At least he had footprints this time. Sure evidence that the murderer wasn't a prospector. No cheap work boots made the few tracks left behind in the dust. They had to be fine expensive shoes, the kind the merchants and gambling hall owners wore. The footprints revealed that the shoes' owner had average-sized feet and was limping slightly, as if he'd been injured before his confrontation with Garnet. Perhaps on the road when she arrived. Exhaustion hung about his head like fog, and the strong rays of the late day sun burned his eyes. He needed to go to town and check up on these leads while they were fresh, while the killer was still sporting his wounds. As he neared his cabin, his brother Ben's cabin, he saw the light gray plume of smoke lifting from the stovepipe above the canvas roof. The women were probably cooking supper, he considered, and his empty stomach growled as loudly as a bear. His mouth watered at the memory of Garnet's pancakes. Fluffy and moist, spongy and light.
