For the Record

  © 2016 by Regina Jennings

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016942750

  ISBN 978-1-4412-3055-3

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This is a work of historical reconstruction; the appearances of certain historical figures are therefore inevitable. All other characters, however, are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover design by John Hamilton Design

  Author is represented by Books & Such Literary Agency

  To Bob and Glenda Jennings

  in honor of

  their crowning achievement

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Books by Regina Jennings

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  Chapter 1

  October 1885

  Pine Gap, Missouri

  Only a limited patch of Earth could claim the privilege of belonging to Texas. Not that he despised the rest of the world for its misfortune, but there was a difference.

  Deputy Joel Puckett dropped his saddlebags on the platform of the depot and surveyed the wall of mountains that surrounded the valley. He hadn’t seen all of Texas. It’d take more years than his twenty-four to visit every town from the badlands of El Paso to the swamps of Beaumont, but he knew now that a native Texan could sense when he’d been separated from his homeland, and he felt the loss keenly.

  The train’s chugging had ceased to thunder through the hills, and yet no one came out of the depot to greet him. Rustling started at the top of the hill as a gust worked its way down the mountain, tumbling autumn leaves across the rocky expanse in front of the train station. The stars had already appeared above the mountain, and the air was cooling. Joel lifted his Stetson and ruffled his hair. According to Governor Marmaduke, the people here were desperate for help, begging for relief from the outlaws who razed their homesteads. So if they were anxiously awaiting his arrival, where were they?

  His boots echoed on the platform as he strode to the depot building and rattled the door. Locked. The brim of his hat bumped against the glass as he peered through the lone window but found no one. No help coming from that quarter.

  Joel scanned the dense woods that surrounded him, but couldn’t make out anything in the darkness. He picked up his saddlebags and studied the rocky road that passed along the railroad tracks. When they’d arranged for him to ride the train, he hadn’t counted on being afoot once he arrived. He should have insisted on bringing his horse. Who knew what kind of mount they’d be able to provide? For now he’d have to make use of his own two feet. Uphill or downhill? Which would take him to civilization sooner?

  The sounds shifted. Joel froze as his hearing instinctively separated the routine noises from the new element. Years of tracking had honed his senses so that any change alerted him. An unknown entity had entered the area and was even now racing toward him.

  Hooves on rocks. Many hooves. Voices raised, calling to each other not in anger but in a boisterous excitement that usually preceded acts of derring-do. They were coming down the hill fast. Most men would’ve stepped out of sight until they knew what they were facing, but the thought never occurred to Joel. His hand flexed at his side, and he didn’t have to check that his six-shooter was in place. His feet were spread wide in classic gunslinger pose. What if he was in over his head? What if he’d made a mistake? With the horses barreling out of the trees, it was too late to second-guess himself.

  His blood chilled at the sight of the first rider—a torch-toting apparition straight from hell, complete with a disfigured, blackened face and horns. As more of them raced from the trees, Joel realized the masks were burlap sacks, holes cut out for eyes and marked with white paint to make terrifying faces. Cones had been attached at the corners like horns, tassels streaming in the wind from their tips.

  Hooting and hollering, the riders raced into the clearing, straight at him. Who were they? If they meant him harm, he was hopelessly outnumbered. With coats turned inside out and socks over their boots, the only identifying markings would’ve been those of their horses, but even they looked to be rubbed with soot. Dozens of them appeared, some waving a bundle of switches in one hand instead of a torch, but they paid him no mind. Streaming past the depot, they continued their ghastly calling as if he were of no more consequence than the squirrels darting about for acorns beneath the oaks.

  Instead of being relieved, Joel fumed. He was not used to being ignored. As the men were disappearing into the trees, he cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered a challenge.

  “Hey! Don’t you see me standing here, or are y’all afraid to stop?”

  He was downright affronted that no one thought enough of him to break stride.

  Save one.

  Just before his horse dipped out of sight, one man reined hard to the left. Gravel flew as his horse cut and circled around the depot clearing. The man was massive, and the loose sack over his head only added to his bulky profile. One of his horns had twisted and pointed down like a crazed bull’s. His horse plunged its head, wanting to rejoin the herd, but the masked man held it steady and steered it directly toward Joel.

  With the disguise, Joel couldn’t make out much about the man besides his size and his attitude. A leader—definitely. Fearless and arrogant. Someone he’d lock horns with sooner or later.

  Might as well be sooner.

  Joel stepped to the edge of the platform and looked down on the rider. Every nerve was taut. Every sense sharpened.

  The man’s expression was not visible through the mask. He shifted in his saddle, and before Joel knew it, he felt the cold wooden handle of his own gun in his palm. But the man hadn’t drawn a gun on him. Instead of bullets flying his way, a bundle of switches skidded across the platform and landed at Joel’s feet.

  One glance to see they posed no threat, and then Joel had the rider back in his sights.

  The man’s horse pranced as the noise of the other riders faded into the woods.

  “A bundle of sticks?” Joel said. “What’s that su
pposed to mean? Who are you?”

  The white painted circle over the masked man’s mouth distorted and stretched with his answer. “I’m the law.”

  Turning his horse, the rider spurred it, and they shot off like a cannonball to catch their companions, thundering across the clearing and ducking where the road entered the woods.

  Joel’s scalp crawled. Releasing a long breath, he holstered his gun and only then allowed himself to consider what could’ve happened. They’d warned him that the mountains were dangerous. He’d thought the risk better than the fate that faced him at home, but now he wasn’t sure. Whatever he’d expected on his arrival, this wasn’t it.

  Nope. This definitely wasn’t Texas.

  Chapter 2

  While we think your writing shows promise, our readers have no interest in the ineffectual attempts of a mountain sheriff to apprehend criminals in the Ozarks. If you find a topic that would be of more interest to those unfamiliar with your area, please submit again—

  Betsy Huckabee folded the letter along its well-established creases. Good news, bad news. She could tell a story, but there wasn’t any story worth telling in Pine Gap, according to the Kansas City paper’s way of thinking. How could they not find the clash between the various gangs and outlaws fascinating? But they claimed their readers couldn’t relate to the incidents. While they might live in the same state, the mountaineers didn’t catch the attention of the city folk. If she wanted to start her career, she’d have to come at it from a different angle.

  Stuffing the letter into her skirt pocket for the hundredth time, Betsy took up the wooden spoon and scraped it against the bottom of the iron pot, loosening what had stuck while she was distracted. There was more onion than squirrel in the pot. While the onions filled the cabin with a pleasing aroma, they wouldn’t keep her stomach from rumbling all night. The hams, shoulders, and middlin’ meat of the recently butchered pig were curing in the smokehouse, but they would have to stretch through spring, and evidently Sissy was already worried about running short. Betsy took a stick of walnut, tossed it in the cookstove, and then set to stirring again.

  Maybe she could write a sentimental story for the ladies’ page—some fictional piece that would put her name in the paper and some money under her mattress. It wouldn’t hurt to try. She needed to think of something to help her earn a place of her own. The current situation wasn’t conducive to her well-being.

  A whistle shrilled from outside. Was that the train? Betsy glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel. Eight o’clock, and there the whistle went again, probably to alert the town that some poor soul had been abandoned at the depot. She set the kettle on the table and wiped her hands on the checkered dishtowel. She might be hungry, but she couldn’t stir onions when there was a mystery afoot.

  “Uncle Fred? Did you hear the train?” Pushing open the door between the newspaper printing office and their living quarters, she found him leaning over the press, arranging a troublesome line of type.

  He brushed at his forehead. His stained sleeve protector branded a smudge of ink right above his glasses. “The train? It’s certainly late.”

  The outside door flew open, and Betsy’s fifteen-year-old cousin Scott burst in. “That was the train, Pa.” Even thin as he was, the way he wiggled, you’d think there was a whole litter of puppies beneath his shirt. He rushed to his pa, nearly bumping the typesetting tray onto the floor. “Do you reckon the new deputy was on that train?”

  Uncle Fred caught the tray by the corner and tugged it to the center of the desk. “Go tell Sissy that we’re coming in for supper. You aren’t going after a train.”

  Betsy waited until her cousin, arms dangling and lip protruding, sulked into the cabin. As soon as the door fell closed behind him, she turned to her uncle. “What about me? Am I going after a train?”

  Uncle Fred placed the quoin lock into the chase to lock down the print before stepping away from the press. “I am awfully curious about that new deputy from Texas.” He flashed his ready grin, then waved an inky palm back toward the kitchen.

  The family was already seated at the table. Sissy—or Aunt Sissy, as she was to be called now—had finished feeding Baby Eloise and commenced to dish out the squirrel and onions. Scott held his other half sister, Amelia, on his knee, bouncing her and eliciting squeals of delight. Now that he was nearly grown and had a stepmother to look after him, Scott didn’t need his older cousin Betsy anymore. No matter how she helped in the newspaper office, her presence was a strain on the growing family—a strain that none of them would mention, but it troubled her sorely.

  Betsy took her plate from Sissy and dove in.

  “Sit down and eat with us for once, Betsy.” Sissy wasn’t that much older than Betsy, but she tried to make the gap feel wider with sternness. “Between the chores and the press, you’ve been on your feet all day.”

  Ignoring the sitting down part, Betsy shoveled in a few more bites. It was full-on dark, and that was when things started happening among the steep cliffs and deep hollows. She wouldn’t find a fantastic story sitting at the table with Uncle Fred and Aunt Sissy. Her destiny was bigger than that.

  Tossing her plate into the sink, Betsy planted a kiss on Amelia’s little cheek as she hurried past. She didn’t quite hear what Sissy was calling, so she waved a hand over her head as she entered the office and shouted back, “I’ll be careful.”

  She grabbed her cousin’s coat off its hook and pulled it over her calico dress. No clouds out tonight, so she’d be able to see well enough. Her desk rattled as she opened the drawer. She removed the letter from her pocket, gently placed it alongside the other rejections she’d collected, closed the drawer, and then extinguished the lantern and snatched a hat of her uncle’s before heading outside.

  Pausing next to the house, she heard Sissy’s words through the window. “I know she’s always scuttled around unaccompanied, but it really isn’t fitting. She’s a young lady—”

  Betsy growled. Not true. She was no longer a young lady. She’d already weathered the painful season where everyone from the postmaster’s wife to the auctioneer tried to get her hitched to some yokel. That was behind her. They’d finally given up, leaving Betsy to live the life she enjoyed, free from having to justify her decision to any chaw jaw who wanted to opine on the matter. She’d rejected every available man who was interested, and since there was no one new to strike up speculation, she was safe.

  At the sound of thundering hooves, her heart sped. They were riding tonight. Where were they going? Had they found Miles Bullard? How she wished she could join them and see the action firsthand.

  Betsy jogged to the corner of the town square so she could better see them as they passed. She began her mental tally of those she suspected and those she’d cleared. Down the street, Postmaster Finley was pulling his shutters closed on his family rooms above the post office. She hadn’t expected that the shady postmaster was one of them, especially since his family usually fell on the wrong side of the law. What about Doctor Hopkins? He’d been to town earlier. Had he had time to get decked out in his ruckus-raising clothes?

  Here they came, shouting excitedly and some waving their bundles of sticks over their heads. They looked a fright, but Betsy wasn’t scared of them. They were all local men, most of them quite decent and law-abiding until the law failed them. As much as she liked Sheriff Taney, he had let them down. If he couldn’t handle everything on his own, then they were lucky someone was willing to step in.

  She watched as the riders streamed by and tried to memorize the various masks and disguises. Clive Fowler was easy to recognize. Couldn’t hide size under a burlap sack. But besides him, she couldn’t positively identify anyone. They raced by, whooping it up, but one of them seemed less gleeful. He rode a fine horse that she suspected was from the Calhouns’ farm. He wasn’t Jeremiah . . .

  “Hey, Mr. Pritchard,” she called.

  It was a shot in the dark, but it struck the bull’s-eye. The mask turned to her. She couldn’t
see his expression, but she did note the long hair emerging from the bottom of his hood. Yep, another Bald Knobber identified.

  He raised his branches and shook them at her. A warning, but Betsy smiled. She didn’t mean any harm, and Mr. Pritchard knew it. She just couldn’t stand to leave a mystery be. Not if there was a chance on her figuring it out.

  Leaves scattered as the riders turned on the square and headed down toward the river. Whatever campaign they were on would be finished by the time she reached them. Following them was out of the question, but maybe she’d spot a few of them sneaking home after she checked on the train.

  Shoving her hands into her pockets, Betsy started up over the hill toward the depot. Even she didn’t like to walk outside of town after dark, not on the road anyway. Come around the wrong bend, and you might see a fight commencing. You might see someone sneaking home after a night of carousing. But what was worse, someone bad might see you. Although Betsy had no enemies herself, outlaws of all persuasions found the heavily wooded Ozarks a good place to lie low, hide their loot, and live off the land . . . or at least live off whatever sundry goods they could appropriate from the locals. You didn’t want to stumble across those folks on a lonely trail. Even the sheriff found it safer to stay at the jailhouse or out at his cabin of a night.

  But not Betsy. Once she got out of the safety of town, she’d take to the brush and cut through thick patches. Besides, the Bald Knobbers were riding tonight. They’d done a lot to quell the orneriness. If you didn’t mind their methods, you’d have to say Pine Gap was much improved by them.

  Betsy reached the crossroads at the ridge. Straight ahead led to the depot. Take a left, and she’d end up at the sale barn. Instead of either of those options, she’d step off the road onto a rabbit trail and proceed from there. Aunt Sissy thought she was in danger, but once Betsy was in the shadows, no one would see her.

  But she wasn’t in the shadows yet, and here came a stranger.

  The man wore a rumpled suit, cheap shoes not made for walking, and a floppy hat so big you could bathe a pig in it. His nose was bulbous while his chin was meager. He came down the hill roughly, like his knees were popping out of control with every footstep.