"Hector! Hold up a minute." Bragg stepped out into the road in front of Hector's wagon and gave the horse a friendly slap. "Are you going up to get the body/"

"Yessir sheriff. Seems I'm the busiest person in town right now."

"Yeah, well good for you Hector. I want you to take Horace with you. Tell him I said to talk to the folks up there and see if anyone knows anything about what happened. Tell him to keep it delicate. O'Brien is with the town council right now so he won't be bothered by his goons. I'm gonna look up that Torrance fella. When he gets back, tell 'im to meet me at the office."

"Hector gave him a wide grin and snapped the reins, pulling away with a sharp jerk.

Wesley leaned in the back door of Granny's, calling to Megan who was busy scraping plates and washing dishes. "Will you be getting a break soon? There's something I want to talk to you about."

Megan wiped a damp strand of hair from her face with soapy fingers and sighed. "Granny might have seemed kind and generous the other day, but she's a real slave driver. The only break I get is for meals . . . when everyone else is done and the dishes are cleaned. It'll be an hour at least. What did you want?"

"It can wait an hour. I'll come back then." He showed an assuring nod and waved a brief farewell.

"Torrance."

Wesley started, hearing his name as he rounded the back of Granny's. "Sheriff?"

"I need to talk to you a minute. Can I buy you a drink?" Bragg's eyes dropped to the tied down holster on Wesley's thigh. "That how homesteaders outfit themselves these days?"

Wesley's hand rested on the gun butt and he murmured something Bragg didn't quite pick up. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Can we do it over at the saloon? I'm real dry." Bragg nodded at Wesley's shrug, and the two men ambled slowly over to the Hang "Em High.

"Two beers Paul." Bragg called out, steering Wesley to a table by the stairs. They sat down across from one another and waited for Paul to bring the drinks. Two beer glasses, looking like thimbles in the huge black hands, appeared in front of them. Bragg thanked the bartender and gave the suggestion of a toast before slurping off half the contents.

"Ahhh! That gets all the idle parts movin'."

"What did you want sheriff?" Wesley turned his own glass slowly on the table.

"Okay. If social ain't your style, let's get to it. The folks on the wagon train you helped, did they give any kind of description of this- this- what did you say they called him?"

"Benton. Valentine Benton. Nope, just a rough lookin' rider in a mixed bag of clothes. Said he was polite and had a nice smile."

"They say anything more about the clothes?"

"Nope."

Bragg slouched back studying the young man. He recognized the stubborn set of the faintly whiskered jaw; the beginning of permanent frown lines above the long, narrow nose, brought on by the unaccustomed burden of his tremendous loss. But the eyes, the green-grey eyes, showed a softness that contradicted the grim set of the mouth. Bragg could see the sorrow all right, but there was something else, something that belied the façade of revenge and anger. It was almost like a tenderness. He took another swig of his beer and set his glass down.

"You heard about last night? The woman up in Tent City?"

Wesley stared back, unmoving. "What about her?"

"Well did you hear or not?"

"Nope."

Bragg tipped his hat back and leaned his forearms on the table, his face set like stone. "Look Torrance, I'm not your enemy here. I want this man you're chasing as much as you do . . . maybe more. So far, excluding your family, I've got seven, possibly eight murders in my jurisdiction, plus three prison staff and a poor woman driven crazy." He watched the silent man in frustration. "This woman last night— well she looked like-like it might be the same man. I don't have no proof, but from what you told me, and other information I've picked up, it could be."

Wesley's jaw muscles rippled and his eyes rimmed with tears. "Where is he?" The words grated out in a hiss.

Bragg sat back again, palms flat on the table. "You might as well cool down son 'cause I don't know. And even if I did, tellin' you would be a poor move on my part." The silent tension between the two suddenly was broken by the bong of the saloon clock. Within seconds, the room transformed from an empty silent retreat to a place bustling with commerce. Old Coot pumped the player piano to life and Verna's girls hurried down the stairs to greet the sudden crowd of customers pushing through the swinging doors for their noon time revelry.

"Back again so soon Wes?" Verna came down the stairs and trailed a lazy hand across his back, seating herself comfortably between the two men.

"Wes?" Bragg offered, his eyebrows arching in surprise.

Verna smiled deliciously and raised a delicate hand to Paul. "Why sure Ethan, Wes and I are new old friends. Right Wes?"

"If you'll excuse me ma'am, I have an appointment to keep." He tipped his hat, and stood uncomfortably in the curious glare from the sheriff. "I think our business is through sheriff." Nodding his head, he strode purposefully from the saloon, banging the doors as he went.

"I don't usually have that affect on young men."

Ethan looked sideways at her as Paul deposited a fresh beer and a bottle and glass for his employer. "New, old friends Verna?"

Her fingers twiddled with the rose broach on her black velvet choker. "Mister Torrance and I had breakfast together." A glint of teasing humour lit her dark eyes.

Ethan made a clucking noise and took a sip of his new beer. Verna was right in her element, hinting at sly secrets, wiggling her way under his skin. His glance slid from the choker, down over the graceful line of her throat to the bare, creamy skin of her shoulders, continuing their glide over the tops of her breasts, to the black lace trim of her gown. The amused 'Tsk, tsk', snapped them back to her restrained, pouty smile.

"Penny for your thoughts, Ethan." She said grinning and sipping her drink.

"If a penny were enough, I'd gladly pay. Want to tell me about your ah, breakfast?"

"Did you get the extra men you wanted?" Verna asked, skirting the subject.

"Nope."

She drained her glass and quickly poured another. "The marshals gone?"

"Yep."

Verna glared at him angrily. "Ethan!"

"What do you want from me?" He took another gulp and set his beer on the table. 'If he shows up and I see him, I'll do what I'm paid to do . . . best I can."

Verna looked away, masking the strong feelings she felt, had always felt, for the sheriff of Buffalo Stump. "Will they be back, the marshals?"

"I don't know. I doubt it, they're headin' up to Golden Sky to check out your new, old friend's story about his family." He caught the hurt look on her face and softened. "I'm sorry Verna." He placed his hand on hers and she turned it over, gripping his possessively. "I didn't mean to sound harsh." They locked eyes, speaking volumes to one another, silently.

"Come upstairs with me Ethan . . . please?"

He started to wag his head, then slumped resignedly. "Sure. What the hell. Why not."

She slipped her arm about his waist and they started up the stairs. "No interruptions Paul, the sheriff and I have to talk some business."

"Just don't let Austin find out." Ethan smiled, draping his arm across her shoulders.

"I think he's in the next room— but we'll be quiet." She laughed aloud at his stricken look.

*****