That man's name had been Thomas Rowan.
And his last words had been:
“Find my daughter.”
The Stranger With the Bullet Scar
Gideon Vale had spent most of his adult life avoiding promises.
Promises made people expect things.
Promises created responsibilities.
Promises could follow a man longer than enemies.
He had once promised his wife he would come home from the war.
He did.
She had died while he was gone.
He had promised his younger brother he would keep him out of trouble.
His brother was buried outside Abilene.
After that, Gideon became careful with promises.
Then Thomas Rowan had died in his arms beside a frozen creek in northern Colorado.
And Gideon had made another one.
It happened in February.
He had been riding west when he saw buzzards circling.
He expected to find a dead steer.
Instead, he found a wounded man beneath a cottonwood.
Thomas Rowan had been shot twice.
Once in the shoulder.
Once through the stomach.
He had lasted until nightfall.
Gideon had tried to move him.
Thomas refused.
“Wouldn't survive the ride.”
“There's a settlement twelve miles south.”
“Too far.”
Gideon had known he was right.
Near sunset, Thomas had taken a small brass token from his pocket.
One side carried the stamp of the Dry Hollow Bank.
The other had a number.
“Find Elsie.”
Gideon had frowned.
“My daughter.”
Thomas coughed blood.
“She'll be thirteen.”
“Where?”
“Dry Hollow.”
“What happened to you?”
Thomas looked toward the trees as if expecting riders.
“The bank.”
“What about it?”
“Not a bank.”
Then he had whispered a name.
“Harland Pike.”
Gideon remembered it.
“Who's Pike?”
“Owns everything.”
Thomas tried to breathe.
“Ledger.”
“What ledger?”
“Forty-seven.”
The meaning remained unclear.
Thomas grabbed Gideon's coat.
“My daughter thinks I left.”
“I'll find her.”
Thomas stared at him.
“Promise.”
Gideon hesitated.
Then nodded.
“I promise.”
Thomas died ten minutes later.
Gideon buried him beneath the cottonwood.
He placed stones over the grave to keep wolves away.
Then he rode south.
Dry Hollow had taken months to find.
There were two towns with similar names.
Then winter roads washed out.
Then Gideon got shot while helping a stagecoach outside Casper.
The bullet entered beneath his left shoulder and left a scar across his back.
But eventually he arrived.
And now Thomas Rowan's daughter was living under a railway platform.
Gideon did not feel guilty often.
That morning, he did.
He rented a room at the hotel.
Then he went to the saloon.
Information traveled through three places faster than anywhere else in a Western town.
A church.
A barber shop.
A saloon.
Gideon preferred saloons.
Nobody expected moral behavior inside one.
The bartender was polishing glasses.
“Whiskey?”
“Coffee.”
The bartender looked disappointed.
He poured anyway.
Gideon placed a coin on the counter.
“Girl at the depot.”
The bartender stopped wiping.
“What about her?”
“Name?”
“Elsie Rowan.”
Gideon drank.
“Family?”
“Father ran off.”
“Mother?”
“Dead.”
“Father steal from the bank?”
The bartender looked around.
“That's what they say.”
“What do you say?”
“I serve drinks.”
“Smart profession.”
The bartender leaned closer.
“Thomas Rowan wasn't the stealing kind.”
“Then why did everyone believe it?”
The bartender's eyes shifted toward the door.
“Because Sheriff Gannon said it was true.”
“And nobody questions him?”
“Not twice.”
Gideon nodded.
“Harland Pike?”
The bartender's hand stopped.
That was answer enough.
“Bank president?”
“Bank president. Land company. Half the cattle contracts in the county.”
“He own the hotel?”
“Yes.”
“The saloon?”
“Part of it.”
“Sheriff?”
The bartender stared at him.
“Drink your coffee.”
Gideon did.
Across the street stood the Dry Hollow Bank.
Two stories.
Brick.
Iron bars over the rear windows.
A sign on the glass read:
PIKE & MERCER BANKING COMPANY.
Interesting.
Gideon had expected Harland Pike.
But Mercer was another name.
He entered.
The lobby smelled of ink and polished wood.
A clerk approached.
“May I help you?”
“Looking to open an account.”
“Of course.”
That brought a smile.
“I'd like to speak to the owner.”
“Mr. Pike is occupied.”
“Then Mr. Mercer.”
The clerk's smile disappeared.
“Mr. Mercer died three years ago.”
“How?”
“Accident.”
“What kind?”
“Horse.”
Gideon nodded.
“Dangerous creatures.”
He left.
Outside, Sheriff Wade Gannon waited.
He was tall, thick-necked, and wore a silver badge polished brighter than his conscience.
“You Vale?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Who's asking?”
Gannon touched his badge.
“Sheriff.”
“Then yes.”
“You've been asking questions.”
“I'm curious.”
“Curiosity gets expensive here.”
“How much?”
The sheriff did not smile.
“You passing through?”
“Maybe.”
“Pass faster.”
Gideon stepped closer.
“Thomas Rowan.”
The sheriff's eyes changed.
Only slightly.
But Gideon saw it.
“What about him?”
“I hear he stole money.”
“He did.”
“Proof?”
“Witnesses.”
“Who?”
“Town business.”
“Convenient.”
The sheriff's hand drifted toward his gun.
Gideon smiled faintly.
“Careful.”
“You threatening me?”
“No.”
Gideon looked at his hand.
“Helping you make a better decision.”
Gannon's jaw tightened.
“You stay away from the Rowan girl.”
That interested Gideon more than anything else.
“Why?”
“She's a county matter.”
“She sleeping under the freight platform by county order?”
“Last warning.”
Gannon walked away.
Gideon watched him.
Then he turned.
Elsie stood ten feet away.
She had heard everything.
“You knew my father.”
It wasn't a question.
Gideon said nothing.
Elsie's face went pale.
“You knew him.”
“Yes.”
“Is he alive?”
Gideon hated the next part.
“No.”
Elsie did not move.
The entire street seemed to disappear around them.
“When?”
“February.”
Her lips trembled.
She fought it.
“How?”
“He was shot.”
“By who?”
“I don't know.”
“Where is he?”
“Buried north of Red Creek, Colorado.”