XII

He dreamed of the mountain's striving defiance of wind, rain, and time. Of the promise of the horizon: a land without end. He dreamed of the strength of the earth, solid and true. It was a good dream. A strange dream, but good. It ended with him being shook awake, leaving only the fading resonance of a proud, craggy peak in his heart. He squinted at the bright, morning sunlight pouring in through the Jail's windows. He cleared his throat and scrubbed at his eyes to clear the gum of sleep away. Someone had put a blanket on him while he slept. It slid off him and pooled on the floor by his chair as he stretched the idleness from his body. He took stock of himself and found that he felt good. Better than, even. Not sore or stiff at all, except in the usual ways. A battered tin mug of steaming coffee sat on his desk. Hands clasped around her own, Jennie leaned against the wall next to him. “Mornin'.” she said.

He sat up, pulling his legs down and feeling the pins-and-needles begin to run their length as feeling slowly returned. He took up the mug and sipped at it, feeling the warmth spread into him. “Morning.” he returned. “What time is it?”

“Little after seven,” she answered. It was clear she hadn't slept. Sunken, tired eyes above deep rings of weary flesh. Her split lip scabbed over and somehow worse looking for it. Her bruised knuckles had swollen a little and that black-purple had spread across the back of her hand. He had mixed feelings about her letting him sleep the night through. They could have just as easily taken it in shifts. That way, they would both have been able to rest. At the same time, he could not help but appreciate that she had.

“Thank you,” he said, reaching for his boots. He didn't say for what. She nodded to him and took another drink from her coffee. He asked, “I miss anything?”

She shook her head, lips quirking into a small smile. “Not unless you count–” she was interrupted by an uproarious snore from the direction of the cells. “that.” she finished. He saw that Rupert Wagner had passed out at some point and now was laid on his back. He had somehow half-fallen out of the cot and was kept from completing the descent by a curious mercy of gravity. “Pretty pathetic looking, huh?”

He grunted and rose to his feet, stomping a few times to chase off the last of the pins-and-needles. “Yeah,” Caff agreed. Looking at him, it was hard to believe the things he'd done; beating on a woman, strangled her near-to death, and stood idle while a vampire tore her liver out. It wasn't right that he could be a heartless killer in one moment and an idiot drunk in another. A monster shouldn't ever be anything else. It wasn't right. “Yeah,” he said again.

His stomach growled, pangs of hunger making themselves known. He tried to remember his last meal. Might've been lunch yesterday. He couldn't remember dinner. O'Neil's would have a spread on about now, he could head over and see about breakfast. Some eggs, maybe, fluffy and lightly salted. Ham or bacon, thick-cut and fresh off the skillet. Fresh-baked bread, steaming as it split around a knife. Butter, salt and fat, melting into the bread. More coffee. If this day were anything like yesterday, he'd surely need it.

But it was not to be, it seemed, for there came the muted sounds of boots coming up the Jail's front steps. Some solid thumps, these. He looked to Jennie, who looked back and shrugged. He sighed quietly and set down his mug, moving towards the door as it swung inward, revealing Gus Swanson in a right state. Red-faced, forlorn, hat crushed in calloused, burn-scarred hands. Man's eyes were a touch red, and his brows were drawn low over them. He cleared his throat. “Um...mornin', Sheriff.” he said quietly.

“Morning, Gus.” Caff nodded. He traded places with Jennie, leaning against his desk while she dropped into his chair. She put up her boots and made herself comfortable, the wretch. “Everything okay? You look troubled.”

Gus nodded, freeing his hat from its stranglehold to run a hand over his scalp. “I – it's our boy, our Everett. He done...well...” He stopped, looking down again. Caff had placed the look to him as troubled but he was starting to think it might be closer to shame.

He moved closer, away from the cells, and slouched in front of Gus. His thumbs went into the belt loops on his jeans. “What happened?” Caff asked. The man's flush renewed itself, spreading across his neck and down into his sweat-stained collar. Caff wondered if the kid had come clean to his parents, had told them he'd been there the night Ruby died. Gus was quiet for a time, not meeting his eyes. “Come on, Gus,” he prodded, “you're already here. Just lay it out.”

Gus breathed in deep, visibly bracing himself, and said, “He's run off.” There was a tremble in his voice. “Of late, he's been...different. Angry, and – and sullen. Susie thinks it's just...young people's troubles. You know? Had his poor heart broken, or such, but...” He trailed off, doubt clear.

“You don't think so.” Caff finished. Any other kid, at any other time, and he figured Mrs. Swanson would be right. Her son would be off in some hidden place, drowning the sorrow of his poor, broken heart with snuck booze or something. This, though, was about what he'd seen. Caff'd put good money on it.

Gus shook his head. “I don't,” he agreed. “I...maybe I'm just old, and I don't clear recall what it's like to be young, but...he said some things, last night. Hurtful things, to me and his momma. I – I ain't never said nothing like that when I was his age.”

Caff was pretty sure, but he needed and wanted to be clear. “You and your boy fought?” He asked. “I mean, you argued?”

Gus' eyes fell to the floor. He nodded at his feet. “We did,” he admitted. The way the words dragged from his throat, it sounded like confession. It may have been, to Gus Swanson. “We – Susie and me – was trying to get him to talk to us. Just...we wanted to help, to understand. If – if he would just let it out, we thought, he could – we could...” He gave a shuddering sigh and wiped tears from beneath his eyes. He lifted his gaze to meet Caff's own, full of sorrow, shame, worry, and fear. “I know my boy, Caff. I do. He was scared. He was so scared. He got mean with it. Threatened us. I...I ain't never heard a boy his age say words like that. Not ever.”

Caff made a sympathetic noise, and waited.

Soon enough, Gus continued, “We...we didn't know what to do about it all, but we couldn't let that talk stand, so we sent him to bed without supper. This morning, I – I brought him some food. Thought maybe his temper had cooled.” A shuddering sob wracked his frame. He covered his mouth with a scarred, calloused hand. “He was gone,” he rasped. “bed unmade, window open! He stole our horse! Stole poor Trudy.”

Of the many horses that passed through the doors of Swanson Farrier, only one had a permanent residence. A short, brown-coated cart horse with a barrel-chest, stocky legs, and a foul temper. Trudy, fully titled as Gertrude, was the family's own. The old nag was fond of kicking the people she couldn't get with her flat, strong teeth. Of all the people in Calavera, Gus Swanson was the only one she'd never even tried to harm. She'd accept his hand, and none other. It didn't make sense, that Everett would be able to saddle the beast, let alone ride it.

“Did you notice anything?” Caff asked Gus, “Anything at all, might tell us where he's gone?”

Gus sniffled. He took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and blew his nose. “I'm sorry,” he murmured, “I'm sorry, I didn't. I tried, I truly did, but my eyes...they ain't so good these days.”

“And your wife? Mrs. Swanson notice anything?”

“No,” Gus sniffed again, shaking his head. “Well, sort of,” he amended, “Her eyes're keener than mine, but she lost him when he hit the road.”

“Well...” Caff drew the word out, thinking. Why the kid had run, and why now, he couldn't figure. If he was going to run, he would've done it before now. Wouldn't he? Still, it wasn't like those answered were needed now. It didn't matter why the boy had run right now, only that he needed finding. “Okay. Here's what we're going to do.” He clapped Gus on the shoulder. “I need you and your missus to be at home, just in case he comes back. Jennie,” he raised his voice, “is going to get us some horses. We'll round up Oz, he's the best tracker in town, and we are going to head out and we are going to find your son.”

Gus made to answer, relief on his face and a sort of faith in his eyes, but was interrupted. The door to the Jail burst open, admitting a Leland Heminger almost shaking with a kind of righteous anger. “I won't have it!” he snapped. “Not one more second of it, Sheriff! You hear me?!”

Caught completely off guard, Caff nodded, “I do,” he replied, “I just – what are you talking about, Leland?”

Leland drew himself up. Behind, in the doorway, stood one of his employees. She was small and slender, wearing a brown dress with a coating of dust on the hem, an apron, and sturdy, black-leather shoes. She cradled her wrist close to her chest, and had a mixed look of anger, fear, and embarrassment on her features. Her name – unless Caff missed his guess – was Agatha Blakely. “I am talking,” Leland declared, “about the menace that is his–” he pointed a gnarled finger at Gus' surprised face. “–son! He–”

He was interrupted by Gus, who seized him by the shoulders and demanded, “You seen him?! Today?! You've seen my boy?!”

The thing about confusion, or the unexpected, was that it could cut clear through any sort of situation if it was strong enough. Leland stammered to a halt. His mouth closed, brows drawing together. “I...” he said, in clear puzzlement. “not myself, no.” The other thing was that it usually didn't do so for long. He jabbed a finger into Gus' chest. “Miss Aggie here has! He assaulted her! Tried to abduct her for his own – his own purposes!”

Leland had not applied an ounce of pressure to that finger. It was words alone that had Gus staggering back. He caught himself against Jennie's desk. Shock, mixed with profound disbelief, was clear in every line of him. “No,” he shook his head, barely speaking above a whisper, “no, it couldn't be. Not Everett! Not never! He wouldn't!”

“He would!” Leland growled, “He did! Bruised Miss Aggie, and scared her half to death besides, and I want him locked up for it! Sheriff!” He turned his anger on Caff, who had just about recovered from being surprised. “I want him in a cell! I want him to know that his actions in this world have consequences!”

- - -

There had been a plan. That plan had called for breakfast. Then Gus showed up, and a new plan had been made, calling for a search party. Then Leland showed up, calling for yet another plan, and he was somewhat at a loss. Coming up with and discarding two ideas with someone yelling in his ear wasn't easy, and so he'd put aside in favor of separating the two men. Granted, it was mostly for Gus' sake. He looked like he was about to collapse, his face was so ashen. Caff had asked Jennie to see him back to Mrs. Swanson and get their horses on the way back. She had done so, guiding a now-weeping Gus Swanson out the door, leaving Caff alone with a still-fuming Leland and a still-quiet Miss Blakely.

The Jail's quiet was interrupted only by the log-sawing sounds of Rupert's snores. Miss Blakely peeked around Leland's shoulder to see him, still half-fallen from the cell's cot. The sight had a curious effect on her mood. That fear she'd brought with her lessened. It didn't go, not quite, but she wasn't looking as fragile as she once had. The anger, the embarrassment, those remained, but she looked to have somewhat found her footing. Caff was glad for her, and grateful. He didn't want to do it, but he needed to know what happened.

“Miss Blakely,” he said, drawing her attention. Her eyes flickered back to his. He cleared his throat and gestured to the hand she still cradled, though not as closely to her chest as before. “How's that hand? Should we send for the doctor?”

He had expected Leland to interrupt her, to demand that not only should Crabtree be sent for, it should be now. When he did not, it came as a surprise. Both of them waited for the few seconds it took for her to come to a decision. She shook her head and decided, “Naw, s'alright, Sheriff.” She rotated her wrist a few times and winced slightly. “Ain't sprained or nothin', just bruised.”

Caff nodded. “Good to hear,” he said, and it was. Now, for the rest. “I...do truly need to know what happened, miss. I ain't – I'm not asking for the fun of it. It's important that you tell me what happened between you and young Everett.”

Leland scowled mightily. “Can't this wait, Sheriff?” he demanded. “Least 'til your deputy gets back? Ain't happened but an hour ago.”

“That's why it can't wait,” Caff answered. He crossed his arms, then thought better of it and stuck his hands in his pockets. “You ran Gus off before you could hear, but last night Everett ran away from home. Took Trudy, too. Miss Blakely here,” he gave her a nod, “is the last person who's seen him. I need to know what she does, and fast. The longer we wait, the further away he gets, the less likely it is we find him.”

“And why do we need to find him?” Leland challenged. Caff fought the urge to groan. He had forgotten that the same quality he appreciated in Leland, his staunch loyalty to defense of people he cared for, could make him a stubborn mule at the drop of a hat. “I mean, sure I'd like for him to cool his heels in here a few days to learn a lesson about treating women, but I equally ain't fussed about him being gone.”

Caff did lose the battle to keep from lifting his eyes to the ceiling. He didn't pray, so much as he did look within himself for patience. “You know what happened yesterday?” he asked. Leland nodded, a good deal of that anger leaving his eyes. “It's to do with that. Before you start, he isn't a suspect, but he is a witness, and I need his testimony. So,” he gestured to Miss Blakely, who was now giving Leland a barely tolerant look. “if you'd be so kind as to not interrupt.” To her, he said, “When you're ready, miss.”

Miss Blakely breathed in and held it. A moment later, she nodded, and breathed out. Having steeled herself thus, she began, “I didn't think nothing of it, not at first...”