Saw the way they rode. Slow, fanned out, looking the place over like they meant to buy it. He set down the rope and started down the hill. He came around the corner of the barn just as they rained in. Just as Odessa stepped onto the porch, drying her hands on her apron, and he saw her whole body go stiff like a deer when the rifle.
The man in front was lean, long jaw, thin mustache, pale eyes that never quite blinked. He leaned on his saddle horn and smiled like he had found a lost dollar. Well, now, he said. Mrs. Varnum, not Hail Varnum. Anel saw her flinch at the name like a struck bell.
That's not my name, she said. Not anymore. Funny Ohio still thinks it is. He reached into his coat, pulled out a folded paper, snapped it open so the wind caught it. A face drawn in black ink.
Hers badly, but hers and letters above it. Big ones. Want me to read it to you? The man said. Or can you Apache folk read now?
I can read, Odessa said. Very quiet. Then go on. Read it out. Let your new friend here.
She said nothing. So he read it himself loud. Each word like a slap wanted. Odessa Varnum, Apache woman. For the murder of her husband, Lucius Varnum of Franklin County, Ohio. $500.
He folded it back up. Slow. Lucius was my brother. I'm Jubel and I've been looking for you a long, long time, sister. Anel stepped out from beside the barn.
He saw the moment they saw him. All three heads turning, three horses sidling. The man on the left actually rained back a step, his face going slack, up and up and up. And Cel did not hurry, did not raise his hands, did not raise his voice. He just walked across the yard, mud on his boots, pine sap on his shirt, and stopped between the horses and the porch.
Mr. Jubel Varnum said some of the smile had gone. This don't concern you. You're on my land. I'm here for her. She's not going anywhere.
She's a murderous. She's my wife. The words were out before Anel knew he'd said them. Behind him, he heard Odessa catch her breath. Jubel stared at him, then laughed.
Short, ugly. Your wife, she's been in this territory 11 days. Long enough? You married an Apache woman in 11 days? Took me 10.
I'm slow. One of the other riders snorted before he could stop himself. Jubel shot him a look that could have curdled milk. Then Jubel looked back at Anel at the size of him at the empty hands. Calculating, measuring.
You're him, he said slowly. Ain't you the one they talk about. The devil. That's what they say. I heard they got good reason.
Come down off that horse, Anel said, and find out. Nobody moved. The wind blew. A crow called somewhere up in the pines. Jubel Varnum gathered his reigns.
This ain't finished, he said. There's law in this town. Sheriff named Tull, and I've got paper. You can't stand in front of paper, big man. Paper's bigger than you.
He turned his horse. The other two followed down the mountain road at a trot, not looking back. Anel watched them until they were gone. Then he turned around. Odessa was standing on the porch, both hands gripping the rail, shaking all over.
The steady hands that had cut into Abel Lund's foot without a tremor, shaking like leaves. Your wife, she said, I'm sorry. It was the fastest thing I could think of. It's not true. I know.
They'll find out it's not true. I know. Why would you say it? Why would you put yourself between me and you don't even know what I did? You don't know if it's true.
I could be exactly what that paper says. I could, Odessa, she stopped. You don't have to tell me, he said. Not today. She looked at him.
Her eyes were wet. Furious and wet. Not today, she agreed and went inside. And he heard the bolts slide home on her door. He stood in the yard a long time.
Papers bigger than you. Maybe. Maybe it was. He'd find out. They came after dark.
He heard them before he saw them. Hoof beats on the switchback. A lot of hoofbeats, voices, and then the light, orange light, bobbing up through the pines, torches, a dozen men, maybe more, riding up his mountain with fire in their hands. Anel stood up from his chair by the hearth, went to the window. At the head of the column rode Sheriff Boyd Tull, big belly, bigger badge.
Jubel Varnum rode right beside him and behind them faces Anel Newsmith, the barber, Harlland's partner from the freight line. Men who had laughed, men who had crossed the street. His rifle hung on the pegs over the door. He looked at it. He looked at it for a long time.
Then he left it where it was because his mother's voice was in his ear. A strong man has to choose it. So he chose. He opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. barefoot shirt sleeves, empty hands hanging at his sides, the torches pulled up in the yard, horses stamping, smoke curling into the cold air, a dozen faces staring up at him, lit orange and black.
Branik Tall shouted, "You know why we're here? I can guess you've got a fugitive under your roof. A murderous wanted in Ohio." "Mr. Varnum, here's got the paper to prove it. I've seen his paper." Then send her out. No.
A murmur went through the crowd. uneasy, angry. This ain't a request, Branick. Didn't think it was. I can arrest you, too, for harboring.
You want that? You can try, Boyd. Silence. Every man in that yard looked at Anel Branick, barefoot on his own porch, taller than the door behind him. Not moving, not shouting, just standing there like the mountain itself had decided to come down and have a word.
Nobody got off his horse. "Devil," somebody muttered from the back. That's right, somebody else said. Devil and his Apache squore. Shut your mouth, Anel said.