She didn’t allow him to finish until she corrected him. “Excuse me, I’m Mrs. Forrest to you.”
McCall smirked. “Fine, Mrs. Forrest you didn’t go home last night.”
She felt more comfortable since knowing that she remembered her pistol. Before going to Marta’s house she stopped by her cabin to pick up some clothes and her .32 Smith and Wesson double action that Miles had purchased for her as a Christmas present. It fit in the pocket of her work dresses well because it was small and was hammerless.
“How do you know I didn’t go home?” she asked.
He swallowed deeply, McCall didn’t like to be put on the defensive. “I came by to check on you.”
Molly gave a little laugh. “To check on my or to snoop? It’s mighty dangerous to be peeking through someone’s window. Good way to get shot. Now, if you don’t mind I have work to do.”
“One more minute of your time, Mrs. Forrest,” he snapped his voice filled with bitterness. “I went through the wanted posters and didn’t see one that fit the description of the man yesterday.”
The front door opened, Molly glanced toward it. “Sheriff Gold,” she gushed. “Excuse me marshal, Charlie, have a seat, I need to talk with you.”
* * * *
I had been able to stop the bleeding in Jens’ leg. He had pulled a couple of stitches loose, nothing serious, just sore as the dickens.
“I thought Martin was supposed to get here yesterday,” he wailed, the took some deep breaths. “So the croaker was beat pretty badly?”
Nodding, I responded, “But it was more than that. They threatened to break or cut up his fingers. That would stop his doctorin’ days,” pausing for a moment I pulled at my moustache. “Think it was Abrams?”
“I know it was Abrams!” he barked, “but I can’t prove it. So no one recognized the man? Someone just wandered by and happened to start shooting through the hotel window, which also just happened to be my room. Bah!”
“The senorita over at the cantina might tell me somethin’. The owner, Ramon, he’d like to, but he’s scared out of his wits.”
I got up to leave. “Hold on, Miles. Help me out of this bed.”
“No, you stay there! The bleedin’ has stopped and I’ve got you patched up again,” I answered him in no uncertain terms.
“Just out to the chair in the lobby.”
Between his hobbling and my half carrying him he made it to the chair without opening up the wound again.
“Hand me my rifle,” he ordered.
After giving him the rifle I turned to leave and head to the cantina.
“Hold on,” came another order. “You mentioned someone called the Pale Rider. That he was stalking me. Tell me more.”
“The Pale Rider–Death, is seen in the last book of the Bible, the Book of Revelation.”
Putting up his hand, he broke into my explanation. “I know the Bible, I’ve heard enough fire and brimstone preachers in my time.”
“Fine, for some reason the Lord has allowed me to…