"You've caused enough damage for one day, Miss Marsh," he said. "Tend that arm. Be gone by morning."
Colette stepped closer. "I rode nearly six hundred miles to ask one question. I won't leave because you answered a different one."
For a moment, the lawman and the armed woman stood within reach of each other. Whitfield lowered his voice.
"A badge has buried stronger people than you."
"Then it had better dig quickly."
Colette turned away before anger made the decision for her. Behind her, Whitfield entered his office and locked the door.
Mrs. Holloway was waiting beside the dry goods store. The old woman's face had lost what little color it possessed.
"Miss Marsh," she whispered. "There is something I should have told you before you spoke that name in front of him."
Mrs. Holloway led Colette through the dry goods store and locked the door behind them. The room smelled of coffee beans, cotton cloth, and leather darkened by years of handling. Evening light entered through the front window, falling across shelves of flour, lamp wicks, and tin cups. The shopkeeper set the shotgun beneath the counter. Her hands had begun to tremble.
"I was in Carver's Bend when your brother died."
Colette felt the room narrow around her. "You saw it?"
Mrs. Holloway nodded. "My sister lived above the Golden Rail. I was helping after she took sick. Your brother came into the saloon that evening. He was not drunk. He was not looking for a fight."
"The report said he accused a stranger of cheating."
"He accused a deputy."
Colette said nothing. Mrs. Holloway looked toward the wall separating her store from the marshal's office across the street, as if Whitfield might hear through boards, glass, and distance.
"Thomas caught him dealing from a marked deck. The deputy was taking wages from drovers who could not afford to lose them. Your brother turned one of the cards over and showed the table where it had been nicked along the edge."
"Whitfield?"
The old woman swallowed. "He wore a deputy's badge then. But yes. Amos Whitfield."