Chapter 4 - Four O’Clock at Callaway Ranch
By sunset, Ethan had followed the shooter’s tracks three miles into the mountains before losing them near a frozen creek.
The horse had been shod.
The rider knew the land.
That was all he could determine.
Martha spent those hours beside Ruth.
The old woman’s headache returned twice but was less severe than the previous night.
She ate broth.
She kept it down.
Her hands stopped trembling for nearly an hour.
Small improvements.
Meaningful ones.
Martha recorded everything.
When Ethan returned, snow clung to his coat.
“Nothing?”
Martha asked.
He shook his head.
“Tracks disappear at the creek.”
“Price?”
“Could be.”
“Could also be someone he paid.”
Ethan removed his hat.
“You’re getting better at saying maybe.”
“I learn quickly.”
He looked tired enough to fall asleep where he stood.
Martha pointed toward the chair.
“Sit.”
“I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t a question.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“Starting to sound like me.”
“God forbid.”
Ruth laughed from the bed.
Ethan sat.
For three days Martha remained at Callaway Ranch.
Each morning Ruth improved slightly.
Each evening Ethan expected a new attack.
None came.
That worried him more.
Martha noticed.
“You want something to happen.”
“No.”
“You keep watching the windows.”
“Somebody shot at us.”
“Yes.”
“And I’d like them to try again when I’m ready.”
“That may be the stupidest sentence I’ve heard this year.”
“It’s February.”
“There’s time for competition.”
Ethan looked at her.
Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.
It was brief.
Low.
Almost rusty.
Martha realized she had never heard it before.
The sound changed his face.
She disliked how much she noticed.
She turned toward the stove.
“Ruth needs food.”
“She ate an hour ago.”
“I need something to do.”
His laughter stopped.
Martha regretted the honesty.
She began chopping carrots.
Ethan leaned against the table.
“Town calls you buffalo girl.”
The knife stopped.
Silence expanded between them.
Ethan immediately looked as though he wished he could pull the words back.
Martha continued chopping.
“They call me worse when they’re drunk.”
“I heard it.”
“Congratulations.”
“I should’ve stopped it.”
She looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because it’s cruel.”
“Ridgewater survives mostly on cruelty disguised as humor.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“No.”
She resumed chopping.
“But I don’t need you fighting every man who says something ugly about me.”
“I wasn’t offering to.”
“Good.”
“I was offering to break their noses.”
Martha looked up.
His expression remained completely serious.
Against her better judgment, she laughed.
Ruth called from upstairs.
“If either of you starts courting, do it quieter.”
Martha nearly dropped the knife.
Ethan looked horrified.
“Ma!”
Ruth’s voice floated down.
“I’m sick, not deaf.”
Martha focused very carefully on the carrots.
Ethan muttered something about impossible women and went outside.
But when Martha looked through the window a moment later, she saw him smiling.
The next morning they rode into Ridgewater.
Ethan wanted evidence.
Martha wanted answers.
Ruth insisted on coming.
“No.”
Ethan’s refusal shook the room.
Ruth put on her coat.
“Yes.”
“You can barely walk.”
“I can sit in a wagon.”
“Someone shot at this house.”
“And therefore I should hide in bed while everyone decides my life for me?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Martha intervened.
“Ruth, if you go, people will see you improving.”
“That is precisely why I’m going.”
Ethan stared.
Ruth smiled.
“If somebody believes I’m dying, I’d like to disappoint them.”
There was no argument Ethan could win after that.
They entered Ridgewater shortly before noon.
Conversation stopped.
Martha sat beside Ruth in the wagon.
Ethan drove.
People stared openly.
Ruth Callaway had not been seen in town for months.
And Martha Boone, the buffalo girl, was sitting beside her like family.
Dr. Price heard within minutes.
He came rushing from his office.
“Ruth!”
Ruth lifted one hand.
“Harlan.”
“You shouldn’t be out.”
“That seems to be everybody’s favorite opinion.”
Price looked at Martha.
“What have you given her?”
“Food,” Martha said.
“Water.”
“Rest.”
“And I stopped your tonic,” Ethan added.
Price’s face changed.
Martha saw the fear again.
He stepped closer.
“You have no idea what you’re doing.”
Ruth looked directly at him.
“My headaches are improving.”
“That proves nothing.”
“It proves I enjoy not drinking your medicine.”
A few townspeople laughed nervously.
Price flushed.
“May I speak privately?”
“No,” Ethan said.
Price looked around.
“You’re humiliating yourself.”
Ruth smiled.
“I’m seventy-one years old. Humiliation lost its power around sixty.”
They left him standing in the street.
At Jensen’s Laundry, Martha collected clothing and checked on Mr. Jensen.
Then she went to the telegraph office.
She sent a message to a physician in Denver whose name appeared in her mother’s journal.
DR ELIAS WARD. NEED INFORMATION REGARDING NAOMI BOONE, HARLAN PRICE, POSSIBLE CHRONIC POISONING. URGENT. MARTHA BOONE, RIDGEWATER.
The reply arrived that evening.
Only six words.
DO NOT TRUST PRICE. COMING TOMORROW.
Martha read it twice.
Ethan stood beside her.
“You know Ward?”
“No.”
“Your mother did?”
“Apparently.”
They turned to leave.
Someone blocked the doorway.
Walter Phelps.
Price’s assistant.
He looked terrified.
“I need to talk to you.”
Ethan stepped forward.
“Talk.”
“Not here.”
“Why?”
Phelps swallowed.
“Because Dr. Price will kill me if he knows.”
Martha watched his face.
He was sweating despite the cold.
“Then come with us.”
Phelps shook his head violently.
“No. I can’t.”
“Walter,” Martha said, “what has Price been giving Ruth?”
His lips trembled.
“I don’t know everything.”
“What do you know?”
Phelps glanced toward the street.
“Three drops.”
“Three drops of what?”
“I never saw the bottle label.”
“Where is it?”
“In his locked cabinet.”
Ethan moved closer.
“Why are you telling us?”
Phelps looked sick.
“Because Ruth isn’t the first.”
Martha’s heart sank.
“How many?”
Phelps whispered.
“I know about four.”
The same number of dead names in Naomi’s journal.
Martha grabbed his sleeve.
“Who?”
He opened his mouth.
Then a gunshot cracked somewhere down the street.
Phelps jerked.
Everyone screamed.
Ethan pulled Martha behind the wall.
The shot had not hit Phelps.
But it had struck the telegraph-office sign inches above his head.
A warning.
Phelps went white.
“He knows.”
Ethan looked toward the rooftops.
“Who?”
Phelps backed away.
“I can’t.”
“You came to us.”
“I made a mistake.”
He ran.
Ethan started after him.
Martha stopped him.
“Let him go.”
“He has evidence.”
“He’ll come back.”
“How do you know?”
“Because fear brought him this far.”
She looked at the bullet hole above the door.
“And whoever fired just gave him a reason to finish the journey.”
That night Phelps disappeared.
The next morning Dr. Elias Ward arrived from Denver.
And before he even removed his coat, he handed Martha a sealed envelope her mother had written seven years before her death.
On the front were five words.
May you like
For my daughter, if necessary.
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