The Marshal's Mission. Anna Zogg

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       Chapter One

      Wyoming Territory, 1882

      Who is that?

      Hand poised over a scoop of dried beans, Lenora Pritchard peered out her kitchen window. Across the ranch yard, a form ducked out of sight. Was that Toby? Her son had left an hour ago to look for his missing dog. Why was he skulking around the barn?

      Wiping her hands on her apron, she stepped onto the porch and stared. Nothing. She was certain she saw someone slink around the building not two minutes before.

      A sudden gust of chill wind whipped her long skirts. She shivered as she gripped the porch’s column. Was rain coming? All afternoon the sky had been clear and beautiful.

      As she looked upward, she gasped. A bank of ominous clouds rolled in from the north. Marching like an army, the mass devoured the warmth and light of the mid-April day. Many an unprepared traveler had died of exposure because of weather changes this time of year. Though her son wore his coat and hat, would they be enough to protect him in freezing temperatures?

      “Toby!” The roaring wind swallowed her call. She ran down the steps and into the yard. It was then she spied a half-dozen chickens, pecking in the long grass alongside the house. They were supposed to be locked in the fenced-in area attached to the coop. How...?

      Darting between the shed and barn, Lenora yelled for her son again. When she saw the mangled enclosure, she gulped. The small, wooden building leaned at a crazy angle, held somewhat upright by the attached lightweight fencing. Had the wind blown it over?

      As though in answer, a blast of air snatched the combs from her hair and spun it like a tornado. A single splat of icy rain hit her skin. She had to get the chickens inside. Now.

      “Toby,” she called again. Her ten-year-old was nowhere in sight.

      With the coop useless, the barn would have to do.

      “Shoo. Shoo!” With arms spread, Lenora tried to herd the hens toward the open door. Cackling in alarm, they scattered in every direction other than the one she wanted. Her frustration rose to an impossible level. Why was her husband dead when she needed him most? Nothing like this ever happened while Amos lived.

      After she managed to get a few chickens into the barn, she peered around the empty building. Had she imagined that lurking form?

      “Ma!” Toby loped uphill from the direction of the stream, his green eyes wide. “I found Blister, but he—”

      “Help me get the chickens inside,” she panted.

      “But, Ma...”

      “Hurry.” She bolted to find the rest.

      The wind built, catching the birds’ feathers and nearly toppling them. Dirt stung Lenora’s face. A distant rumble of thunder warned of the impending downpour. Together she and Toby ushered the stragglers into the barn.

      Out of breath, she counted those corralled in a corner stall. Thirteen. While the hens settled in one corner of the shadowy barn, the rooster strutted around his flock.

      “Okay, Toby. Shut the door.”

      Leaning out, he yelled, “Blister! Come on, boy. Come on.”

      Lenora gnawed her lip. Would their dog pester the chickens? Blister usually ignored them. However, this arrangement would have to do. For now.

      As the dog slunk inside, her mouth gaped. A tight rope wrapped around his neck and torso. Dirt caked him. And he looked skinny, like he hadn’t eaten in the four days he’d been missing. Where had he been? Though he usually wandered, he never stayed out more than two.

      “Bring him closer.” She fumbled to light the lantern.

      Amos had always kept one handy in the barn. And a shotgun. Out of sight from the entrance, the weapon rested on a crossbeam’s pegs.

      As her son pulled his dog into the circle of light, she hung the lantern on a nail.

      “What in the world?” With her back to the barn’s wall, she squatted to examine the dog. It appeared as if someone had lassoed Blister with a fine length of rope. A three-foot piece dangled, frayed in the middle as though he had tried to gnaw his way loose. But clearly someone had cut the end.

      “This is what I was trying to tell ya, Ma.” With his hand resting on his dog’s head, Toby’s gaze met hers. “Who did this?”

      “I don’t know.” But even as she spoke, she knew Jeb Hackett could have. He hated their dog. “Let’s get that rope off.” The noose had rubbed Blister’s skin raw in one spot. For several minutes, she worked at the knot in vain. The dog began to pant.

      “I’ll have to cut it.” She was reaching for her knife when the sudden rattle of the barn door startled her. With a squeak of alarm, Lenora shot to her feet.

      A man’s silhouette filled the doorway. Arm gripping Blister, Toby swiveled his head.

      Too frightened to move, she glanced at the gun hanging out of reach, then back at the faceless form.

      “Didn’t mean to scare you, ma’am.” The man’s deep voice sounded low, even apologetic. He stepped forward, sweeping off his hat in one fluid motion. “Wondering if I could spend the night here. Got a mare with foal. Bad storm’s a’coming. Freezing rain.”

      As though punctuating his words, sleet clattered on the roof for several seconds. A rumble of thunder shook the barn.

      She shivered from more than just the chill in the air. “I—I’d have to ask my husband. Up at the house.”

      “But, Ma,” Toby protested. “He ain’t—”

      “Hush.” She hardened her voice. “Don’t interrupt.”