Chapter Eight

“Jimmy,” Teaspoon was barking orders at the riders, “you and Ike go back to town, look around. Maybe she stayed there. Kid and Lou, you look around the Washington place. Buck and Cody will search the ways Priscilla could have walked home.” He glared at Cody.

“I didn’t know Jimmy was called out. No one told me,” Cody said mournfully.

“No one would have had to tell you if you would have stayed at the dance,” Teaspoon seethed.

Jimmy walked away from the exchange he was sure would be forthcoming - Cody whining and Teaspoon chastising him. He did not need to hear it. He knew exactly whose fault this whole mess was. He saddled his horse and began galloping toward town. He knew Ike was right behind him. He heard the hoofbeats. But he did not bother to let his friend catch up. He did not want to be lectured. There was so much frustration inside him right now that any conversation he had with anyone, even someone as mild as Ike, would cause him to lash out in anger.

He soon reached town and flung the reins of his horse around a nearby post then marched to the building the dance had been held. Now what?

He felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned his head and as expected there was Ike, shooting daggers at him with his eyes. Ike began moving his hands quickly.

Jimmy raised his own hand in supplication. “I’m sorry. I should have waited.” As he had hoped, the ride at top speed had cleared his head. Probably one of the reasons he was a successful Pony Express rider, he mused to himself. Riding like that kept him level headed.

Ike gestured some more. /We should split up./

“Yeah, I’ll look ‘round here,” Jimmy replied. He pointed south. “If she walked home, Cilla would have gone that way.”

Ike nodded.

Jimmy watched Ike walk away and then turned to the task at hand, searching for clues, anything that might tell him where Priscilla was. But what should he look for? There would footprints everywhere. How could he distinguish Priscilla’s from anyone else’s?

He moved closer to the building. He had seen her here, leaning against the wall. He placed a hand there, his heart filling with sorrow. It could have been a nice evening, he thought sadly. It seemed as if Priscilla was warming to him.

“Are you Wild Bill?” a small boy asked, tugging on Jimmy’s shirtsleeve.

Jimmy scowled, hating hearing the name.

“Are you?” the boy persisted. “Here.” He handed Jimmy a note.

As Jimmy looked at the letter he frowned, reading was not something he was very good at. “Ike,” he shouted, hoping that his friend had not gotten too far. “Ike!” Jimmy continued to yell, running through the still empty streets of Sweetwater, in the direction that he had shown Ike earlier. This letter had to be about Priscilla, he was sure of it. And his heart filled with dread knowing that somehow Wild Bill was involved.

/What?/ Ike pantomimed.

“Some boy gave me this note,” Jimmy told him impatiently. “Read it!” he exclaimed, shoving the paper into Ike’s hands. Before even three seconds had lapsed, Jimmy asked, “So what’s it say?”

Ike held up one hand, telling Jimmy to wait, while his eyes continued to scan the note. /I’m sorry,/ he gestured.

Jimmy’s heart contracted sharply.

/I’m sorry,/ Ike began.

Jimmy shook his head. “Just read,” he growled.

/Tyson Drake,/ Ike looked at Jimmy expectantly. But Jimmy could only shrug. He did not know the name. He did however have a good idea who this Drake fella was.

/ That’s who this note is from,/ Ike explained. /He wants you to meet him at noon today/ Ike glanced at the sky.

Jimmy knew he had about two hours before that time. “Where?” he asked, his eyes hard.

Ike shook his head. /First I tell Sam and Teaspoon./

“Like hell you will,” Jimmy half shouted. “Gimme that note.” He reached for the paper but Ike deftly leapt out of reach. He was certain Ike had left out some key details, like come alone.

Ike began hurrying toward Sam’s office. But Jimmy grabbed his arm, dragging him behind the nearest building. “Sorry, Ike,” he whispered before landing a punch to Ike’s head. “I had to,” he added quietly, grabbing the note from Ike’s closed fist. “I don’t need the damn cavalry riding in, getting Cill killed.”

Jimmy searched the note. He saw the number, 12, and after it a name. Lucky for him it was a name he knew well, Emma’s Place, in Rolling Meadows. He had stopped there on his last run, drawn to the restaurant by its name. Emma’s place was nothing like his Emma’s place. It was a ratty saloon. But at least he knew where it was.

Jimmy dragged Ike to the livery, pushed him in a soft pile of hay and ran to his horse. Rolling Meadows was at least an hour and a half away.