No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(79)
Mal cast a quick glance down at the lumpy bag, then zeroed in on Betty’s face. Mouth downturned. Eyebrows sharp. Unshed tears glimmering in her eyes.
Wait. Tears? Betty? The ex-soldier’s wife was the toughest old bird he knew. What could have—
“They killed ’em,” she spat, her voice quivering with a mixture of anger and heartbreak. “Ever’ last one of ’em.”
Mal looked back down at the sack, a sick dread swirling in his gut as he calculated the size of the lumps.
“All my best layers. Gone.”
Her chickens. Mal clenched his jaw so hard, he nearly cracked a tooth. Who would do such a meanspirited thing? No. Wrong question. He knew who. What he didn’t know was . . . “How?” he ground out. “How did they get to the hens?”
“Dogs.” Betty turned her head and spat on the ground, her disgust palpable. “Two of ’em. Part coyote, I suspect.”
“Oh no!” Emma pushed past Malachi, her skirts swirling around the sack that lay at his feet. “Not your chickens.” Her voice broke as she reached out to touch Betty’s arm with her left hand. Her right, he noticed, held an iron skillet.
Mal glanced heavenward, something between a chuckle and a groan catching in his throat. Well, at least she’d obeyed him. She hadn’t come outside without a weapon, if one could call a frying pan a weapon. He wasn’t inclined to classify it as such himself, but since there was no sign of outlaws bearing down on their position, he opted not to share his opinion.
“Betty, I’m so . . . so sorry.”
Betty pulled away from Emma’s hold. A wounded look flashed across Emma’s features for a split second before she hid it away. A muscle in Malachi’s jaw ticked.
“It ain’t your fault, Emma. It’s them no-good outlaws!” Betty kicked the wagon wheel with the toe of her boot and spat at the ground again. “What is so all-fire important about this town that they would kill a henhouse full of innocent creatures just to force us out? It don’t make a lick of sense.”
“I wish I knew,” Emma said in a quiet voice. “I’d give it to them in a heartbeat, if it would mean they’d leave us alone.”
“Well, whatever it is, I aim to see they never get it,” Betty declared, bracing her legs apart and slapping hands on hips in a battle stance. “They killed my critters. I don’t care what they throw at me. I ain’t budgin’ from my farm, and I ain’t budgin’ from this town. They’ll have to shoot me dead and drag my ugly carcass down to the river to get me to leave.”
“Betty, don’t say that.” Katie climbed down from the wagon bed and circled around behind her mentor.
Helen was only a step behind. “Whatever those horrid men want, it’s not worth your life.”
“We can replace the chickens,” Emma said, trying to soothe, but it only turned Betty’s face darker.
“Some things can’t be replaced.” Betty blinked. A single tear rolled down her weathered cheek. “My Robert gave me two of those birds before he passed. They were tough old biddies, kinda like me, but they reminded me of the sergeant every time I saw them pecking about the yard.”
“Oh, Betty,” moaned someone behind Mal. He glanced over his shoulder. Flora stood as still as a post, her eyes filled with tears.
On all sides, the street brimmed with women. Solemn, quiet women who had wandered out of shops and homes to gather around Betty. To grieve and mourn her loss and to offer what little comfort could be given. It made the backs of Mal’s eyeballs itch a bit in sympathy even as it solidified his resolve.
Tomorrow he was going to ride to Seymour, return the mare he’d rented from the livery, round up as many men as were willing to make the trip back, and start beating the bushes for these two outlaws. Shoot. He’d pay the men for their time if he must. This had to stop before something besides chickens turned up dead.
“I need to know exactly what happened so I can report this to the sheriff tomorrow.” Mal hadn’t meant to bark the command, but if the disapproving stares aimed his direction were any indication, he’d spoken more harshly than he’d intended.
Betty wasn’t offended by his tone. She barely even batted an eyelash. She’d spent too many years around army folks to let a little domineering behavior cow her. Yet her deepening scowl told him she didn’t much care for his statement.
“Sheriff Tabor ain’t gonna do anything. I got no proof that anyone set the dogs on my chickens. Never saw hide not hair of the bandits. The birds were safely inside their pen with the gate closed when I left to walk the perimeter. If it weren’t for Helen’s shot, I never woulda known something was wrong.”
Mal turned a questioning gaze to the dark-haired woman at Betty’s side. For once, the man-shy lady met his stare without ducking away. Head high and jaw set she described the incident. “Someone unlatched the gate while Katie and I were in the house cleaning the eggs we’d gathered that morning and packing them in straw. I didn’t see who it was, but I know when I left the coop this morning, the latch was in place and undamaged. I always double-check.”
“I heard the barking.” Katie stepped forward to add to the telling. “A vicious, snarling sound.” She shivered. “I rushed to the window and saw them run straight for the gate, as if they knew the difference between it and the fence. They stopped for a minute, sniffing at the ground, but when one of the dogs hit the gate, it swung open as if the latch didn’t exist. The hens squawked and the dogs pounced.” Katie covered her face with her hands. “It was awful.”