THE MAN WHO WAITED AT BLACK CREEK

THE HORSE WITH NO RIDER

The horse arrived at Black Creek just before sunrise.

It came alone.

That was the first thing Caleb Mercer noticed.

The second was the blood.

Caleb had been standing beside his cabin, coffee steaming in a tin cup, when the animal emerged from the gray morning mist.

It walked slowly.

Too slowly for a healthy horse.

Its head hung low.

Its reins dragged through the dust.

And across the saddle was a dark stain that looked almost black beneath the pale dawn.

Caleb put down his coffee.

His right hand moved toward the revolver on his belt.

The horse stopped twenty feet from him.

Caleb recognized it.

It belonged to Sheriff Thomas Bell.

Caleb had seen the animal dozens of times in the town of Black Creek.

The sheriff was a broad-shouldered man in his late fifties who had spent twenty years trying to keep the law alive in a territory where money often spoke louder than badges.

Caleb walked toward the horse.

"Easy."

The animal flinched.

Caleb reached for the reins.

There was blood on them.

Fresh blood.

He inspected the saddle.

No rider.

No saddlebag.

No rifle.

Only a torn piece of blue cloth caught beneath the leather.

Caleb pulled it free.

He knew the color.

Sheriff Bell always wore a blue neckerchief.

Caleb's stomach tightened.

He looked toward Black Creek.

The town was eight miles away.

Something had happened.

Something bad.

He led the horse into his barn.

Then he noticed something scratched into the saddle.

Three words.

DON'T TRUST THE LAW.

Caleb stared at them.

He read them again.

Don't trust the law.

The message made no sense.

The sheriff was the law.

Unless the message meant something else.

Caleb had lived at Black Creek for eleven years.

He had learned not to dismiss strange things.

He had arrived in the territory carrying nothing but a bedroll, a rifle, and enough money to purchase forty acres.

Now he owned nearly six hundred.

A small ranch.

Thirty-seven cattle.

Six horses.

A barn.

A well.

And a reputation for staying out of other people's business.

He preferred it that way.

He had lost his wife three years earlier.

Since then, silence had become easier than conversation.

Caleb walked back toward the cabin.

Then he stopped.

There were footprints beside the barn.

Three sets.

One belonged to Sheriff Bell's boots.

The other two belonged to men Caleb didn't recognize.

He followed them.

They led behind the barn.

Then disappeared.

Caleb crouched.

The ground was disturbed.

Someone had been dragged.

He followed the trail for another fifty yards until he found a torn piece of paper caught beneath a sagebrush.

It contained only one sentence.

If you find this, go to Black Creek before noon.

Caleb looked toward the rising sun.

It was six-thirty.

He had five hours.

He went inside.

Loaded his Winchester.

Checked his revolver.

Filled his canteen.

Then he saddled his fastest horse.

Before leaving, he looked once at the empty cabin.

Something told him he might not return.

Black Creek looked wrong.

Caleb saw it from half a mile away.

The town usually woke slowly.

This morning, nobody walked the streets.

The general store was closed.

The saloon doors were shut.

The sheriff's office stood open.