“Nonsense. Consider it a gesture of goodwill.”
“You will do it, then?” Jeeter asked.
“Did you doubt I would?” Chester rejoined, when what he really wanted to say was,
“It depends on if they find the bodies or not and take the time to bury them,” Jeeter said.
“What is this about bodies?” Chester’s goodwill evaporated like dew under a hot sun. “You have killed again?”
“Relax. They were from Dodge.”
“Was it self-defense?” Chester envisioned being arrested for harboring a murderer. There went his governorship, his mansion, his servants, his delightful personal secretary.
“Sort of,” Jeeter said. “You can go back to bed now. It will be a few hours yet.”
Inwardly quaking at the image of himself behind bars, Chester absently asked, “Where will you be?”
“In your kitchen.”
An invisible knife sank into Chester’s gut, and twisted. “What?”
“In your kitchen,” Jeeter said again. “My wife is going to put coffee on so we can stay awake. If your wife wakes up, tell her you have guests and not to raise a fuss.”
Chester could not imagine telling his wife anything. Suggesting, yes, so long as he suggested tactfully. “There is an empty house down the street. I can take you. You would do better to stay there.”
“Here,” Jeeter insisted. “It is the last place the posse would expect.”
“What if they come in?” Chester said. “What if they spot you? Think of the consequences.”
“I am thinking of my wife and what is best to keep her safe,” Jeeter said.
Ernestine felt a rush of warmth. Here was more proof of how deeply he cared.
“I will do what I can to help you,” Chester said, wishing they were anywhere but in his house.
“I thought you might.”
Jeeter Frost had a lot to do, too.
First he installed his new wife in the kitchen and left her to make coffee while he led their horses down the street toward the livery. Halfway there he stopped. The livery was one of the first places the posse would check. Three weary horses were all the incentive they needed to search the town from end to end.
Jeeter scratched the stubble on his chin and pondered. One of the abandoned buildings was an old feed and grain. It was big and spacious and empty. He led the horses around to the back. As with many feed and grains, there was a wide door where farmers had loaded their wagons. The door was open a few inches. Rusty hinges creaked as he opened it all the way. The area where the wagons pulled in was solid earth, not a wood floor. He brought the gruella and the other two horses inside and tied them so they could not stray off. He did not strip the saddles or the packs. He might need to get away in a hurry.
Jeeter felt bad about that. The gruella was tired and needed rest, and he never mistreated the mouse dun if he could help it. Patting its neck, he said, “I will feed and water you as soon as I can. I promise.”
He went out, closed the door, and walked around to the street. He was congratulating himself on his cleverness when he glanced down. It was too dark to see hoofprints, but he knew they were there. A good tracker could tell they were recent and follow them straight to the feed and grain.
Jeeter did not know if the posse had a tracker with them, but he never took chances, yet another reason he had lasted as long as he had. He hastened to the general store, found a broom behind the counter, and came back out. He was brushing at the dust when a large pig came out of a vacant yard and squealed inquisitively at him.
Jeeter had a brainstorm. “Stay right where you are, pig,” he said, and ran back into the general store. Saratoga Chips were exactly what he needed. When he ran back out, the pig was rooting along a fence. He opened the chips and held one out. “Here, pig. Try one of these.”
Pigs would eat most anything, and were always hungry. It was why they were called pigs, Jeeter reflected, as he held the chip under the pig’s nose. It sniffed a few times, grunted a few, and chomped, nearly biting Jeeter’s fingers.
“Like that, do you?” Jeeter grinned and backed into the street while holding out another chip.
The pig took the bait.
After that the rest was easy. Jeeter had only to walk back and forth over the prints his horses had made, the pig following him like a little lamb, until a multitude of pig prints overlay the horse tracks.
It would have to do, Jeeter told himself. Pig prints were less obvious than the swipes of a broom. He gave the pig the last of the chips and hurried into the general store, being sure to bolt the front door after him.
The aroma of brewing coffee made Jeeter’s mouth water and reminded him of how hungry he was. He was delighted to find a plate of toast and jam waiting for him.
“I thought you might like something to eat,” Ernestine said.
“You are a fine wife,” Jeeter complimented. “When we get to California, I will do my best to do you proud.”
Ernestine sat at the other end of the table and buttered a slice of toast. “Do you trust the mayor to do as you want?”
