Blood at Bear Lake by Gary Franklin Read Free Book Online Page A

right. How much?”
    â€œQuarter.”
    Joe nodded. “I’m in.”
    He sat back and sipped the coffee, which was better than he expected. Maybe he would be pleasantly surprised about the rest of the breakfast here, too.
    While he waited, he went back over what little he knew about Sam Farnsworth’s killers. It was little enough. Just the sounds of some scuffling and two voices. No names. Nothing unusual enough in either the movements or the talking that he could pin down for someone else to recognize.
    A few noises. And a dead man left lying in the dirt of a livery barn floor.
    Joe wouldn’t say that he had gotten to know Sam Farnsworth, but the man had been decent to him. And somewhere, Farnsworth likely had family. Now they might never know what became of him. He might simply have vanished in the vastness of the West.
    Like Fiona. God! Fiona.
    Where was she this morning?
    Was she riding her sorrel mare up here even now, heading for the home of her photographer friend?
    While he waited for his food, Joe closed his eyes and in the privacy of his mind chanted a plea of supplication to the gods of the Lakota and the Blackfoot.
    He did not open his eyes again until a rich, warm aroma filled his nostrils, and the cook set a pewter plate down in front of him.
    Joe smiled then.
    He knew what he wanted to do when he got back to Tolbert’s house.

15
    BY THE TIME Joe finished his breakfast, the sun was almost clear of the horizon and people were beginning to stir around town, heading to their places of work, opening shops, and preparing for the day to come.
    Joe ducked into an alley and managed—he hoped—to get back to Tolbert’s house without anyone paying attention to him. More to the point, he got there without having to see too closely any of the local folks who were out on the streets now.
    He was grinning when Christine Wilcox let him in at the back door. “You’re just in time for breakfast,” she told him.
    â€œOh, I’ve already had mine, but I want t’ talk with Tolbert, thanks.”
    â€œThen sit down. That chair over there if you don’t mind. Tolbert always sits here. Coffee?”
    â€œPlease.” Times when Joe would refuse a cup of coffee— or a glass of something stronger—were rare. He took the seat she indicated, dropping his hat onto the floor under it.
    â€œI’ll get my husband.” She poured coffee for Joe before she disappeared into another room, presumably to tell Tolbert that they had company. When she came back, she began filling a plate. “He will be right out.”
    â€œThank you, ma’am.”
    Christine set the plate onto the table, poured coffee at that place, and left the kitchen. Tolbert came in a moment later in undershirt and galluses. He had a dab of shaving soap under his jaw. The soap dangled free and wobbled when he spoke. “Good morning, Joe. Sleep well?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œAre you ready to put that badge on and start deputying?”
    Joe smiled. “Deputying. Is that a word?”
    â€œIf it isn’t, then it oughta be. You ready?”
    â€œI’m ready enough, but if you don’t mind a suggestion, I’d like to lay one out for you.”
    â€œOh, I’ll listen to most anything. We’ll see where I take it from there.”
    â€œD’you know the best way to trap a mountain lion, Tolbert, or a big tom bobcat?”
    â€œWhat has . . . no, Joe, I wouldn’t know about that.”
    â€œYou want to bait them in, Tolbert. An’ the best bait for a lion is a plain, ordinary kitten. A house cat if you can find one.”
    â€œA kitten?”
    â€œYes, sir. I used t’ know men who would buy or trap all the kittens they could find before they left Saint Louie and carry them into the mountains in cages. Stake one o’ them down and lay your traps out . . . you’re damn sure”—Joe remembered too late where he was and gave