He lashed at the buckskin, then yelled at the black to move its sorry ass, and galloped off in a generally southward direction, the black trailing behind.

  Rufus, fairly drunk by this time, was down in the bar, nursing his sixth beer, when he saw his brother starting down the steps from his rendezvous with the toothless whore.

  He stared stupidly as Rafe, with a satisfied look plastered all over his Mexican face, crossed the room and pulled out a chair.

  “Told her you’d be up directly,” Rafe said, and signaled to the barkeep, indicating a beer, and to hurry up about it.

  “She’s pretty good,” he continued. “I like them ones with no teeth, if you know what I mean.” His elbow jabbed Rufus’s side.

  Rufus shrugged away, spilling his beer in the process. “Don’t want your sloppy seconds,” he grumbled. And then, for God only knows what reason, he smugly added, “Already had some’a my own.”

  Rafe’s eyes narrowed. “You what?”

  “Told you.”

  Rafe’s face darkened. “Listen, you drunken fool,” he began in a low but very serious voice, “if you done anything to louse this—”

  “Penny?” called a voice from the street, and they both looked out the window. “Penny! Coltrane, I’ve lost her!”

  The speaker was a middle-aged man, a farmer or a rancher come to town for supplies, and he was gesturing to a man who could only be the town sheriff. Metal glinted on his chest.

  Clear across the street, they heard the rancher shout, “Don’t tell me not to worry! I been everywhere lookin’. I tell you, she’s disappeared!”

  Rufus began to get kind of a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  Rafe glared at him. “Don’t suppose you know anythin’ about that, out there?” he said softly.

  Rufus leaned back in his chair, trying to bluff it out. “Mayhap I do, mayhap I don’t.”

  “You shit-for-brains cob-head!” Rafe muttered, and grabbed Rufus’s arm, jerking him forward, then to his feet.

  The sudden gain in altitude kind of threw the half-drunken Rufus, and it took him a half-second to get his bearings again. When he did, he shouted, “What the hell do you think you’re doin’?”

  It was the wrong thing to say and the wrong time—and the wrong man—to say it to.

  Waving off the bartender bringing his beer, Rafe steered Rufus outside, then down the walk.

  “Where the Sam Hill we goin’?” Rufus demanded, although he was sozzled enough that it came out all slurry and didn’t have nearly the sarcastic punch he intended it to.

  “The livery,” Rafe said tersely.

  “But we just come from there!” Rufus argued.

  He wanted to go and see whether that bank had a time-lock or not. He hoped it didn’t. He was in the mood to stick it up right now, and they could start off by shooting that sheriff, Coltrane.

  He was sure handy enough. Hell, he was just back there a half a block!

  But Rafe kept on tugging at him, yanking him like a little kid who’s gonna get a whipping when he gets home, and it suddenly occurred to him that he didn’t have to take this.

  He could get mad, by God! He could just plain refuse.

  He put on the brakes, the dust skidding up in little clouds behind his heels, and defiantly said, “Ain’t goin’.”

  “Yeah, you are,” Rafe insisted, and damned if he didn’t have that woodshed look on his face, just like their pa used to get.

  “No,” insisted Rufus. “I wanna go rob the damn bank now!”

  “Shut yourself up or I’ll do it for you,” Rafe hissed. “Jesus Christ! Just when I think you’re halfway growed up, you go actin’ like a stupid kid again!”

  “I ain’t no kid!”

  “Then stop actin’ like it!”

  It occurred to Rufus that this conversation could go on until sometime after dark, and probably would—neither brother willing to give an inch— when someone cried out, back up the street.

  It was a man’s cry of shock and horror, and Rufus knew exactly what had caused it.

  Suddenly he said, “Y’know, you’re right, Rafe. Let’s get ourselves down to the—”

  “Oh, God!” came the cry again. “Penny, my Penny! What have they done to you?”

  “Aw, shit,” Rafe mumbled as they hurried down the street.

  Rufus glanced behind him just long enough to see a smallish crowd gathering at the mouth of the alley where he’d hidden the girl’s body.

  “A blanket, somebody get a blanket to cover my poor dead girl,” he heard the man cry out, and there were literally tears in his voice.

  Some fellows were such babies about stuff, Rufus though scornfully. She was only a girl, after all. Dime a dozen.

  “Hurry up!” Rafe hissed, and yanked him through the livery door.

  They cut out of town at a fast gallop, leaving behind their original horses and a stableman with a pitchfork through his heart. All because he’d objected when they started to saddle up a couple of fresh mounts that didn’t exactly belong to them.

  It was all the stableman’s fault, really, Rufus thought as he struggled to keep his balance on the galloping horse. It was his own fault he’d ended up skewered on his own pitchfork.

  If the man had kept a knife around the stable, Rufus wouldn’t have had to use the pitchfork.

  And naturally, Rafe wouldn’t let him fire his gun. Too much noise, he’d said.

  There Rafe went again, giving him those goddamn orders, Rufus had thought after they led the horses outside. If it hadn’t been for the angry mob coming down the street right straight for them, Rufus would have given Rafe what for, that’s what.

  They were a couple miles out of town, now, and Rafe slowed up a little. Rufus followed his lead gratefully. It had been all he could do to hang on.

  He chanced a glance behind them.

  Nobody was there. Not even a distant cloud of hoof-raised dust.

  Rufus took it upon himself to rein his mount down to a walk. The horse was grateful, but Rafe wasn’t.

  “What the hell you doin’?” he shouted angrily. “Come on!”

  “No earthly sense in runnin’ when there ain’t nobody chasin’ us,” Rufus said, in what he hoped was his most sagely voice.

  Rafe took off his hat and smacked him across the face with it.

  “Hey!” sputtered Rufus. His eyes stung now, and he thought he was bleeding where one of the con chos on Rafe’s hat band had caught him.

  Roughly, Rafe tugged his hat back on. “You beat everything, you know that? I swear, I don’t know how the hell Rance kept you from takin’ the bit in your teeth half the time. If you wasn’t my brother—my onlyest brother, now—I swear, I’d kill you myself!”

  Rufus sat up straight in the saddle, although he weaved a tad. “Go on, you half-beaner sombitch. Try. I dare you.”

  “Jesus,” muttered Rafe, and snatched off his hat again.

  Rufus ducked unconsciously, but this time, the hat wasn’t aimed at him. Rafe smacked Rufus’s horse on the butt, and it sprang into a lope.

  Rufus nearly went off, but he managed, however clumsily, to stick to the saddle.

  And then Rafe rode up next to him and smacked his horse again!

  There was going to be some kind of showdown when they finally stopped to camp, Rufus thought, vomiting stale beer all down his chest and side. Yes, sir, some kind of showdown.

  As soon as he stopped puking.

  16

  Slocum and company rode into Crowfoot to find a town in mourning.

  While Blue went off to talk to the sheriff, and Arvil huddled with Harry and Dutch, softly arguing back and forth, Slocum said to Amos, “We missed ’em. Again, goddammit.”

  “Not by too long, I don’t believe,” Amos said as they walked into the saloon. “A couple of beers, if you don’t mind, sir,” he said to the bartender, then added, “When did those miscreants ride out of town?”

  The barkeep slid two beers to them, and asked angrily, “Them assholes what killed poor Penny Springer? Who wants to know?”

  “Posse, out of Hoopskirt,” Amos said smoothly. “Our sheriff’s talking to yours as we speak.”

  “What’d they do in Hoopskirt?”

  “Killed and raped and made a general nuisance of themselves,” Amos said with a shrug.

  “Well, they did the same here,” the bartender said with a scowl. “Did poor little Penny awful bad. Just standin’ on the street, she was! And then they stabbed Orv Kenrick, down at Kendrick’s Livery, with his own damn pitchfork. Stole two horses, too!” The man turned his head and spat on the floor. “I hope you hang ’em, and that they die real slow.”

  “You didn’t send out a posse of your own?” Slocum asked.

  “Ain’t been time yet!” the bartender said. “Only been a half hour since they went gallopin’ south, out of town, like the cowards they was.”

  “A half hour?” Slocum asked, his eyebrows shooting up.

  Amos took a quick gulp of his beer, then tossed a few coins on the bar. While they still spun, he nodded to Slocum. “Shall we?”

  Slocum simply nodded and started toward the doors. They were close, very close. Their horses were tired and the Carthage boys had fresh mounts, but they could catch them, Lord willing.

  Except that when he and Amos walked outside, they ran right into Arvil and the other two. Arvil had his hat off, which didn’t bode well as far as Slocum was concerned.

  “What?” he said.

  “We been talkin’,” Arvil began. “About these fellers we’re chasin’. And about other stuff, too. See, we don’t figure that old Tom, God rest him, would want us to go clear to Mexico to run down his killers. We figure he’d probably say to come on back and get busy tendin’ to his ranch.”

  “We got cows to round up,” said Harry.

  “And horses to break,” added Dutch.

  “And those last two Carthage boys are only a half hour ahead of us,” Slocum said, gruffly. “You gonna quit on us now?”

  Arvil looked at his boots. Harry and Dutch simply looked away.

  “All three of you?” Slocum demanded.

  “I’m goin’ home,” said Harry.

  “Me, too,” echoed Dutch.

  But Arvil looked up again. “Only a half hour, you say?”

  Amos nodded in the affirmative.

  “Well, I reckon I’m still in, then,” Arvil said. “I was Tom’s foreman, and I reckon it’s sort of my place to see his killers put down.” He turned toward his men. “You fella’s, go on back and see to young Trey. Ain’t no shame in it.”

  “You swear, Arvil?” asked Dutch.

  “Swear to God,” Arvil replied, crossing his chest with a finger. Slocum had to grudgingly admire the way he was handling this. Arvil continued, “Go on, now, fellers. Those critters need tendin’, and young Trey can’t do it all by hisself.”

  “Who’s Trey?” Amos asked.

  Arvil said, “Old Tom’s grandson. Reckon he’s the boss now. He wanted to come along, but we wouldn’t let him. He’s only sixteen, you know?”

  Slocum said, “We’re wastin’ daylight, fellers. Do what you’re gonna do, but do it quick. We’ll probably pick up some locals.” He started toward the sheriff’s office.

  Amos kept step with him. “Do you honestly think, my dear Slocum, that we’re going to find any volunteers for the posse in this little hamlet?”

  “Course not,” Slocum replied stoically. “But Harry and Dutch had their minds set on goin’ back. I don’t want a man along who ain’t keen on the idea of blowin’ Rafe and Rufus Carthage directly to Hell. Don’t need a couple of ranch hands who’re worried about their stock more than savin’ their skins.”

  “Or ours,” Amos added.

  “Right.”

  Rance Carthage had discarded the dun, and was now riding the black. He’d made excellent time so far, and he figured to be about ten miles out of Crowfoot. That was the only town they could be headed for.

  The tracks of a whole posse were a lot easier to follow than the tracks of two riders, even over stone, and he had a fairly easy time of it.

  The going wasn’t so easy with his wounds, though. The shoulder and the side, they’d stopped paining him so much, but his chest? That was a different matter.

  It was hurting more, a real deep hurt, all the time, and it was beginning to really worry him.

  Not that he’d admit it to himself. So far as he was concerned, he was invincible, unkillable, totally unstoppable, and he’d live to be a hundred and ten. He was the strongest man he’d ever had the pleasure to know, both physically and mentally, and he figured that would always stand him in good stead.

  He was certainly luckier in those respects—head and body—than his brothers. The fools.

  He found himself pushing his pain aside by picturing what Rafe was going to look like, once he caught him up and beat the tar out of him.

  He might just pummel Rufus, too, just to teach him a lesson that he wouldn’t forget. Like, for instance, never count your brother out until you see him buried.

  Maybe not even then.

  He gave the black another lash with the ends of his reins, and hunkered low in the saddle.

  He meant to catch up to that posse first and take them out for good and all, especially Slocum and that sonofabitch limey, Amos Marple.

  And then he’d see to his brothers.

  Blue shrugged again, and with disgust filling his voice, said, “They’re not comin’, Slocum. Not even the sheriff. I tried to talk him into it, but no go. Hell, even the girl’s daddy—the little gal what got raped and killed—won’t come. The doc’s got him sedated over at the boarding house, anyhow.” He spat to one side. “Goddamn sheriff. Pisses me off.”

  Slocum said, “We lost Harry and Dutch, too. It’s gettin’ down to it, I guess.” He didn’t look upset, only a little annoyed.

  Blue, who had taken off his tinted glasses while he was inside, talking with Crowfoot’s Sheriff—so-called sheriff, anyhow—Coltrane, gave them a rub on his sleeve, then settled them back on his nose.

  The sun was awful bright today, but that wouldn’t be a problem in a couple of hours. The sun was headed toward the horizon.

  He said, “Where’d Amos get to?”

  Slocum said, “He’s pickin’ up a few extra supplies. Just in case. I don’t want to give those boys another chance to get away again. They’ve slipped through my fingers two times. Once in Hoopskirt and now again in Crowfoot. No way that I’m lettin’ that happen again, Blue.”

  Blue nodded and they began walking back down the street toward Arvil, and their tethered horses, minus Harry’s sorrel and Dutch’s bay. They were long gone. Blue watched as Amos came up the street, slipped a slim parcel into his saddlebags, and struck up a conversation with Arvil.

  “Where you know him from, Slocum?” Blue asked. “Amos, I mean.”

  “A long time back,” Slocum replied. “Actually, since just after the War. We sort of worked together for a while. Lost track of him until a few years back. That was when we rounded up these peckerwoods the first time. Jury should’a hung ’em, but they didn’t.” He stopped and shook his head. “Guess God wasn’t watchin’ that day. So, here we are again.”

  That answered some of Blue’s questions, but not all of them, not by a long shot. But just then they joined the others. Someone—most likely Arvil—had refilled their water bags and canteens, he noticed, and Amos was just tightening his horse’s cinch.

  “Ready, gentlemen?” Amos asked.

  “Yup,” replied Slocum as he saw to his horse, then swung up. “You get what you wanted?”

  “Indeed,” Amos said.

  Blue was busy checking over his roan. Crackerjack looked rested enough, considering all the miles he’d covered today. He figured the horses had been standing for a good half hour. It wasn’t ideal, but it was enough.

  He was the last to mount up.

  Slocum gathered his reins. “All right, boys. It’s just us, now. We’re gonna pace these horses to get the most out of ’em. Much as I want to see those Carthages dead in a ditch, I sure don’t want to lame my horse. They ain’t that far ahead, and they’re gonna have to stop eventually. When they do, we’ll have ’em.”

  “Precisely my thoughts, old chap,” Amos piped up cheerily.

  Arvil didn’t say anything. He was likely wondering what it felt like for Harry and Dutch, to be going home. But Blue said, “Let’s do it.”

  At a jog, they rode out of town.

  The black had about given out, and Rance was wishing he’d hung onto the dun instead of turning it loose. But he was only about three miles from Crowfoot now. Only about three miles from hopefully catching up with either the posse or his brothers, or both.

  He hadn’t caught sight of either group so far, even at the quick pace he was traveling. But he was confident, by God. Confident that he’d catch them, and confident that he’d kill his brothers’ pursuers, and confident that he’d teach his goddamned, peck erwood brothers a lesson they’d never forget.

  The black was showing marked signs of distress by the time he had ridden another mile closer to Crowfoot, and so he was encouraged to see a couple of riders, proceeding at a slow jog, coming toward him.

  He slowed down before they had a chance to glimpse him, and reined his horse behind the cover of a few scrubby bushes.

  They were turning now, coming straight toward him, and he quickly dismounted, gripping unconsciously at his chest as he did.

  He slid his rifle from its boot, then knelt down in his horse’s shade. And waited.

  It didn’t take long. They rode into range, and he let them come even farther before he raised the rifle to his shoulder. The horses might run too far to catch, otherwise.

  He set his sights on the man riding the bay.

  And then, when the time was right, he squeezed the trigger. Before there was time to see whether his slug had hit home, he changed his target to the man on the sorrel, and squeezed again, just as the fellow on the bay slid off his horse.

  The second man appeared to hear the first shot after his friend fell, and suddenly turned his head. In shock and surprise, Rance supposed.