Six out of aurora, p.23
Six Out of Aurora, page 23
When it came time to shake Geneva’s hand, McCloud pressed her hand between both of his. “I went to check on Emma this morning. She’s doing much better, and that’s down to you. Thank you.”
Geneva smiled. “It’s down to her as well. It’s as much about the patient as the doctor.”
Castor wondered if that was true about everything in life, at least a little. He’d have to talk to Geneva about it later. But for now, they each said their goodbyes to McCloud and Castor sent one off to McKinnon too, though he didn’t think McCloud would deliver it if he knew what was good for him.
“It’s been a strange sort of pleasure,” McCloud said in farewell. Castor wondered whether or not his curly hair still smelled of river water. He left the stables where they’d kept their horses since the incident at Mackay’s, and the three of them were alone.
Castor liked Farn McCloud, even liked this city when people weren’t trying to kill him, but he didn’t think he’d want to come back anytime soon. He missed Aurora and the hills of his ranch and the dilapidated barn that he was starting to put back in good condition. It felt strange to want something again; since he’d left Colorado, it felt like all the wanting had been burned out of him. But now he couldn’t wait to get home, couldn’t wait to be home with people around him. These two people, at least.
“I figure we’ll take the toll roads back. Quicker,” Castor said, and the other two nodded. “I do have one stop I think we should make.”
* * *
* * *
Three days later, the three of them stopped in Volcano, where the flowers Geneva had left on Adams’ grave had already wilted in the late spring heat. She replaced them, crouching down and murmuring a few words to him before stepping back. Esparza stood silently at the end of the grave. Castor had no idea what he was thinking, but whatever silent communion his friends had with Adams was their business. Castor had his own words to say.
Adams still had only a makeshift wooden cross marking his grave, but Castor would make sure he’d get one of these headstones. Castor already knew what it would say:
ARTHUR ADAMS
1837–1893
FRIEND AND LAWMAN
But for now Castor knelt by the grave and put a hand to the soil. It was warm from the sun, rich and dark, the kind of place a man might enjoy lying out on to watch the clouds drift by.
Castor hadn’t asked Adams whether he was afraid to die. He thought he knew the answer without having to ask. Adams had lived his life justly, and well, and even in his last moments, all he’d wanted to do was make sure the right thing got done. Men like him didn’t come around every day, and Castor didn’t think he’d ever meet his equal, much less be his equal. But he could be the person he wanted to be and, more important, be a person he believed in.
“Thank you,” he said, and then rejoined his friends.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
When the three of them rode back into Aurora three days later, they garnered plenty of stares. Some were confused; they’d left with six, after all, and had returned with only three. But the townsfolk seemed content to stare and murmur for the moment. That would change soon, Castor knew, but he was glad he had time to swing down from his horse and tie her to the hitching post before anyone asked any questions.
Geneva dismounted also. She’d be going back to her rooms at the hotel, of course. It would be strange not to see her at night before heading off to sleep, or first thing in the morning. Strange how quickly one could get used to a thing. If he wanted to see her tomorrow, he’d have to find a reason. At least, he thought, that reason wouldn’t be life or death, and it wouldn’t have anything to do with stitching up a wound.
“I expect I’ll see you soon,” she said softly. She had a lovely smile, Castor thought, and wondered if anyone had ever told her that.
But instead of saying that, he asked, “Do you think we could use Mrs. McNair’s picnic basket for its intended purpose one of these days?”
He surprised her. He could see it in the widening of her eyes and her smile both. “Are you asking me to join you for a picnic lunch, Mr. Castor?” she asked. Her voice sounded delighted. At his nod, she said, “I’ll certainly ask for use of the basket, though I can promise you my attendance with or without it.”
“I’ll look forward to that, then.”
“So will I.”
Before she could say anything else, a boy’s voice shouted, “Doc!” and a beige blur came rushing toward Geneva’s horse. It was the boy from the saloon, though Castor couldn’t remember his name. He threw his arms around her and looked up at her, two gaps between his grinning teeth. “You’re back!”
“I surely am,” she said. She bade farewell to Castor and Esparza, then started across to the saloon, one arm around the boy and the other leading her horse.
“Are you ready to face them?” Esparza asked, hitching his horse next to Amity.
Castor knew what he meant without asking. Adams had two deputies, and neither of them would relish hearing of his death. Odds were some word had gotten back already; the sheriff’s man in Volcano would like as not have passed word on, and the questions they’d face wouldn’t have good answers, not if they told the truth.
“Think it’s too late to catch that boat to the Yukon?” Castor asked, glancing up at Esparza.
He laughed. “Think it’s probably already left San Francisco.”
“Too bad.”
“All for the best,” Esparza said. “It might be too cold up there for a picnic.”
“Don’t you start,” Castor replied.
He wondered whether this easy camaraderie would last once they went inside. Once they had to speak of Adams’ death and Buller’s betrayal and the Herbert lies and theft. None of that would be easy. Almost absentmindedly, Castor pulled Adams’ badge from his pocket. The afternoon sun caught on the star and it shined as bright as its namesake for a moment.
“What are you planning on doing with that?” Esparza asked, gesturing to the marshal’s badge.
Castor didn’t know. Adams had given it to him, after all. Whether or not he wore it, he was going to keep it; that, he knew.
“I think it might suit you,” Esparza suggested when he didn’t reply. He started up the steps to the marshal’s office, pausing to say over his shoulder, “That is, if you’ve already finished mending your fences.”
Castor grinned. There was always more work to be done, but the fences, he thought, were mended.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Ralph Compton stood six foot eight without his boots. He worked as a musician, a radio announcer, a songwriter, and a newspaper columnist. His first novel, The Goodnight Trail, was a finalist for the Western Writers of America Medicine Pipe Bearer Award for best debut novel. He was the USA Today bestselling author of the Trail of the Gunfighter series, the Border Empire series, the Sundown Riders series, and the Trail Drive series, among others.
D. B. Pulliam is a debut author from Northern California and a bookseller/manager for Copperfield's Books in Santa Rosa.
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D. B. Pulliam, Six Out of Aurora
