The Rustler Read Online Free PDF Page B

just yesterday. Plays poker, too. Gives a man second thoughts.”
    â€œShe does not smoke cigars,” Lark insisted.
    â€œSo it’s true about the poker!” Rowdy said, in an ah-ha tone of voice.
    â€œI wouldn’t know,” Lark said, with an indignant sniff.
    â€œI heard she was a member of the Tuesday Afternoon Ladies Only Secret Poker Society,” Gideon said, looking smug. “And she’s not the only one. It might surprise you who goes to those meetings.”
    Rowdy chuckled.
    â€œGideon,” Lark warned.
    He turned back to the sink, flushed, and scrubbed industriously at the kettle Lark had used to boil up the morning’s oatmeal.
    â€œIt’s just a rumor,” Lark told Rowdy. “Respectable women do not play poker. Or smoke cigars.”
    â€œWhatever you say, dear,” Rowdy replied sweetly.
    Wyatt just shook his head, confounded.
    â€œCome on,” Rowdy said to him, beckoning. “I’ll show you around town. Sam can swear you in when he gets here. What I do is, I count the horses in front of the saloons. If there’re more than a dozen, I keep a closer eye on the place—”
    Wyatt followed, since that seemed like the only thing to do.
    Â 
    â€œT HERE ,” SAID S ARAH , straightening her father’s tie outside the door of his office at the bank, grateful that the place was empty at the moment. Thomas, the only teller, had gone out when they arrived. The train would be pulling in at the new depot within an hour, pausing only long enough to swap mailbags with the postmaster and take on any passengers who might be waiting on the platform—or drop off new arrivals.
    It was Thomas’s job, at least in part, to rush back to the bank and report to Sarah if any important visitors showed up. She was always on the lookout for unexpected stockholders.
    â€œI’ll handle things, Papa,” Sarah assured her father, who had turned fretful again after breakfast. She was fairly certain he hadn’t seen her stuff his army uniform behind the wooden barrel of the washing machine on the back porch, but she wasn’t absolutely sure. “If someone comes in to open an account or inquire about a loan, let me do the talking. I’ll say you’re busy. All you have to do is sit at your desk, with your papers—if they insist on greeting you personally, I’ll be careful to call them by name so you know what to—”
    â€œSarah.” Ephriam looked pained.
    â€œPapa, you know you forget.”
    Just then, the street door opened with a crash, and Thomas burst in. Plump, with a constellation of smallpox scars spilling down one side of his face, he seemed on the verge of panic.
    â€œSarah!” he gasped, from the threshold, one fleshy hand pressed to his chest. “It’s him —the man in the photograph you showed me—”
    Sarah’s knees turned to water. “No,” she said, leaning against her father for a moment. “He couldn’t possibly have—”
    â€œIt’s him,” Thomas repeated.
    â€œCalm down,” Sarah said hastily. “Remember your asthma.”
    Thomas struggled to a wooden chair, in front of the window, and sat there sucking in air like a trout on a creek bank. “S-Sarah, wh-what are we going to d-do—?”
    â€œWhat,” Ephriam interjected, suddenly forceful, “is happening?”
    Even in her agitation, Sarah felt a stab of sorrow, because she knew her father wouldn’t be his old self for more than a few minutes. When the inevitable fog rolled in, shrouding his mind again, she’d miss him more keenly than ever.
    â€œYou’re going to take Papa home,” she told Thomas, who had begun a moderate recovery—of sorts. He wasn’t sweating quite as much as he had been when he rushed in, and his breathing had slowed to a slight rasp. “Go out the back way, and stay off Main Street.”
    Gamely, Thomas got to his