One thumbed through a magazine. One was quietly playing a harmonica. Some puffed smokes. Thatcher noticed that one of the younger among them slid a flask out of his pants pocket, uncapped it, and took a sip.

Another, an older man who had laid claim to a rocking chair, said, “That’s against house rules and against the law.”

“Now that’s a fact,” the young man said. “It is.” Then, leaning toward the man in the rocker, he whispered, “And teetotaling is against the laws of nature.” He took another drink then taunted the older man by smacking his lips and saying a long, drawn-out ahhhh.

Sensing the growing tension, the man with the harmonica stopped playing.

The older man didn’t let it drop. He said to the young man, “I doubt you respect any rules.”

“That’s not so,” the young man retorted. “I set rules for myself.”

“Such as?”

He seemed to ponder it, then snapped his fingers and said, “I only get half as drunk on Sundays.”

The others on the porch were equally divided as to who thought that was funny and who didn’t. The one in the rocking chair took umbrage. He excused himself, left the rocker, and stamped into the house, letting the screen door slap closed behind him.

The younger man chortled, “He’s a barrel of laughs.”

Another man, who Thatcher had noticed earlier because of his sporty attire, left the corner of the porch where he’d been smoking in solitude and sidled up to the younger man. “What’s your name?”

“Randy Wells. Who’s asking?”

“Chester Landry.” He motioned to the flask. “Where’d you get the booze?”

Randy cast a wary look around. When his gaze lighted on Thatcher, he squinted suspiciously. “I feel like a stroll.” He indicated for Landry to follow him. They went down the porch steps and set off across the yard, talking softly together.

No one said anything for a moment, then the harmonica player picked up his tune where he’d left off, and another commenced to talk about baseball. Thatcher stayed only a few minutes longer before going inside.

He took a turn in the third floor bathroom, then went into his room, undressed, and took the piece of shortbread to bed with him. As he stretched out on the lumpy mattress, he released a sigh of relative contentment.

It had been a damned long day, but he’d accomplished a lot, too. For a start, he’d survived the fight in the freight car and the jump from it without serious injury.

The miles he’d walked had fatigued him, but hadn’t completely exhausted him like the long marches he’d made through the French countryside, fully armed, cold, hungry, and hoping an enemy bullet didn’t have his name on it.

His landlady, Arleta May, was scary, but he had a roof. The mattress was bad, but still better than wet ground or the floor of the boxcar.

He had a headstrong horse to train, and if he did that successfully, word would get around, and more work could come from it until he’d earned enough to get him the last few hundred miles to home.

All things considered, he had it pretty good.

He polished off the shortbread and licked the crumbs from his fingers before reaching up for the string attached to the bare-bulb light fixture mounted to the wall above the headboard.

When he closed his eyes, an image of Laurel Plummer came to mind. He fell asleep thinking about her in profile, the wind toying with her hair and holding her shapeless dress tight against her front.

Eight

Sheriff William Amos was awakened by the shrill ringing of his telephone. He squinted the clock into focus and cursed under his breath. Nobody called at three o’clock in the morning to impart good news.

As he threw back the sheet and got up, his wife murmured sleepily. He patted her on the rump, then went to the downstairs hall, where the telephone sat on a small table. He picked it up by the stand and lifted the earpiece from the fork, saying into the mouthpiece, “Bill Amos.”

One of his younger, greener deputies identified himself. “Hated to wake you, sir.”

“I hated you did, too. What’s happened?”

He hoped for nothing more major than rowdy boys being caught painting naughty words on a public building. But he mentally ran through the list of better likelihoods: A still had caught a cedar break on fire. Rival moonshiners had gotten into a skirmish with fists, firearms, or both. Lawmen in a neighboring county, tired of chasing a notable bootlegger, were officially dumping him into Bill’s jurisdiction.

Even before Prohibition had become federal law several months back, evangelicals had for generations voted in local laws that had kept many Texas counties dry. Thus the illegal making and selling of corn liquor was the second oldest profession in the state.

All the Volstead Act had accomplished so far was to turn the trade into an even more profitable enterprise. Demand was at an all-time high. Production was up. Competition was stiff. And the moonshiners in Bill Amos’s county were among the most industrious in Texas.

“We’ve got a situation, sir,” the deputy said.

“Something y’all can’t handle?”

“Thought so when we started out. But things has gone downhill fast.”

Bill heaved a sigh. “Somebody must’ve wound up dead.”

“Well, truth is, we don’t know yet.”

“What’s that mean? He’s either breathing or he isn’t. Is he a Johnson?”

“No, sir. It’s Mrs. Driscoll.”

With a start, Bill angled his head back and looked at the phone as though the deputy had started speaking in tongues. “Dr. Driscoll’s wife? Mila Driscoll?”

“Yes, sir. She’s gone missing.”

* * *

Ten minutes later, Bill entered the sheriff’s office, where Dr. Gabriel Driscoll was carrying on like a crazy person. Usually of an austere nature, the physician was clearly unhinged. His hair was standing on end, as though he’d been trying to tear it out. He was pacing in circles and aggressively warding off anyone who attempted to restrain or calm him down.

When he saw Bill, he lunged toward him. “Sheriff, do something! You’ve got to find her.”

Bill hung his hat on a wall rack. “Get us some coffee,” he said, addressing one of his deputies who looked relieved to be charged with something besides the physician.