The horses were asleep, save one. He saw it not by its form, which was shrouded by the night, but by the sparkle of its eyes, an incandescence beaming in the darkness. The horse crowded the door of its stall when Caleb drew near, as though expecting him to toss over some feed, or, even better, open the door. He offered his hand and the animal did not shy. Some dimension had been lost as he’d approached, and its eyes were now cloaked rather than alight. The horse was not spooked, to his great relief, though he would expect no less from a Webler horse. Wade’s footman was known to break them himself.
Caleb went to the tack room and retrieved a bridle and saddle, then claimed a saddlebag for good measure. He crept into the stall and the horse did not try to bolt, but stood still, flicking its neck as if to say hello. When he placed a hand on its mane a tremor ran through the horse, a skittering wave upon its back, which reminded Caleb of Ridley, and he let his hand rest on the beast for a spell, to ease his way with it, before blowing into its nostrils.
“I need a horse that’s gonna move for me,” he whispered. “Can you fly?”
It was a buckskin mare, beautiful, although he was not sure it had the talent to lead a pack. There was no way to know until he sat upon her. She was well mannered, and he had her tacked up before he’d even paused to make sure he was still alone. He was nearly ready to lead the mare to the aisleway when footsteps sounded on the floor. He peered out, too frightened to reach for his pistol. But it was merely another horse, resettling itself in the humid air.
“You ready, then?” he whispered.
The escape would need to be clean. He’d have to pull himself up and take off at a clip. He had prepared for disaster—certain that, with his luck, a party of Webler’s men would descend upon him the second he approached the stables. Yet here he was: for once, somehow, executing a plan of his own design. The night was before him. He mounted, and the mare huffed loud enough to raise the attention of the other horses. A few rose from their sleep, and he could feel their eyes on his back as he gave the mare a start. They were quiet, though, and soon enough his horse was cantering down the road.
He was halfway to Selby before he realized he would never see the Webler home again. Even with all that had been irreparably damaged in the last several days, he couldn’t help imagining—almost hoping—that August might have been at the window, curtains pulled, watching his escape. Likely his disbelief would be too great to lend the sight any credence. He’d tousle his hair, return to bed, and in the morning shake his head at the dream that had felt so real.
*
The mare gained speed until they were gliding, then outright flying. The road was empty at this forsaken hour, and it wasn’t long before he arrived in Selby. The town was smaller and quieter than Old Ox. He was familiar with the design, having traveled through before, and easily spotted the jail, buttressed on one side by the tavern and on the other by a little boxed-off dirt cemetery absent any markings. With the candle inside the jail dimmed and contorted by the windowpane, the place was a fit of shadows—none of them moving, all of them still. He had no idea how many men were inside. A lone horse was tied up out front. As Caleb stepped onto the stoop, a voice called out.
“Sheriff? That you?”
In a spontaneous show of theatrics, Caleb kicked the door open, pulled his pistol from his waistband, and took aim at the first body that appeared at the other end of the sight. It was Tim, the deputy, so shocked and wobbly that he nearly fell over.
“Where’s Prentiss?” Caleb asked.
Tim fell back against his desk, squinting in bewilderment.
“You’re George’s boy?”
“I’ll give you one more chance,” Caleb said, and, as if in a trance, cocked the hammer on the pistol.
“I ain’t but a few feet from you,” said a voice.
Turning toward the sound, Caleb caught sight of Prentiss sitting in the dimness of the nearest cell with his legs crossed, as if untroubled by the commotion.
“Keys,” Caleb said to Tim. “Now.”
Tim reached for his waist and Caleb knew immediately that he was gone if the deputy retrieved a gun, for though he had cocked the hammer, he couldn’t bring himself to shoot or even to return fire. His finger went soft on the trigger, and he was surprised to discover that he felt inclined to welcome such a resolution. To meet death head-on, in a fit of adventure, of great daring—well, that was something worthwhile. He would still die with his accomplishments tallying nothing more than being a horse thief, but at least others might hear the rumors of his courage, and in the most selfish of ways, this was enough to deliver a solemn peace to an otherwise fraught moment that had nearly caused him to wet himself for the second time as a man.