Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

Bill had never seen anything like it, either. Not in all his days. And he’d grown up in a family of excellent marksmen, skilled with both long guns and pistols.

“Can I keep the skin?” Roger asked Thatcher.

“Makes no difference to me.”

Assured that Harold was all right, Thatcher went back to the corral and directed his concern to the stallion as he thrashed around the paddock, his eyes crazed, whinnying at a high pitch.

Fred Barker said to Bill, “I’ve had about all the excitement I can stand for one afternoon. I’ll leave you to ask your questions of Mr. Hutton. After witnessing what you just did, you prob’ly have a few more.”

He motioned for Roger to go along with him. They walked off together with Roger chattering nonstop about Thatcher’s incredible shot and his prize snake skin.

Bill turned to Harold, who still hadn’t said a word. Bill guessed he hadn’t quite regained his senses, and who could blame him? “What did you come out here for, Harold?”

“Oh, uh, to tell you that the J.P. turned Wally’s body over to the undertaker.”

“I want to take another look at him before he’s embalmed.”

“Figured that. I told the undertaker to hold off till you got there.” Harold looked over at Thatcher. “Guess I owe him a thanks.”

“No, go on. Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

Appearing both relieved and humbled, Harold turned and walked off in the direction of the auto shop.

For several minutes, Bill watched Thatcher talking soothingly to the stallion, then walked over to join him. The horse had been kicking at the fence as he bucked and reared. He’d settled down somewhat, but his ears were still flattened back. As Bill sidled up to Thatcher, he asked, “Did he hurt himself?”

“I was afraid he might’ve. So far, though, no signs he did. I didn’t stop to think how the gunshot would booger him.”

“You reacted out of reflex.”

“I saw Harold about to step right into that rattler and…” He trailed off, raising a shoulder.

“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

“On the ranch. Part of the job.”

Bill looked at him skeptically. “Quick draw?”

“Never know when you’ll have to fend off a predator.”

“Of every sort, I would imagine.”

“You name it. Wolves. Coyotes. Rattlers.”

“Rustlers?”

Thatcher looked at him, his eyes hard and alight with anger. “What? You think I’m a hired gun or something?”

Bill didn’t back down. “Are you? Have you ever killed a man, Mr. Hutton?”

“Plenty. I was a hired gunman for Uncle Sam.” He spoke with soft but angry emphasis, then turned back to watch the stallion. “I think he’ll settle. He just got spooked. I’m calling it a day.” As he turned away from the paddock, Bill fell into step with him.

“Did you come straight here from the jail?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’s your duffel bag?”

“In the stable.”

“Get it. I’ll drive you.”

“No thanks, I’ll walk.”

“I’ll drive you.”

* * *



Once underway, the sheriff said, “Strange day.”

It was clear to Thatcher that Sheriff Amos still harbored some suspicion of him. If it hadn’t been for that goddamn diamondback… But it had happened, and the sheriff had seen it, and now he’d tossed out a remark that Thatcher didn’t think was offhanded. Unsure of how he was expected to respond, he didn’t.

“For instance,” the sheriff continued, “on my way to the office this morning, I came across Irv Plummer. That old truck of his was pulled off to the side of the road.”

“Broken down?”

“Overloaded.”

Thatcher was curious, but pretended not to be.

The sheriff said, “He was moving.”

“Moving what?”

“Domiciles.”

Thatcher looked over at him then. “Domiciles?”

“He’s rented a house out on the north side of town. With a sickly grandbaby, he thought it best to be closer in.”

“They were moving today?”

“He said his daughter-in-law had put her foot down.”

It would be a small foot, but Thatcher could envision her planting it firmly and issuing an ultimatum, spine stiff, chin angled up. It was an image he would enjoy dwelling on if he were alone. He said, “Did he say how the baby’s doing?”

“They took her to Dr. Perkins. He gave her some medicine.” The sheriff made a right turn and honked at a spotted dog that was trotting down the center of the street.

“Then,” he said, picking up where he’d left off, “after releasing you, and while I was at home having lunch, I got two telephone calls. The first was to notify me of a homicide.”

Thatcher’s heart thumped. “Mrs. Driscoll?”

“No. No sign of her yet, and the search parties are getting weary.”

“They can’t stop looking.”

“My office won’t. But volunteers are just that: volunteers. They’ve got businesses to run, farms to work, cattle to tend. In all truth, Mr. Hutton, we may never know what happened to her.”