Chapter Thirty-SevenThe street ached. Both sensed it. Dixon, on the lead horse, pulled his mount to a halt and leaned over to his left, peering down at the dirt.
“What is it?”
He barely turned to acknowledge her, grunting, “Blood.”
Melody drew up alongside him, her eyes roaming over the deathly quiet buildings. Not yet noon; the town should have been alive with people, but the atmosphere of dread hung over everything. A funeral shroud, ominous and heavy. “I don't like this place.”
“Me neither,” said Dixon, straightening his back. He gestured towards the sheriff's office. “We might get an answer there.”
“And if we don't?”
“Then I guess we try the assayer's office. Someone must know what's been going on.”
“I just want to find my father.”
“I know. And so we shall.”
Kicking his horse,
