Hooves. A lot of them. He was moving before his mind finished the thought, jogging back toward the cabin, and by the time he crested the rise he could see them, plain riders, a dozen at least. Dust boiling up gold behind them in the afternoon light, and out front, unmistakable even at this distance, Deputy Voss on his gray mare with something small and dark glinting in his fist, a torch, unlit yet. Whit broke into a run.
By the time he reached the yard, the riders had already fanned into a loose half circle around the cabin. Close enough now that he recognized faces from town, men who'd stood cheering in that square 3 days back, now sitting their horses with considerably less certainty in their eyes than they'd worn in the crowd. Yennaba stood on the porch, unmoving, axe in hand though she hadn't raised it, just held it, waiting the way a held breath waits. Calder! Voss's voice cracked across the yard like a whip.
You had your fun. Time's up. Send the monster out and maybe maybe this town lets you keep breathing. Whit stepped up beside Yennaba on the porch. Didn't reach for his rifle, not yet.
She's got Mesa said. Try using it sometime. She's got a rope waiting. That's what she's got. Funny thing about that rope, Voss.
Whit let the words land slow, deliberate. Been thinking on how new it looked, how somebody had it ready before the crowd even gathered. Rope like that doesn't buy itself on account of some spontaneous burst of town justice. Something shifted across Voss's face. The same flicker Whit had caught in the square, quicker this time, but there, plain as a tell across a card table.
That's supposed to mean something, Voss said, a half beat too fast. Means somebody planned a killing, Whit said, and dressed it up nice and legal-looking so nobody'd ask questions. One of the riders, an older man Whit recognized from the mercantile counter, a man who sold him nails most Tuesdays, shifted uneasy in his saddle. Silas never said nothing about buying rope ahead of time, Voss. Did he?
Shut your mouth, Brewitt. I'm just saying. I said shut it. Voss's voice cracked sharp enough that even his own mare flinched under him, but the damage was already sitting in the yard, plain as the dust settling around them. Silas.
Whit filed the name away, same as he'd filed away every flicker on Voss's face so far. Didn't say it out loud. Didn't need to, not yet. Saying it now would only give Voss the chance to bury it back down before it had the chance to root anywhere. Sheriff Bragg send you out here personal, Voss?