“He needs a sheriff,” Ellen said cryptically.
“I’d heard Max Wheeler was sheriff.”
“That was before the gold. He doesn’t want the job now that the county’s grown. The man’s almost sixty. He’s only serving until they find someone official.”
“Sounds dangerous. Besides, I’m going to be far too busy.”
“Ranching,” Ellen smiled.
“Ranching,” Jim repeated with a nod.
“Lead the way then, my rancher husband.” Ellen looped her arm through his. “How many supplies do you think we’ll need?”
“It’s a long way,” Jim said. “Enough food for a couple weeks at least, a spare canteen or two, a rifle, ammunition, blankets, another—”
Ellen interrupted him with a laugh.
“What?” Jim squeezed her shoulder.
“You make it sound like we’re an army going on a campaign.”
“No. That’ll come after we’ve bought the cattle.”
“You pick up the supplies,” Ellen said. “I’ve got to head to the bank.”
She leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Jim watched her go. Then he went on into the general store. Sam Waters met him at the door.
“Jim, nice to see you,” he said with an offered hand.
Jim took the hand, squeezing it firmly. “Sam, or is it Mayor Waters now?”
“For the richest man in the county? Sam will do.”
“I don’t know about the richest,” Jim said. “Seems like you’re doing fine business here.”
“Not so well as up on the hill.”
“Your second store?”
“Place is printing money. Tough to find help up there. They keep running off to the creek hunting gold,” Sam said. “But you didn’t come here to talk about all that. What can I help you with?”
“Supplies, going to take a trip with Ellen,” Jim said. He listed what he wanted, waiting while Sam had his helpers gather up the items, then settling the account.
“An awful lot here,” Sam said. “Stocking up for the winter?”
“Ellen says it’s enough to feed an army. But she and I are going on a trip, is all.”
“I’ll have the boys help you load it up,” Sam said.
“Thanks. I’ve got a spare horse up front.”
Jim was just securing the last bundles on his packhorse, thinking he needed a second one, when a chorus of gunfire erupted. It came from up the street, near the bank.
Ellen. Ellen went to the bank.
Jim ran up the street, pistol drawn. Fear pressed in on him like a vise. Where was she? Where was his wife?
A horse reared in the street ahead. The man on his back held a pistol overhead. He fired into the crowd nearby, cursing. Men and women fled in fear. Then the rider saw Jim. His eyes widened, and he raised his pistol.
Jim’s own pistol bucked. A cloud of dust jumped from the rider’s chest and he jerked in the saddle. The rider’s gun went off, too low—the bullet struck the dusty street five feet in front of Jim.
Jim put a second shot into the rider’s chest, an inch from the first.
More mounted men were in the street then, just outside the bank. They were shooting wildly, but Jim didn’t know what they were aiming at. Answering shots rang out from a few of the buildings. Jim wasn’t certain who the men were or what they wanted. Some looked familiar, but he couldn’t place them. He wanted only to find his wife. To make sure she was safe.
Maybe she hadn’t made it to the bank before they struck. Maybe she’d finished her business and headed back to meet him.
“Let’s go,” one of the riders yelled. The rest of them turned, still shooting, but spurring their horses for the edge of town. One of them, a stocky man with a green shirt and a black hat, tickled at his memory. He’d seen him before.
Jim ran past the man he’d killed without slowing. He burst through the bank doors. A man in a suit lay on the floor, bleeding from a head wound. Another lay face down behind a long desk. Several women sat against the walls, most huddled over and crying.
“Ellen?” Jim said. Where was she?
Then he saw her. She was leaning over a third wounded man, trying to staunch the bleeding in his arm.
“Ellen.”
“Jim,” she said, and rose to meet him. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close.
