Rash climbed up the draw and out of the arid little valley, leaving the Peasys to their fate like she should’ve done the night before. Had she done so, she’d be at Mrs. Tolliver’s now, eating good food and relaxing in a padded rocking chair. Instead, they’d ruined Reno for her. Thanks to them, she’d learned that it was nothing like the place she’d hoped for. Fouch was onto her. He’d soon figure out her identity and make a real stink of things.
But all that would come later. Right now, she had a single purpose. Find Jenny.
With her goal firmly in mind, Rash hiked back toward civilization with a new energy, stomping through low clumps of winterfat and sagebrush until the outskirts of town appeared in the distance.
At that point, the heat became too much to bear. She’d left her hat with the Peasys and was paying the price for it.
A lone juniper beckoned from the base of a small rise not far off the trail, inviting her to share in the mottled shade of its sparse boughs before she dragged herself inside the city limits. She wiped the sweat from the back of her neck and headed over.
As she rested, shielded from the relentless sun, she noticed for the first time the symphony of desperate insects surrounding her. They shrieked, chirped, pleaded, all in one final effort to pass on a bit of themselves before this last gasp of unseasonable warmth fell beneath the crushing grip of unassailable winter.
Then, of a sudden, they quieted, revealing the low rumble of approaching horses. A tail of spilled dust drifted above the far side of the rise. Rash found a good vantage point behind a concentration of rabbitbrush and waited, closing her bad eye to improve her long-distance vision.
She picked out Fouch’s telltale chin the instant the riders rounded into view. The group was thundering out of town at breakneck speed, no doubt straight to the Peasy place. They must’ve pieced together her identity from the contents of her saddlebags. Fouch would be gunning for another trophy.
Rash cradled the grip of her empty pistol, though she could do little but pay careful attention to their horses as the men galloped past.
Jenny was not with them.
Once they passed out of sight, Rash eased her way to her feet and made her way into town, braving the sun to continue her search. The Peasys would be all right, she reckoned. Dandy was a coward—he’d tell Fouch how she’d left their company forever at his earliest opportunity and that would be that.
Though the residents in the outskirts weren’t much to look at, the women in the heart of downtown were clad in stylish morning outfits of gored skirts and tailored blouses shaded by wide, elaborate hats. Those without hats tended toward stacked pompadours or tight, Marcelled curls. The civility of it all shocked Rash out of her growing disappointment in the realities of Reno.
Visions of having to hack through Fouch’s garrison of thugs in order to effect a rescue of Jenny evaporated. Despite the Sheriff’s best efforts, this wasn’t a place ruled by the gun. This was a respectable place, and respectable places had laws.
So Rash made her way to the courthouse, a two-story brick building with a balustraded portico and towering cupola dome situated next to the new Riverside Hotel. After grunting her way up the few short steps into the land of law and order, she spotted a clerk seated on a high stool at a hearty wooden table.
“Fouch stole my horse,” Rash told him, not one to mince words.
The clerk reddened and then smoothed out his complexion with a straightening of his lapels.
“‘Impounded,’ is the word I believe you’re looking for,” he said.
Rash crossed her arms. “No, I mean stolen.”
“Impound is around back. Talk to Capps.”
“I’ll talk to you. Fouch is a criminal and I’ll see him dealt with.”
The clerk flinched and glanced at a closed door over his shoulder.
“Don’t let the Judge hear you talking like that,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Seems he only does two things anymore: preside over divorces and protect that horse thief of yours.”
Rash squeezed the handle of her knife. “Perhaps I can convince him otherwise,” she said.
A knowing smile crossed the clerk’s face. “I shouldn’t think so,” he said.
“Why not? I can be very persuasive. What’s this Judge’s name?”
“Fouch. Senior.”
Rash released her knife. So much for law and order.
Impound was another brick building, smaller than the courthouse, but no doubt built to match. Large barn doors hung open on its face, guarded by a sleeping man on a bed of compacted straw.
Rash slipped past the man and into the depths beyond. The air smelled of old books, leather, and livestock. Stacks of wooden crates commingled with racks of confiscated effects illuminated by the occasional sunbeam. Near the rear, the livestock odor peaked and Rash discerned a small pen populated by a veal calf and three caged hens. Just beyond them stood a quartet of horse stalls. The first sat empty, but she spotted a familiar shape in the second.
“Why the long face?” she asked, smiling.
Jenny emerged from the darkness, bringing her chin over the low stable door. Rash reached out to stroke her muzzle.
“Stop right there!” a gruff voice shouted.
Rash spun toward the voice, her hand dropping to her empty Colt. She was met by the business end of a shotgun, which quickly diverted to one side.
“Sorry ma’am,” the man who had been sleeping moments earlier said. “I thought you was someone dangerous. What can I do for you?”
Recognizing the equalizing power of a shotgun in an enclosed space, Rash opted to talk this one out.
“This is my horse,” she said.
“Actually, it’s the government’s horse.”
She crossed her arms. “How much is Fouch paying you to say that?”
He sized her up, then spat. “I think you better go,” he said, motioning with his weapon.
“You’re Capps, right? How about I give you five dollars to go back to sleep?”
That caught his interest. “Make it twenty.”
“Done.” She spotted her saddlebags on a nearby crate and headed over to them.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“The cash is in my bags.”
“Stay there,” he said. “I’ll look.”
Keeping an eye on Rash, he rifled through her supplies.
“Don’t see no cash,” he said at last.
“What?” She pushed him aside, forgetting about the shotgun, and searched. She found her spare, empty Colt, along with sundry other things, but the paper money was gone. The gold too. “That thieving son of a bitch,” she mumbled to herself.
“No money, no horse,” Capps said. “And if it ain’t here, you best find some more quick. Fouch don’t like the expense of keeping livestock. A buyer for the lot should be showing up this afternoon.”
As he turned to see her out, Rash snatched her spare powder flask from the bag and scurried for the open doors. But she was old now, clumsy, and Capps caught the movement.
“Not so fast. Give me that back.”
“No. I need it.”
“Why? You planning on robbing a bank or something?”
“No,” Rash lied.
He ripped it from her hands.
In her younger years, she would’ve killed him for such an act, damn the repercussions, but she was too old now for the fugitive life. And if she could no longer defend herself to the death, it meant she could no longer demand respect by the gun. If that were the case, she may as well head straight to Mrs. Tolliver’s.
So that’s exactly what she did.
