“Dunno. Best we can do is keep on as we have and hope to find ’em.”
With all in agreement, they wrapped up and plodded on, each dismally considering how much time had elapsed between Hennessey’s abduction and flight and the posse’s discovery of such to follow in pursuit.
The fall of rain had slowed, only to give way to a rising wind. Bits of this and that were being flung about, through the grass, from the trees, across the trail. Lightning sizzled and snapped in the boiling mass of clouds overhead, with an occasional boom of thunder.
“Listen.” Paul held up a gloved hand, and the group paused once more.
Gloom and doom resounded in the crack of a breaking branch here and there, and the thump of something heavy falling from a great height to land onto sodden earth. So much area, so many towering trees twined together, the tallest forming a canopy which held off some of the worst of the storm. In the squelch of mud, every so often, by the eerie, flickering dim light of kerosene lanterns being gently bounced, could be seen the faint imprint of a horse’s hoof, not yet washed away or filled in. Each fresh sighting gave them hope that they were still on the right trail, after all.
“You ever done this kinda search work b’fore, Paul?”
It was Ben’s undefined need for reassurance. How, after hours, possibly days of a desperate quest, could he return to Camellia and explain, in all good conscience, that he had lost her sister?
“I have.”
“Ahuh. Successful?”
From the shadows under the brim of his hat, Paul’s dark eyes took on a light all their own, and the lines about his mouth tightened. “Some were, some weren’t.”
“Alive and unharmed?”
The sheriff sent a level, considering glance his way, across the few feet of distance that stood as separation between them, as they lumbered along. This was the greatest fear, as far as Paul was concerned. Not finding the abducted girl at all would be a terrible blow, but at least the rescuers might still hold onto some faint optimism that she might be recovered. To discover Molly dead, murdered in some terrible way by the man pledged for her love and honor—that would be to end all faith and trust itself.
“We’ll do our best, Ben,” he could only offer quietly.
Even Diablo’s magnificent strength was beginning to decline, thanks to the amount of travel over such unfriendly terrain. The summer’s heat had been dissipated by the storm, turned upside down in temperature from hot to cool; judging by Camellia’s anguished account of this afternoon’s events, Molly had nothing of outdoor wear to protect her from the downpour. Unless her husband were carrying along a coat or poncho (which Paul seriously doubted), she was being exposed to a multitude of unfavorable conditions. In her weakened state, that alone could be dangerous.
“Can’t imagine any man treatin’ his woman in such a way,” the mayor said then, conversationally. Ben was not a talker, choosing action more often over words. But at the moment, for some reason (to pass the time, so as not to think?), the speech fairy had decided to loosen his tongue. “Me and Camellia, we have our battles, now and then. Never seen a couple that didn’t. But she’s a strong-willed individual—”
Paul felt he could safely agree to that.
“—and she don’t take guff from nobody. Not even me. Keeps life interestin’, y’ know?”
“The sheriff wouldn’t know, Ben,” Austin, trailing behind, piped up. “He ain’t married.”
Paul snorted. “He knows I ain’t married, Aus.”
“But, with Cam—” This was Ben, still pursuing his own ruminations, “—the thought has never crossed my mind to fetch her a clout. Never once. No matter how mad I get.”
“Wise man,” said the deputy in as cheerful a tone as possible under the circumstances. “She’d fetch you one back, wouldn’t she?”
The timber had, some time ago, closed in around the three travelers. Wind-whipped branches sliced through the sky, attempted to claw away hats and slickers, sent sinister scrapings and tappings—even something that sounded very like human wails—into every unfriendly nook and corner. This was not a locale to explore during the best of weather; now, at the height of this tempest, even less so. The forest did not want them there, these interlopers, and was doing all in its power to keep them from progressing farther.
“Don’t mind sayin’ I don’t like this place,” muttered Austin, casting a wary look around through the dark and dimness. “Not a’tall. I ain’t scared, y’ understand. But I don’t like this place. Not one bit.”
“Ahuh. So, if I take your meanin’ properly, you don’t like this place.”
“Nope. I don’t think we’re s’posed to be here.”
“Close to the river, anyway,” Ben, who was listening to the rush of cascading waters nearby and the occasional crash of falling limbs—or more—commented. “Wanna watch the Juniper don’t overflow its banks, and us get caught up by the flood.”
No moonlight shone down from the sullen skies, through the almost impenetrable mantle above of shadowy things interlaced and shadowy things intertwined. Even without the silent gray haze rising about the ground, the atmosphere felt uncanny enough to raise the hair on the back of one’s neck, and to realize the necessity of keeping one’s firearm within easy reach. They might have been transplanted from the hills of east Texas to some distant Scottish moors.
“Listen!” Again Paul halted, raising one hand.
They obeyed. Sounds carried freakishly above the slight sucking pull and drag of mud from the horses’ hooves, the soft rattle of harness, the shake of one stallion’s head, the gust of another’s breath.
“Hear that?”