With what Gram had said on the phone, I was surprised that the crowd wasn’t more panicked. Concern wavered throughout, but maybe shock was taking over, replacing the initial fear. I hoped Dr. Callahan, our local doctor, had some help.
“Jerome, see if you can find Gram. Tell her to call me,” I said.
“Will do,” he said after he pondered the request a moment and then disappeared. He was probably weighing the chances of me being in danger before he left my side.
We’d run back into town and directly to the saloon. It would have taken more time to drive. So far, I hadn’t paid any attention to the spot where the victim had most likely been shot. I knew the skit had been performed at the other end of Main Street, opposite to where I now stood outside the saloon. Even though the street wasn’t all that long, there were plenty of people on it and on the boardwalks—everyone unsure of where to go and what to do. It looked like some crowd control was needed, but I wasn’t sure how I could help.
I stepped off the boardwalk and tried to see what was going on down the street. There was definitely a large crowd of people gathered, looking at one spot. I assumed it was at the body. I had no desire to join them, but I ached to know who’d been killed.
“Let’s go, folks. Come on. Please move inside somewhere,” an authoritative voice said from behind me. “Each shop or business has someone who will ask to check your purses and pockets and identification. We assure you that you’ll be fine.”
No one in the saloon had checked my pockets or asked for identification.
Jim Morrison, the police chief, was attempting to direct traffic, but it was an uncooperative crowd. Some of the officers had been dressing as cowboys in deference to the fun convention atmosphere, but Jim had kept with his official uniform, which at the moment seemed like a wise idea. His bald head was shiny, and though he was gifted with the ability to keep calm in horrible situations, I could see the concern in his eyes behind his thick black plastic-framed glasses. I hurried to join him.
“What happened, Jim? Can I help?” I said.
“Betts, just get inside somewhere. And try to calm down anyone who needs calming.”
I looked back toward the saloon just as someone I recognized went inside through the swinging doors. Officer Jenkins, Broken Rope’s newest police officer, would attend to everyone there.
I looked around. “I’ll head to Stuart’s.” Stuart owned the shoe repair shop, and from where I stood, it looked like only a few people had sought refuge there.
“Good.” Jim turned to the others on the street. “Now, folks, please, we’ve secured the area, but please get inside.”
I didn’t think the area had been secured, but I’d play along. Jim had done what he could to prepare for the unusually large April population, but there were just some things that a small-town police force could never be prepared for. Someone being gunned down in the middle of the street and in the middle of a skit was probably one of those things.
I turned to hurry to Stuart’s but was interrupted by a pounding rumble that seemed too loud, and even though I heard the rumble, oddly, I couldn’t feel it. As I looked toward the other end of the street again, I saw a man on a horse coming this direction.
“Jim?” I said, but my voice was quiet enough that he didn’t hear me.
When the man and his horse rode directly through the concerned group without harming anyone or knocking anyone over or even stirring up enough wind to cause hair to flutter, I realized that no one else saw either the horse or the man. The sun was behind a cloud, but it was still bright enough that the new arrivals were mostly transparent. I could see them both fairly clearly, though.
With intense purpose, the man steered the horse directly toward me but didn’t seem to notice that I could see him. It was the distinct scent of leather that came with animal and man that finally assured me that another ghost had come to visit, or rather two ghosts: the rider and the horse. The man seemed young, and he wore a cowboy hat that was even more beaten up than Jerome’s. His dirty face, grimy long tan pants, and grungy white shirt made me think that his scent wouldn’t be as pleasant as leather if he was alive. As he stopped the horse only a few feet away from me, I saw that he also wore a badge, but I didn’t think it signified law enforcement. He sat on a satchel of sorts that was over his saddle. Something in the back of my mind sparked. I should know what that satchel was, but I couldn’t quite place it.