“Something like a Bowie knife?” Logan asked.

“Yes, something like that. I’d also say the killer came up behind his back, grabbed him around the chest and attacked immediately—he didn’t have time to fight back.” He shook his head. “There are no defensive wounds on the man anywhere. It must’ve been a lightning-bolt attack.”

“By someone Caleb didn’t think would kill him,” Logan said.

“Probably. If I understand the circumstances correctly, whoever was in the mine shaft with him had to be known to him. You don’t just walk into a place like that. You crawl in through an area the size of a two-by-four boulder. Is that about right?”

“That’s right,” Sloan agreed.

“Can you say anything more about the blade?” Newsome asked.

“It was very sharp. And jagged.”

“What about any trace evidence on him?” Logan asked.

“Just the sand and dirt you’d expect from the mine shaft,” Madsen said.

“What about our other dead man? Jay Berman?” Logan asked.

“He was kneeling. There were powder burns, so he was shot point-blank,” Madsen said. “The bullet fragmented and the lab’s still piecing it together. You found no shell casings, right?”

“Right,” Newsome glanced at Logan. “My people went over the tepee with a fine-tooth comb.”

“Why would a man kneel down to be executed? Why wouldn’t he fight?” Madsen wondered.

“Maybe he believed he’d be let up—that he was just being taught a lesson or...well, people go on hoping while they’re still breathing,” Logan said.

“One more thing. Both of our victims ate not more than two hours before they were killed,” Dr. Madsen said. “Mr. Berman had nachos and beer. Mr. Hough dined on steak, potatoes, spinach and wine. Oh, and Mr. Berman was suffering from liver disease, while Mr. Hough had an artery that was almost completely blocked. I suspect he would’ve suffered a massive heart attack within a week. His killer really needn’t have bothered.”

They left the morgue soon after and spoke on the sidewalk.

“You feel my men are doing well by you in Lily?” Newsome asked Sloan.

“Yes. Other than the murders and the attempted murders, we’ve had remarkably little trouble during Silverfest,” Sloan said. “Thanks, Liam—I needed your help.”

Newsome nodded, looking at Logan. “Are the feds taking over?”

“No. We’re just here to lend assistance,” Logan said.

Newsome smiled. “I’m not resentful, Agent Raintree. If you decide you can better manage the investigation, feel free. This one has me grasping at threads, and I’m sure Sheriff Trent feels the same way. We’ve got nothing on Berman. We can’t get anything other than that he was down here on vacation. He didn’t have a home phone, and we couldn’t find any connection to anyone in Arizona on his cell. What he became involved in—I don’t know.”

“I don’t know anything, either,” Sloan said. “But the angle we’re working is that someone’s after old gold.”

Newsome frowned. “Old gold? You mean from the stagecoach that disappeared over a hundred years ago?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. Interesting,” Newsome said. “By the way, the skull of that old corpse you found in the desert has been brought to your station. Maybe your artist can work with it. If you find out it was one of the old stage robbers, maybe you are on to something.” He sighed. “Except that no one knew who they were.”

“I suspect Red Marston might have been in on it,” Sloan said. “If it proves to be him, we just might be on the right track.”

Newsome removed his glasses and studied Sloan. “So...that would mean one of the citizens of your fair town is involved. What tourist would have the connections and the know-how to research what happened in the past?”

“Yep,” Sloan said. “That’s why I figure I’ve got a local involved. Has to be. Jimmy and Zoe Hough were attacked by people who obviously knew the house, knew the distance from the stables and barns and knew the family. They were familiar with the garage. So, that’s why I’m really grateful for county help.”

Newsome frowned. “You think one of your own deputies—”

“No,” Sloan broke in. “Or, at least, I couldn’t begin to point a finger at any one of them. And it could be a question of talking to the wrong person, of being careless. But don’t—”

“Trust anyone,” Newsome finished. “That’s kind of a given in law enforcement sometimes, isn’t it? Sad, but true,” he said. “Oh, we got DNA off your bottle. The bottle from the mine shaft. But there aren’t any matches in the system.”

“But if we know who to get DNA from, we could have a match, right?”

“Of course. However, that only proves a particular person was in the mine shaft at some time. I don’t think you can prove murder with it.”

“Hell, Liam, I just need a solid suspect!” Sloan told him.

“If you can get me DNA—the right DNA—I can get you a suspect.”

They parted ways. When Newsome was gone, Sloan turned to Logan.

They’d been excellent coworkers from the start. While Logan carried all the traits of his Native American ancestry and Sloan didn’t, they still shared something of that past. They’d also quickly realized that they both worked on instinct.

And heard voices.

Sloan smiled slowly. “Good to see you, old friend,” he said. “I wish it were under different circumstances.”

“Yeah, well. I’m not here to take over. I’m here for support. What’s your plan?”

“How do you feel about stealing a few glasses, cups, mugs, tissues—whatever we can find?” he asked.

“Sure. Where are we going?”

“The Gilded Lily.”

“Great. I’ve gotten accustomed to living back east. I’m feeling mighty parched. I could go for a beer,” Logan said.

“Me, too,” Sloan seconded.

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

* * *

Jane headed out to the street with Kelsey following. She’d barely reached the sidewalk when she heard Brian Highsmith call out with a deep Western twang, “There she is! There’s my girl now!”

Brian jumped down from the “boulder” that had been set up for performances and came striding toward her. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he said, taking her hand, “I give you the esteemed, the one and only, indeed, the adored Sage McCormick! I was madly in love with the lady—I adored her from afar, of course, because she was already married! But while I might have been a bad man in the eyes of some, a low-down no-account drifter of a horse thief and an outlaw, I did indeed adore her. Now, once upon a time,” he said drily, winking as he looked down at Jane, “people thought Sage had given in to me and that we’d run away together. But alas!”

He played to the crowd, raising his hand. “But what?” he asked.

“Alas!” the crowd cried.

“Alas, we have recently discovered the bones of the beautiful Sage McCormick right in the Gilded Lily. We now know the actress was killed and that she didn’t run off with Red. But that was then—and thanks to the wonders of Silverfest and these costumes, here we are again! Together at long last!”

He bent down as if he was going to kiss her. Jane quickly stepped forward, addressing the crowd. “Yes, together again, but just as friends! Sage cared about Marston. He, like Trey Hardy, was one of those outlaws who still had a sense of morality. Trey Hardy was never a killer. Sage believed that Red Marston would happily steal your horse, but he wouldn’t kill you for it. Sage was in love with her husband and she loved her child, but I don’t think she realized when she married him that her first love would always be the theater. Ah, the theater! Please make sure you have your reservations for the Gilded Lily this evening, and if they sell out, do come by tomorrow!”

“Well done, Agent Everett. You are a woman of many surprises,” Brian said.

“Yes, well...I wouldn’t have put on the costume if I hadn’t been willing to play the part. And I wouldn’t have a badge if I wasn’t willing to enforce the law,” she added sweetly.

She started to turn to Kelsey but as she did, she caught sight of someone standing alone in the street, right in front of the Old Jail.

For a minute, she thought that Sloan had returned.

But it wasn’t Sloan; this man’s hair was longer and his jawline was stubbled. He looked at her and beckoned, then walked into the Old Jail.

For a moment she stood there, puzzled, but suspecting she knew who it was.

“Jane?” Kelsey asked.

She turned again, distracted. “Um, let’s go see my room. I’m at the Old Jail for tonight, the Trey Hardy cell.”

They hurried toward the Old Jail.

She was right. She’d seen Hardy.

He slipped through the closed door, disappearing as she wedged her way through the crowd to reach it.

12

Sloan and Logan made their way through the crowds on the street to the Gilded Lily. When they arrived, Valerie was perched on a bar stool singing a Civil War ballad to an appreciative audience of drinkers.

Liz came up to him. “Sloan, want me to get you a table? Hello,” she said, smiling at Logan.

“A table would be great, but it doesn’t look like you have any,” Sloan replied.

“Give me a minute. I know how to squeeze people.”

She did; Liz managed to get one couple to join another, freeing up a table. Sloan thanked her and introduced her to Logan.

“You’re FBI, too?” she asked.

“He works with Jane,” Sloan told her.

“That’s good. We’re glad you’re here.” Liz bent low to the table as if listening closely to get their orders.

“Thank you,” Logan said. “I hope we can be of some help.”