man was nobody’s fool. And he took his job and his responsibility to the town seriously, exactly as he should. But that admirable toughness might make it difficult for Thorn to turn the sheriff into an ally.
“All I know so far is what the doctor told me you said yesterday—that you’ve been riding with the Griggs gang, taking part in their robberies and raids, but you claim not to be one of them,” Bishop challenged. “Is that true?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“Then suppose you tell me right now what you were doing, robbing a bank with them yesterday? If you’re going to stay here in my town while you recover, then I need more of an explanation than I’ve gotten so far. Unless you want to receive the rest of your care in one of my jail cells, that is,” he added.
Thorn raised a hand—the one that wasn’t clenched into a fist, since the doctor was sponging that burning liquid over the wound in his shoulder—to indicate he was willing to talk, as soon as he could do so without groaning.
“I’m working for the State Police,” he said eventually. “My orders are to infiltrate the Griggs gang so that I can warn the authorities where the gang is likely to strike next. The goal is to set a trap to catch them in the act, so they can be brought to justice.” He kept his eyes locked on Bishop’s, and as he expected, suspicion remained in the lawman’s steady gaze. “You don’t have to believe me,” Thorn said. “You can telegraph the State Police headquarters in Austin. Address it to Captain Hepplewhite and he’ll confirm my identity and my assignment.”
“You’re working with the State Police,” Bishop repeated, with the same curl to his lip he might have had if Thorn had said he was employed by Ulysses S. Grant or William Sherman.
“Yes, although at heart I still consider myself to be a Texas Ranger rather than a state policeman. I was a Ranger and stayed here to protect Texas rather than going off to war, and God willing, I’ll be able to call myself a Ranger again someday.”
He thought the frost melted a little in Bishop’s eyes at his last remark, but the lawman’s tone was as cold as ever when he spoke again. “If that was the plan, why weren’t you able to warn us before our bank was robbed?”
“I just joined the gang a fortnight ago. Griggs doesn’t fully trust me yet, so he doesn’t confide his plans to me,” Thorn said. “His closest men watch me like a hawk. Reckon it’ll take a while before they trust me enough so that I’ll know of a holdup far enough ahead of time that I can sneak away to warn the law. Meanwhile, my orders are to play along with whatever the gang chooses to do, so that I can win their trust, while avoiding harming the citizenry, of course.”
“Sounds like the kind of harebrained scheme the carpetbag government police would come up with,” Bishop said with a sneer. “What makes you think they’ll ever trust you that much, if you’re not shooting innocent people right along with them? Maybe they’re just playing along, pretending to trust you, till they catch you ratting on them.”
His last remark played right into Thorn’s deepest fear. He’d been warned that the plan was dangerous, that the Griggs gang would show no mercy if they found him out.
“Maybe they are,” he agreed. “It’s the chance I’ve agreed to take.” The gang would just continue hurting decent people until they were stopped. Thorn might not be proud to say he was a state policeman, but he’d certainly be proud to play a role in stopping Griggs and his gang. And besides, it wasn’t as if anyone would miss him if he failed and paid the ultimate price.
He’d thought his last admission would be enough to satisfy Bishop, but evidently the lawman was even harder than he appeared, for his gaze remained narrowed. “What makes a fellow willing to take such a risk as you’re taking, Dawson? Money?” he murmured, in a tone that suggested the topic was of only mild interest—though the intensity in his eyes told a different story.
“They’ll pay me well enough, if I succeed,” Thorn drawled, in that same careless tone the sheriff had used.
“Maybe so, but I don’t believe that’s all there is to it,” Bishop shot back. “What is it you’re atoning for?”
The man was too shrewd. Thorn shifted his gaze, hoping the other man hadn’t seen the wince that gave away how accurate the shot-in-the-dark question had been, and set his jaw. “I reckon that’s my business, Sheriff, especially since it has nothing to do with the Simpson Creek bank or anything else about this town. And I’ll tell you right now that Mrs. Henderson and her boy have nothing to fear from me.”
He kept his eye staring unblinkingly at the man, hoping the sheriff could see how deeply and truly he meant the words. After a long moment, the lawman shrugged. “You can keep your secrets, Dawson. But you go back on your word and do one ounce of harm to Mrs. Henderson and her boy, or anyone else in this town, and I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.”
Thorn could tell the sheriff meant what he said. Good thing he’d rather die than harm one hair on Daisy Henderson’s head—or Billy Joe’s. But couldn’t his presence here potentially harm her by sullying her reputation? He’d have to remedy that as soon as he was able—by leaving once he’d recovered enough to be able to ride again.
“By the way, Dr. Walker, how’re your other patients doing? The teller and the bank president, I mean?” Thorn asked. In truth, he had been worried about the two bank robbery victims, but he also hoped his query would further strengthen the evidence that he was a good man.
Dr. Walker looked pleased that Thorn had inquired, but Sheriff Bishop showed not so much as a flicker of approval. The man would be an excellent cardsharp, if he ever decided to give up being a lawman, Thorn thought. His face revealed nothing.
Fine with Thorn. He wasn’t here to make friends. He was here to see Griggs and all his miserable thugs land in jail where they belonged. And the sooner he could get back to that task, the better.
* * *
“When did you become such a clock watcher, Daisy?” Tilly inquired, as Daisy dished up yet another helping of the day’s special, chicken and dumplings, and handed it to the waitress.
Daisy wrenched her gaze away from the clock on the shelf above the sink. “I don’t mean to be,” she said. Trust the other woman to notice if Daisy’s attention wandered off of her work for so much as a second. Tilly seemed to resent even the brief half hour Daisy could call her own during the workday, even though she received her own work break right after Daisy returned, during which time Daisy had to take on the waitressing as well as the cooking. “I just need to go home on my break to check on things, that’s all.”
“Things” meant the wounded man in her barn, of course. Had she been right to leave him to her son’s care? Though he’d been asleep, she had thought that Dawson had looked well enough when she’d left for work. She hadn’t seen any indication that an infection was troubling him, or that he was sleeping poorly. But who knew what could happen in her absence? Maybe his wound had reopened, causing him to bleed to death, or maybe a fever had spiked and he’d died. But no, surely Billy Joe would have run to report to her if any calamity had happened. She’d told him to let her know if there was a problem. Had the doctor returned to check on his patient this morning as he’d promised to?
She knew why she was worrying so much. It wasn’t really because of the man himself, but because of the memories he stirred of Peter. She still blamed herself—would always blame herself—for the way her brother’s injury had led to his death when she was supposed to be looking after him. She couldn’t let that happen
