The Healer's Touch (28 page)

16

I
an paced the tiny cell, occasionally glancing out the window. Already the town was abuzz with word of the imminent hanging. He had to hope and pray the news had spread as far as the Younger place. His plan had more holes than a rusty bucket, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

The acting sheriff got up from his desk and stretched. “It's gonna be suppertime in half an hour. What do you want for your last meal?”

“Fried chicken, potatoes and gravy, hominy, three rolls and butter, and plenty of coffee.” Ian had no intention that this would be his last meal, but as long as he was cooped up in jail, why not dine in style?

“Any dessert?”

“Chocolate cake, if they have it. Otherwise, pie—any kind.”

“Geraldine makes a right good lemon pie.”

“Don't care for lemon. Chocolate cake or any other kind of pie.”

“Suit yourself. You take cream in your coffee?”

“Black.”

“Alrighty then. I'll be back d'reckly.”

“Take your time,” Ian said under his breath when the front door closed. He stepped back to the window and released a pent-up breath when he caught a glimpse of a pair of red cowboy boots in the distance. The figure was nailing something to a tree. “Atta girl,” he whispered. “Get those posters circulating.” His gaze shifted and he spotted Lyric busy at work across the street. No doubt Lark was covering the other half of town. Closing his eyes, he whispered, “God, I sure could use Your help right about now. If You'll make certain Jim Younger gets the news, I'd be much obliged.”

Smile fading, he wished that Grandpa and Grandma knew about his predicament—not that he'd want to worry them, but somehow he felt that their prayers always carried a mite more weight than his.

Returning to his bunk, he sat down. Everything in town would be quiet shortly. The day's excitement would die down and folks would turn in early in anticipation of the dawn hanging. That was exactly what he needed. Complete calm. Jim Younger wasn't going to show his face unless he made sure he wasn't noticed, but if the news reached him of a Younger hanging he'd show up to see if the sheriff had actually captured one of his kin. Jim would make an attempt to rescue the poor soul. He'd pull his long brimmed Stetson low and possibly dress like a city man, but Ian would recognize the quiet, well-mannered Jim Younger a mile away.

What Ian needed was pure and complete calm; nothing to disturb the hanging. If everything went as planned, all Ian had to do was walk to the gallows, explain that his memory was back, and have the sheriff wire the marshal's office in Kansas City to confirm his claim. He allowed they might hang him and ask questions later, but with enough witnesses that wouldn't be likely. It was a long shot,
though—and it seemed to get longer each time he meticulously went over the plan in his mind.

The bounty on Jim Younger's head would be enough to set a man up for life, if he played it right. Plus, he'd win the wager.

If folks in this town weren't scared of their shadows they would collect on a few of those hefty bounties waiting just down the road. They were spooked by an unexplained light and perfectly content to allow outlaws to live practically in their backyard. Neighbors, almost. He shook his head.

No wonder Lyric wanted to leave this holler. And he wanted to be the one to take her away.

Hold on, sweetheart. We'll get through this and your life will be different.

He refused to consider the possibility that his plan might fail. His gaze scanned the empty cell. Swinging his legs to the mattress, he laid back to wait for his fried chicken and potatoes.

Maybe he should have ordered that lemon pie. Grandma's lemon pies were always lumpy and tart—maybe Geraldine's would be different.

If there was ever a night to take chances, this was it.

“Go on! Git!” The sheriff tried to deter Lyric from nailing the last poster to a tree near the jail, but she persisted. “You want to join your friend?” he asked when she kept nailing.

“I'm not hurting a thing.” She hammered harder.

“Why are you wasting time nailing up posters? Everybody around knows a man's gonna swing come dawn.”

“Well, we wouldn't want anyone to miss the fun, now, would we?” She picked up another poster and moved to the next tree. White papers fluttered from every storefront and hitching post in town.
The saloon had enough information tacked to its swinging doors that even the severely inebriated couldn't fail to take note.

The sheriff crossed his arms. “Am I gonna have to physically remove you, young lady?”

She turned and fixed a cold stare on him. “Am I breaking any laws?” She didn't like to use the town's misbeliefs, but if ever she could benefit from people's fears of her mother's illness, now was the time.

Turning on his heel, the sheriff stalked off, occasionally glancing over his shoulder, muttering.

Picking up her stack of posters, Lyric moved on.

Darkness overtook the women as they began the return journey to the Bolton house. They had walked as fast as the fading light allowed. In her haste to hang the notices Lyric had forgotten to bring a light, and clouds obscured the rising moon. “Walk faster,” Lyric said. “We still have the biggest part ahead of us.”

“Well, what is it? You can surely share your plan with us now.” Lark picked up her pace.

“Boots, you know those guinea fowl your grandpa has?”

“Those squawkers?”

“They make lots of noise, don't they?”

“Deafening. Grandpa likes to eat the eggs, and he keeps them for watchdogs around the goats. They'll run off anything that comes around.”

“Good. How many would you say he has?”

“I don't know—maybe a couple of dozen.” She paused in the middle of the road. “Are you thinking of using those nuisances in your plan?”

Lyric nodded. “We are going to catch every last one of them,
haul them into town, and turn them loose the moment they open the door to lead Joseph out of jail.”

“You mean we're going to let those noisy things loose?” Lark asked.

“Right smack dab in the middle of town. They'll cause such a ruckus that folks will be chasing them down, trying to drive them away. That will give us just enough time to slip in the jail and free Joseph. If everything goes as planned we'll have him out and gone before they miss him.”

“Where are we going to put that many fowl?”

“I've been thinking about that. We'll have to put them in tow sacks.”

“They'll suffocate.”

“Not if we punch holes in the bags. We don't have any other way to transport them.”

Boots frowned. “Do you have that many tow sacks?”

“Of course. I have dozens.”

Shaking her head, Boots sighed. “Grandpa's not going to like this.”

Lyric dove, capturing another guinea by the hind leg. “Got ya!” she cried. The squawking and high-pitched squeals coming from the barn's direction were loud enough to wake the dead.

Boots arrived holding an upside-down fowl in each hand. “How many does this make?”

“Twelve.”

Gritting her teeth, Boots whooshed. “How many more do we need?”

“As many as we can catch. Looks to me like your grandpa has several dozen here.”

Lark approached, muddy and disheveled. “I chased this one clear down to the creek.” She spit a feather out of her mouth. “They don't like to be handled.”

“You're doing a good job, girls. I'm proud of you.”

Lark grunted. “Let's hope it will be enough to save Joseph.”

“He could use your prayers.”

“I've been praying.”

“Me too. A whole lot. If only he had some identification on him—something to prove who he was. Why wouldn't a man carry a wallet or something for security purposes?”

“Maybe he didn't want folks to know who he was,” Lark said. “Or maybe…” She paused as though a light had gone off in her head. “Maybe…”

Her tone made Lyric pause. “Yes. Most men carry wallets.”

Lark glanced at Boots. Her friend's jaw dropped. “Wallet. Do you think…?

“That would be too coincidental, Boots. A man with no memory, missing wallet, we find a wallet…” She shook her head. “It can't be his.”