Rebecca reached beneath the counter for a piece of paper. Draw it. Silas did. A wagon road north. A fork beside a burned pine.
An abandoned sawmill. Then a narrow trail climbing toward three cabins. Briggs is the last one. Silas said if he's still there. Rebecca folded the paper.
That evening, she closed early. She packed bread, bacon, two boiled eggs, coffee, and enough feed for the mayor. Then she opened her recipe box. Everett's name was not inside. Nothing about Hail Creek was inside.
Still, she rested her fingers on the wooden lid. “I didn't leave the fight,” she said quietly. The empty shed gave no answer. Before sunrise the next morning, Rebecca rode north. At Hail Creek, Everett stood beside the eastern fence, watching cattle nose at a shrinking pool.
Franklin came up behind him. Commissioner's hearing is next week. I know you got enough. Everett looked toward the distant barm ridge. No.
Franklin waited. Everett reached into his shirt pocket and touched the folded note that had been there for 6 days. Then he looked west toward Copper Ridge. He did not know Rebecca's food shed was locked. He did not know Harvey Sloan had been told to tell anyone asking that she had gone after Sip.
And he did not know that Rebecca Foster was already climbing into the timber above Crow Ridge, carrying breakfast for a frightened old ditch foreman, who might be the one man in Wyoming capable of proving exactly what Edwin Mercer had done. The trail narrowed after the abandoned sawmill. Rebecca had to dismount twice where fallen pine limbs crossed the path. By 8:00, her mare was breathing hard, and the morning sun had only begun reaching between the trees. Silas's directions proved accurate.
The last cabin stood alone above a shallow ravine. No smoke rose from its chimney. Rebecca tied her mare to a pine and walked to the door. She knocked. Nothing.
Mr. Briggs. Silence. My name is Rebecca Foster. I came from Copper Ridge.
A floorboard creaked inside. Rebecca waited. I brought breakfast. A man's voice answered through the door. Don't want any?
That puts you among very few men I've met in Wyoming. No answer. Rebecca placed the wrapped bread, bacon, and eggs beside the door. I'll leave it here. She walked away.
The door remained closed. Rebecca rode back to Copper Ridge. The next morning, she returned. The food was gone. She knocked again.
Mr. Briggs, go away. I brought coffee. Don't want that either. Rebecca looked at yesterday's empty cloth sitting neatly folded beside the door.
Apparently, you didn't want breakfast yesterday. Silence. She set down the coffee and another parcel. I'll come tomorrow. This time the door opened before she reached her horse.