Page 17 of Brian and Cora
Brian thought of the peaceful area around Three Bend Lake, of Torin and Jewel unknowingly vulnerable to the predators, and his gut tightened. Those outlaws have no reason to retreat up our mountain and every reason not to, he tried to reassure himself. They’d be trapped.
And all the more dangerous.
Still, if they did, he couldn’t imagine where they’d hide out. He, Torin, and Hank would have seen signs of a hideout and investigated. He thought of the Swensen family living farther up the mountain. Mr. Swensen ranged all over, hunting for the game to feed his family and the furs he could sell. The man would have spotted anything amiss. The thought made Brian relax…slightly.
When the sheriff asked for suggestions about where the outlaws could hide out, the shopkeeper, Cobb, grew belligerent, his animosity obvious, as he used the occasion to challenge the lawwoman’s authority.
The urge to go over and punch the man’s red, bulbous nose was so strong that Brian had to tune out of the conversation. The sheriff didn’t need him to defend her.
A lean, tough-looking man stood and shook his fist in the sheriff’s direction. “You’re a redskin lover. It’s obvious the Indians done this theft.”
At the unjust accusation, gasps and a few growls sounded. Brian’s was one of them. Most everyone turned to glare.
He’d make a perfect villain. Brian tried to memorize details, but his thoughts seemed too scattered to hold a description, and he didn’t want to take out his notebook and pencil and seem insensitive.
The man lowered his fist. “We’s wasting time with all this jawin’. We should head to the reservation and burn them all out.”
Another wave of gasps and growls and frowns were directed at the stranger, except from shopkeeper Cobb, who nodded in apparent agreement.
Sheriff Granger slashed her hand for silence. “I’ve found no evidence at all that these are Indians,” he said firmly. “From all the descriptions I’ve gathered, the robbers are white men.”
Scowling, the man crossed his arms in front of his chest.
“Who are you?” The sheriff narrowed her eyes at him. When he didn’t respond, she prompted him. “What’s your name?”
“Jonathan Mercury Smith. But just call me J.M.” He smirked. “At your service.”
Frowning, the sheriff pointed at him. “Sit,” she ordered. “I’ll have no more of your attempts to stir up trouble.”
J.M. Smith grunted and flopped back into his seat.
Brian studied the man. Something about him didn’t ring true, and those instincts buzzed energy through his body. For the first time, he wished he was more familiar with the community. Although he knew standouts like Cobb—a known despiser of Indians—existed, Brian had the sense that most people held more benign views.
Over the summer, Dr. Angus had gone with the sheriff when she led a group of people taking donated supplies to the reservation, where the Blackfoot were starving.
As the sheriff began to lay out the type of men she needed in her posse, Brian’s thoughts raced. He knew he needed to be one of them—not just to gather fodder to fuel his creativeimagination—but because of the instinctive urge to protect his community.
A few hours ago, I never would have thought of Sweetwater Springs as my community.
Brian didn’t engage in the debate on whether the fireworks scheduled for later tonight should go on. He was too engrossed in planning, figuring how he’d go about being chosen to be a posse member and listing what supplies he’d need to buy at the mercantile.
J.M. Smith stood and pointed out the door. “Can’t trust a redskin,” he stated in a harsh tone. “Your pet Indian deputy is sending you off on a wild goose chase.”
With an angry expression, the sheriff took several steps in his direction. “With your obvious hatred of Indians, Mr. Smith,” she stated in ringing tones “you’re the one trying to send us on a wild goose chase. You are dismissed. Your participation is unwanted.” She pointed toward the door. “Leave at once.”
“Free country and this is a church,” Smith drawled, sitting down. Insolently, he crossed his arms. “I have a right to be here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Anger propelled Brian to his feet, his hands fisted. Hank rose with him, as did the other men around. Then, almost as one, they emptied from their pews and converged on Smith.
Nick Sanders reached the man first. “You heard the sheriff. Out you go.” He flung a rigid arm toward the door. “Either on your own two feet or flying. Makes no difference to me.”
Smith’s eyes shifted from Sanders to Brian to Hank to the other men, sizing them up.
Brian straightened his shoulders, puffed out his chest, and narrowed his eyes, giving Smith the firm message that he was not to be trifled with.
Smith hitched a shoulder in an insouciant shrug. “No skin off my nose if you’re planning wrong.” He wheeled about and stormed down the aisle.
The men stood in place, fists clenched, to watch him leave. Hearing the slamming door, they let out an almost collective breath, turned, nodded at each other, and returned to their places.
