They’d get drunk, have some women, get the town firmly under their thumbs, so to speak, and then they’d take the bank.

  They’d take it easy.

  And if there was a big enough take, he figured maybe they could head down to Mexico for a while.

  Hoopskirt hadn’t had so much as a stage stop, let alone a telegraph. It would be a spell before Slocum and his pal could get the word out to anybody. Now, Rufus figured traveling over rock for a whole day was enough to throw off anybody. There wasn’t any way in the world that Slocum could be behind them.

  But eventually, somebody would be.

  He figured that out of the country was the safest place for him and Rafe to be. Especially if they were rich.

  He hoped that bank was good and fat.

  14

  After Rafe put up his horse and Rufus argued with the stablehand about whether the hoof could be fixed or if he should just shoot the beast—during which the stablehand bought Rufus’s horse for fifteen dollars, which sort of negated the point—they went up the street to Crowfoot’s only saloon.

  It wasn’t as nice as the one back at Hoopskirt, having a bar which consisted of two planks tossed over the tops of a couple barrels, but it had beer, and it had girls.

  Well, girl, period.

  Rufus and Rafe’d had a long talk on the way into town. Well, long for them, anyway. They decided to hold themselves back as well as they could until they had time to check out the bank.

  Rafe had said that you never could tell when somebody’d brought in one of these newfangled time-lock deals—one of which they had encountered several years ago up in Montana, and with which Rafe said he had no intention of dealing again.

  Rufus, on the other hand, secretly figured that if they had a choke hold on the stupid town, they could just wait out the time-lock.

  But you didn’t argue with Rafe, no sir, you just didn’t argue with that hot Mexican temper.

  So Rufus was going to try to be nice. He’d practiced on the stablehand. He hadn’t killed him or anything, not even a little wound.

  He thought that showed a whole lot of restraint, and he was proud of himself.

  They stood at the bar, drinking their beers, while they checked the place over. Three customers besides themselves, one saloon gal with no teeth and a bad green dress, sitting by herself at a rear table, and one bored bartender, down at the far end of the splintery, six-foot “bar.”

  Rufus muttered, “Aw, Rafe, can’t we just—”

  “No,” Rafe said.

  “Aw, shit.”

  Rafe turned toward him, his dark eyes narrowed. “You mouthin’ off to me, boy?”

  Why had his brothers always treated him like he was their kid instead of their sibling? Why, Rafe wasn’t but three years older than he was!

  And Rance? Rance had been the worst. Do this, do that, go over there, come over here, lift that barge, tote that bale . . .

  Rufus considered that he was getting pretty tired of this crud. He also considered that the reason he hadn’t broken down and bawled when Rance got shot like Rafe had—the crybaby—was that he was actually kind of glad he wouldn’t get bossed around anymore.

  And now Rafe was taking over, dammit.

  “Are you?” Rafe demanded. “Lippin’ off?”

  For just a moment, Rufus thought yeah, he was, and what was Rafe gonna do about it? But then common sense—what little he had—took hold, and he said, “Nope, Rafe. I was just commentin’.”

  “Well, keep your goddamn comments to yourself,” Rafe growled, downed the last of his beer, then ordered a second one.

  “Me, too,” Rufus said. “Another beer, I mean.” And he couldn’t help it if his tone was a little surly.

  Rafe just looked over, glaring, but didn’t say anything.

  Good thing, too, Rufus thought. I’m just this close to takin’ your goddamn head off.

  Meanwhile, back at Hoopskirt, which was now a town in mourning, Paul Yates, the town’s combination barber/furniture maker/mortician, walked out into the shed to see about that bodies that had been brought over last night. He had a tape measure around his neck, and he wasn’t in a very good mood. He’d been putting this off all day.

  That Rance Carthage was sure a big sucker, mused Yates as he put his hand on the latch and brought out his key. Not tall, no sir. He reckoned Carthage was only five-nine, five-ten, and that in his boots. But it had taken four grown men to carry him over.

  Yates didn’t look forward to preparing the body. He supposed he’d have to make an extra-wide casket.

  And naturally, there was only the town poor fund to pay him for it. And the town poor fund was always broke, which meant, basically that he was throwing his own money down a hole after Rance Carthage.

  As he turned the key in the lock, though, he smiled. He’d just remembered that Rance wasn’t alone in the shed. Those other two fellers would pay for their own burials. Or at least, their families would, once Blue got back and got people notified.

  That would help defray the cost somewhat.

  He walked into the room, which was already smelling a little ripe, and went to the opposite window, letting up the blind and letting in the sun.

  Staring out the window, his back to the three bodies lying flat on the planks that served as preparation tables, he rubbed his hands together.

  “Who’s to be first, gents?” Yates asked.

  “Not me, you jackass,” said a voice, and Yates nearly jumped out of his skin.

  He whirled around to find that one of the sheeted, prone figures was prone no longer. Sitting there, big as life with a pistol pointed directly at Yates’s chest, sat Rance Carthage.

  “How . . . how . . . how . . . ?” Yates stuttered. “I s-saw the wounds myself! One of them went right th-through you!” He found that he was hanging onto the windowsill behind him, for the sole purpose of keeping himself upright.

  “Must’a missed the important stuff,” Rance barked, although a bit weakly, Yates thought with some optimism. It was a stretch to find anything at all to be optimistic about, considering the circumstances, but then, he always liked to look on the sunny side.

  Part of which was that he wouldn’t have to haul Rance Carthage’s body around and bury it.

  Maybe Rance would live just long enough to get to some other undertaker’s turf.

  “What happened?” Rance demanded. “Where’re my brothers?” He got off the plank he was now sitting on, and ripped the sheets off the other two bodies. “You’re lucky this ain’t them,” he said, then repeated, “Where are they?”

  “T-that’s sort of a long story,” Yates said, tugging at his collar.

  Rance leaned back, resting the bulk of his weight on the planks. He looked weak, Yates thought. Hell, he should look dead and beginning to rot, by all natural laws!

  But instead, he was peeling his shirt, solid with dried blood, away from his chest. It made a sick little ripping sound.

  Rance said, “I got time.” He wiggled the nose of that gun, gesturing Yates to the wooden chair in the corner.

  Who the hell had brought him down here with a gun, anyway? Blue would never . . .

  And then Yates remembered that Blue and those other men had lit out right away. It was Frank who had overseen the bringing down of the body.

  And wasn’t that just like Frank?

  Yates felt his mouth tighten, just thinking about it. That Frank was too stupid to live. But then he had a happy thought. Frank might die of his wounds, yet.

  Serve the sonofabitch right, if you asked him.

  Rance wiggled the gun again. “Speak, gravedigger,” he said.

  Yates pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “Well, it’s like this, Mr. Carthage. After Slocum and Sheriff Parker and Amos Marple killed you, that is to say, wounded you somewhat, they lit out after your brothers.”

  Rance’s face wadded into a scowl. “You mean my brothers run on out me?” he nearly shouted.

  Yates didn’t quite know what to do, other than tell the truth. “I-I believe they both thought you had, um, expired, sir. That is, we all did. The whole town.”

  Rance sniffed. “Not likely.” He pulled the bloody shirt away from his back, too. Again the sick, tearing sound.

  Rance’s chest had started to bleed again, mixing bright red and damp with the dull and rust-colored. Yates was thinking that perhaps it might be a very good idea if the fiend just bled to death right here and now.

  He could manage the body by himself if need be. Certainly, he could! He could build an oversize coffin. He wouldn’t even care about getting paid.

  He wouldn’t mind any of it, really, now that he thought about it. Because he had a feeling that unless Rance Carthage either bled to death, or at least bled enough that he passed out, Yates wasn’t getting out of his own body-preparation shed alive.

  “You know, you really should let me bandage those wounds for you,” he said slowly, feigning concern. “Or better yet, allow me to call the doctor. I don’t think you realize—”

  “I realize you’re stallin’,” Rance said, and he looked very mean and very serious. “Get on with it, gravedigger. Tell me what the hell happened while I was out.”

  Swallowing hard and stuttering, Yates complied.

  Rafe was upstairs with the toothless whore, and Rufus was restless. He sat at a corner table, all alone, sipping his fourth beer and grinding his teeth.

  He’d taken about all of this he was going to take. First, a lifetime of crud from Rance, and now what promised to be the same thing from Rafe. Hell, when he was fifty Rafe would still be bossing him around and telling him what to do.

  When Rafe had first go at the only whore in town, that was just about the last straw. Rafe was goddamn lucky that Rufus hadn’t shot him on the spot, that’s all he had to say.

  He felt like going down to the livery and shooting his goddamn horse, just because. And then maybe he’d shoot that stableman that bought the gelding, too. Folks needed to learn that Rufus Carthage wasn’t a man to be trifled with!

  No, Rafe was the one who needed that lesson.

  He stared out the front windows, a nasty expression on his face and even nastier thoughts running through his head, when he saw a pretty girl standing right across the street.

  She was alone. That was good. And of course, she was pretty, at least from this distance. That was better. Better than that toothless whore any day.

  Without a further thought of Rafe or anything he’d said about laying low or casing the bank or waiting his turn for the whore, Rufus stood up, stretched his arms nonchalantly and walked outside.

  Quickly, he checked both ways. The street was close to deserted, and the sidewalks as well. The girl was still across the way, looking into the display window of a dressmaker’s shop.

  He crossed the street.

  Slowly, he walked up to her.

  She didn’t look at him. She didn’t seem to know he was there.

  You will in a minute, honey, he thought.

  He came up and stopped right next to her. She was blond, and she was wearing some kind of pretty scent, like lemons.

  He took off his hat and said, “Howdy, ma’am. How you doin’ today?”

  She turned toward him, annoyed, he supposed, that a strange man would speak to her on the street. Women sure had some funny ideas. Even girls. He figured her for about seventeen.

  Without a word, she turned on her heel and walked away.

  He followed.

  And when she came to the first alley, he quickly checked the streets again, then took three long, fast steps to catch her.

  In an instant, her mouth was covered by his dirty hand. He lifted her by the waist, and pulled her, struggling wildly, into the mouth of the alley.

  “That’s right,” he whispered. “That’s right, missy. I like it when gals fight me.”

  He pinned the terrified girl to the wall with one arm, and still managing to cover her mouth, he yanked and ripped at her dress, tearing it half away.

  He smiled. She had real nice tits.

  “Yeah, honey,” he muttered to the struggling girl as he quickly unbuttoned his trousers. “Keep it up. I like it fine.”

  He took her against the wall, all the time covering her hysterical screams and cries with his hand. It didn’t take long. He was that randy.

  And when he was finished, he simply snapped her neck to shut her up.

  He buttoned himself up. Then, keeping an eye to the street, he stuffed the body, half-naked, bruised and bleeding, back behind some barrels and packing crates and threw a little excess excelsior over it.

  Straightening his hat, he walked back across the street to the saloon and sat back down at his table. He picked up his beer again.

  Nothing had changed, except for that little girl out there, hidden behind some barrels. Nobody had moved, nobody was the wiser.

  And, he thought with a smile, she’d been pretty, even up close. Cute little spray of freckles right across her nose. Blue eyes, too. At least, he thought they’d been blue. Might have been blue-gray.

  Anyhow, she’d been a whole lot better-looking than that whore Rafe had, and he’d popped her, too, broke her in. He could tell by the thin skin of blood on his cock when he was finished.

  Ha! Let Rafe chew on that for a while!

  15

  Slocum, being in the lead, found it first. He reined Sonny, his oddly colored Appy, to a sliding stop and stared down at the ground.

  “We’ve got ’em, boys,” he said. Rather like the cat who’d caught the canary, Amos thought. There were practically feathers sticking out the sides of Slocum’s mouth.

  Amos and Blue looked down, too. It was clear to Amos as well. Here, the horse that had limped for miles, the horse that had lost a shoe, had finally given out. The print from the near right hoof was misshapen, for it had most likely split partially, and now the rider was set afoot.

  When Amos looked up, Blue was smiling, an expression shared by Arvil, Harry and Dutch. They all knew they weren’t too very far from their quarry now. They all knew it was just a matter of time, perhaps minutes.

  However, Amos was a tad concerned, and it looked as if his old friend Slocum was, too. Slocum stared off into the distance, then pulled out his spyglass and looked through it for a long time.

  At last, he folded it up and put it away. “It’s clear,” he said. “For a good distance, anyhow. Blue, how far are we from Crowfoot?”

  Blue shrugged. “Mile or two. Two and a half at the outside. It’s just below that hill on the horizon, as I recall” he said, pointing. “I ain’t been down this way for a spell.”

  They took off again at a jog, then slowly moved up into a lope, each man keeping an eye on the distant hills and the horizon, over which they hoped to find the Carthage brothers.

  When Rance Carthage left the body-preparation shed, he left Yates behind, dead and covered with a sheet on the planks that Rance had formally occupied.

  He knew what had happened now, he thought as he saddled Yates’s horse. He knew what those fools, Rafe and Rufus, had done, and in which direction the posse had taken out after them.

  Chances were, Rufus and Rafe were dumb enough to figure they’d lost that posse. But Rance knew that sonofabitch Slocum and his bastard buddy, Amos Marple, didn’t give up that easy. When the Carthages were in Yuma Prison, more than one inmate had confided in him that Slocum was the best “bumblebee through a blizzard” tracker than ever was.

  Rance didn’t care how much bedrock rose up to the surface to ring Hoopskirt, or how much it rained or didn’t rain. That bastard, Slocum, would track those idiots down, or die trying.

  Rance hoped it was the latter. But he had no time to waste on those pleasant thoughts.

  He led out another of Yates’s horses, one of a matched pair of blacks—this one probably a coach horse for pulling the ebony and gilt, glass-sided, fancy-plumed hearse parked out back—and clipped a lead rope to its halter.

  “You’d best be saddle-broke,” he grumbled to it as he mounted the other, a dun. “If’n you ain’t, you’re sure gonna be by the time I get done with your lazy, goddamn ass.”

  The Yates Furniture, Barber Shop, and Undertaking Establishment was on the edge of town, surrounded by a grove of palo verde. Rance was confident that no one saw him as he quietly left town, riding the dun and leading the black.

  He was also confident that no one saw him break into a canter once he got clear of town and picked up the posse’s trail.

  His shoulder pained him something fierce, his side throbbed, and his chest hurt like a bastard. He hadn’t sought out the doc, though. He’d simply bandaged himself up the best he could, after downing a couple shots of whiskey and digging out the slug still caught in his shoulder and the other in his side.

  Those last two stung like angry beestings, partly because of the extra whiskey he’d poured into the newly raw flesh, but the worst was his chest.

  He was pretty sure that particular slug hadn’t hit anything vital. Like he’d told the undertaker, he was breathing, wasn’t he? Still, he could feel that it had sure done some kind of damage on its way through.

  But he didn’t have time for rest or fussing, or even thinking about it. He had to find those peck erwood brothers of his before they stirred up a hornet’s nest they couldn’t swat and shoot their way out of.

  Either that, or he’d have to ferret out that goddamn posse and take care of them before they had a chance to get at his brothers.

  One way or the other, he was going to beat Rafe senseless when he found him.

  Rafe should have taken charge, and he should’ve known better. The sonofabitch should’ve known that a little thing like three slugs wasn’t enough to kill Rance Carthage.

  And even if Rafe—or Rufus—was dumb enough to buy into that—and it appeared that they had been exactly that stupid—they should have known better than to ride right back into the same town.

  Idiots. Fools!

  He had a couple of certified knuckleheads for brothers.