both ends of the only street in town.
    â€œYou reckon he come up on one of them trail-drives?” Snub wondered.
    â€œDon’t look the type to be pushin’ cows,” Charley replied. “That man’s a gunfighter if I ever saw one.”
    â€œThere’s been many a gunfighter turned cowboy, and vici-versi.”
    â€œTrue.”
    Snub could see by Charley’s expression that he was sticking to his first opinion and hadagreed only to be agreeable. “I wonder how many he’s killed?”
    â€œI wouldn’t ask him.” Charley grunted. Then suddenly his eyes narrowed. “This one looks familiar. Ain’t he been through here before?”
    â€œI believe you’re right, Charley. A couple a years ago, wasn’t it?”
    â€œMore like three or four.”
    â€œYeah. I remember. Came in late one night, checked into the hotel, but didn’t stay. I remember you remarked on the vagaries of the young.”
    Charley nodded, pleased his remarks were weighty enough to be remembered. “Can’t recall the name he put down at the hotel, though. Can you?”
    â€œForeign soundin’, wasn’t it?”
    â€œYeah, but that’s all I remember. Now it’s gonna nag me all day.”
    â€œWell, looks like he’s goin’ for the hotel again,” Snub said as the stranger pulled up rein there. “Why don’t we mosey on over and get a look-see at the desk book?”
    â€œNot now, Snub,” Charley replied testily. “Ackerman’s missus will just shoo us out.”
    â€œAh, don’t be a pissypants, Charley. The witch probably ain’t even out of bed yet. And Miss Courtney won’t mind if we sit a spell in the lobby or take a peek at the book.”
    â€œPissypants,” Charley grumbled. “He’s probably changed his name by now—like they all do—so my curiosity ain’t gonna get satisfied