That was when he’d noticed a familiar black horse hitched outside the saloon.
So far, Blake had failed to find out who was paying Hobie Evans and his gang to stir up trouble with the drylanders. His number one suspect was still the Calders, but he had no proof. Maybe it was time he faced Webb and straight out asked him. The Calders were capable of some skullduggery, but they weren’t known to be liars. If he could get Webb to talk, he might even learn something helpful.
With his mind made up, he tethered his horse to the rail out front and walked into the saloon. Webb was alone and on his feet, drinking at the bar. Blake walked up to the bar, ordered a whiskey, paid, and took a sip. Webb glanced at him, then looked away. They weren’t enemies. But they weren’t exactly friends either.
“Can I have a word with you, Webb?” Blake nodded toward a small empty table with two chairs in the far corner of the room.
“All right, as long as you make it short.” Carrying his glass, Webb ambled toward the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down opposite Blake. “So what’s this about?” he asked.
Blake gave him a quick summation of the damage that had been done to the homesteaders so far, some of which Webb already knew.
“Exactly why are you telling me this?”
“There’s a gang behind all the trouble—Hobie, Hoskins, Lem, and the Carmody brothers. I heard them talking. Somebody’s paying them to make trouble so that the homesteaders will sell out cheap and leave.”
“So?” Webb sipped his whiskey, studying Blake with narrowed eyes. “Do you think it’s me, or my father, paying those galoots?”
“That came to mind. Your family’s got money, and I know how much you hate the drylanders and want them gone. So is it you?”
Webb tilted back his chair. “Why should we throw down good money for something that’s going to happen anyway?”
“Go on.” Blake sipped his whiskey and waited.
“Right now, with all that wheat planted and growing, nothing’s going to get those honyockers off their land,” Webb said. “Let’s say the weather breaks, we get some rain, and they get a decent harvest this fall. All well and good. They’ll make some money and plan to grow more wheat in the spring. But none of them have ever lived through a Montana winter. In those little tar paper shanties, they’re going to freeze or maybe starve, or they’ll burn down their houses trying to keep warm. Oh—and the wolves. You’ve heard those howls at night. The packs will come down from the hills and go after any damn thing they can eat—animals, food stores, even people. My dad tells a story about some wolves that were so hungry they ate a leather harness.”
Webb finished his drink and set the glass down. “I guarantee you, any of those drylanders who are still alive by spring will be ready to pack up, sell out, and leave. But if they’re crazy enough to stay and plant another crop—you’ve lived here long enough to know what can happen—drought, storms, fire, sickness—you name it. They won’t last here. All we need to do is wait. So I ask you, Blake, why should we pay a bunch of hooligans to knock over a few chicken coops, scare the women, and burn down a privy or two?” Webb pushed out his chair and stood. “I’m not sure why you felt the need to ask, Blake, but I hope you just got your answer.” With that he turned away and walked out of the door.
Blake sat looking after him. Webb had done a lot of talking, and what he’d said made sense. It was true that if the ranchers didn’t drive the homesteaders out, the hard conditions probably would. But Webb hadn’t really answered Blake’s question. Was all the talk a smoke screen to hide what the Calders might be doing? It might pay to remain suspicious.
Leaving the saloon, Blake mounted up and headed south through town. The next couple of months would be a busy time at the sawmill, supplying boards and timbers for the buildings that had to be finished before winter snows set in and the mill had to shut down. He’d hired a good crew, and they worked well enough without him, but he needed to be there in case a problem or question arose.
Passing the bank, he saw that the crowd had dispersed and a crew was cleaning up after the barbecue. The buggy where Hanna had taken refuge was gone. He could only hope she was all right.
He drove on out of town, trying to focus his thoughts on the work at the mill. But his thoughts kept returning to Hanna and the stricken expression on her beautiful face.
Damn his brother for messing around with a vulnerable young girl. Mason deserved to be horsewhipped.
* * *
Hanna didn’t feel like talking. She gazed down at her hands while Ulli drove the buggy, going on about his house, which would be finished in a few weeks, about his wheat crop, and about his plans for the money the sale would bring. She imagined listening to the same one-sided conversation, in his flat, nasal voice, for the rest of her life. If anything, the thought made her feel even worse about what she’d done. Ulli was a good man, kind, honest, and responsible. If he wasn’t handsome, with a glib tongue and elegant manners, that wasn’t his fault. Maybe she should try harder to like him.
“Are you all right, Hanna?” His question broke into her thoughts. She realized that they’d left the town behind and were driving across the open prairie. Heat waves shimmered above the sun-scorched landscape. Two vultures circled on the updrafts, their black wings spread against the blinding sky.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Just tired, that’s all.”
“You aren’t saying much. Is there something you might want to tell me?”
“Not that I can think of.” Hanna looked away, brushing back a stray lock of hair. Her face felt hot.
Ulli took a deep breath, then pulled the buggy off the side of the trail and stopped. “Look at me,” he said.
Hanna turned back to face him but still couldn’t meet his gaze.
“Look at me, Hanna.” His voice was calm but firm. Hanna forced herself to look into his eyes. They were pale and etched with tiny red veins.
“I saw you today,” he said. “I saw you go into that alley by the store. I saw you come out, and I saw the way you looked. I didn’t see the man, but I imagine there was one.”
Hanna’s fingers twisted the fabric of her skirt. She dropped her gaze, unable to look at him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”
“You’re a lovely girl,” he said. “I was smitten the first time I saw you. But I should have known that you were too young and unsettled to be a wife to me and a stepmother to my children. I need a woman I can trust, a woman I can depend on to do her part.” He paused, as if preparing to say something painful. “Since we’ve made no promises to each other, I think it would be best if we parted.”
Tears welled in Hanna’s eyes—tears of relief and shame. She’d never wanted to marry Ulli. But she’d disgraced herself and shattered her family’s hopes. “You’re a good man, Ulli Swenson,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll find the right woman soon. Now please take me home. There’ll be no need to speak to my parents. I’ll tell them what happened.”
“Tell them whatever you want. If anybody asks me, we parted by mutual agreement, and anything else is no one’s business.”