“Oh, Slocum,” she whispered as she began to quietly weep. “I’m so sorry.”

  Evie Siddons had not yet fallen asleep, either, and she was having second thoughts about sneaking out here in the middle of the night—about coming here at all—and about crossing Tate McMahon.

  What if, in spite of Slocum and that nice Mr. Cassidy, McMahon won out after all?

  Her goose would most surely be cooked, and that was all there was to it. At the very least, she’d be fired. At worst, she’d be killed, probably when she least expected it.

  When she’d started working for McMahon, she’d actually liked him. Oh, she’d fallen for that tidy, bay rum, smiling facade of his, all right. It had taken her about two weeks to figure out what he was really like, which was about the time she had run across the first of those incriminating files, the files that proved he was as crooked as a corkscrew. And had just about as much conscience.

  She knew that he was convinced she was in love with him. Men like Tate McMahon always thought that every woman they passed secretly yearned for them. But the truth was that she detested him and everything he stood for.

  I am an idiot, she thought, frowning into the darkness. A perfect idiot.

  Why hadn’t she just pulled up stakes and moved to another town? The answer to that was easy.

  Inertia. Simple inertia.

  And there you had it. She’d been just too plain lazy to change her habits, to do anything different, to take a chance.

  And now, at last, she had.

  She had a feeling that she was going to pay for it.

  Drug Cassidy slept like a log, his face covered by his hat, his hand lying across his chest with his pistol, out of long habit, gripped firmly in it.

  Tia Juanita had gone to her room, but she had not yet gone to her bed.

  For the past hour, she had knelt before the little shrine in her room, all the candles lit and the incense burning for Our Lady of Guadalupe.

  And she prayed for Slocum, for Miss Becky, for all of them.

  Oh, how she prayed.

  Slocum and Concho trotted slowly east. The horse nodded his head and fussed at his bit with unspent energy, and Slocum thought, not for the first time, that he should have taking Concho out for a good, hard gallop yesterday.

  Oh well. Too late now.

  He patted the horse’s neck, whispering, “Easy, old son, easy,” and reined him down a little slower. He didn’t want the sound of his hoofbeats carrying.

  Slocum had roused the hands before he left the S Bar J. Right now, several of them were sleepily fanning out in all directions, all traveling slowly and as quietly as possible, and all on the lookout for Crowfoot’s campsite. He’d given them instructions, if and when they should spot him, to go directly back to the ranch and report to Cassidy.

  He was traveling south, just off the side of the road, through soft sand that made less clatter than the packed and rutted roadway. And all the while, he kept his eyes peeled for any trace of a fire, or the tiniest wisp of smoke.

  That would have been easy, wouldn’t it? Crowfoot being dumb enough to build a fire, then not put it out all the way. But he had a feeling that Crowfoot was far from stupid. Crazy, maybe, but not dumb.

  He had taken this route because he figured it was most likely the way that Crowfoot had come from town. Of course, Crowfoot might have gone in a completely different direction, just to confuse the matter.

  Slocum couldn’t take any chances, though. He’d ride south, then turn east, near the road, and go most of the way toward town. Then he’d ride north about a mile, and cut across the desert, back toward the ranch.

  He didn’t really expect Crowfoot to camp right beside the goddamn road. He’d be off someplace. But Slocum was counting on seeing his horse’s head above the cactus long before he saw Crowfoot.

  He’d told the other men to go back and report, sure. But he wasn’t sure what he’d do if he were the one to run across him first.

  He wouldn’t shoot him in his sleep, although he felt like it. No, he supposed he’d have to wake him up first, give him a fair chance.

  He snorted softly. Fair chance, his ass. Like Crowfoot had given a fair chance to Jack Jamison.

  By the time Slocum finally reached Indian Springs, it was nearing dawn. He hadn’t realized how long it would take him at a walk or a soft jog. But at least the journey had taken some of the edge off Concho. He’d stopped shaking and nodding his head and pulling at the bit.

  Slocum reined to the north, out into the desert, and started cutting up through cactus and brush. He had decided not to go a full mile. Maybe a half. There were low, jagged hills to the north, and he figured that once it came light, he’d be able to see all the way to their bases—and most of the way back to the road. The land there was fairly flat.

  He hoped that Dave was having more luck than he was. He’d taken the southern route to town. Maybe Dave was already back at the ranch, shaking Cassidy awake.

  Slocum grinned. He wondered if Cassidy still slept with that old Colt .45 gripped in his hand, under his pillow. Dave had best knock first, and maybe he’d best give a holler on top of it. Cassidy had a tendency to shoot first and ask questions later.

  It was a shame about Cassidy’s eyes. A goddamned shame. Slocum couldn’t imagine what that would be like, to slowly and inexorably lose his vision. Especially a man like Cassidy, who made his living bounty hunting and freelancing his gun.

  Much as Slocum did.

  A shiver ran through him, despite his heavy coat. He didn’t want to think about it.

  Having traveled roughly a half mile, weaving around prickly pear and cholla and the occasional palo verde or ironwood, he turned west again.

  Morning was sending the first fingers of light over his shoulder. He kept Concho at a walk, and watched the desert.

  Jeb Crowfoot awoke in pain, as he usually did. His left knee always started out stiff, from an injury he’d received falling from a galloping horse when he was seven or so. His right shoulder was still bum from a slug he’d taken in it. He’d tracked down the Mexican that shot him and made him suffer for an hour before he finally did him in.

  His joints creaked and hurt, and he had a kink in his neck.

  But he was used to it. A man could get used to anything, he thought, as he carefully and slowly got to his feet. He went through his morning ritual, making circles with his head and neck until the kink was gone, slowly rotating his shoulder while the pain worsened, then lessened.

  Then he folded his blankets neatly—after shaking each one out for an inordinate amount of time—then rolled them all together and tied them behind his saddle. He watered and fed his horse, saddling it while it ate from the nosebag, and cleaned off every piece of saddle leather that had touched the ground with a soft cloth.

  He used the same cloth to wipe his boots.

  Next, he shaved carefully, and finished it off with a splash of witch hazel. The shaving kit put away, he pulled a pouch of hardtack from his saddlebags, throwing away a few broken pieces in disgust. No fire for him this morning, no coffee. Just hardtack and water. He had work to do.

  After he ate two perfect pieces of hardtack and had a long drink of water, he removed the horse’s nosebag and bridled it, folding the halter as neatly as he could, and placing it, too, inside his saddlebags. The rope, he coiled perfectly before he placed it over his saddlehorn.

  Finished at last, he gave a thorough hand-dusting to his clothes, took off his gloves and shook them, put them back on, then mounted up.

  He turned his horse to the west.

  He was still undecided as to the best way to pull this off. Slocum didn’t know him, he was fairly certain. Of course, he only knew of Slocum by reputation, but that was enough to unnerve him. A little.

  He figured he had two options. He could simply ride into the ranch on some pretense or other, get Slocum alone, and kill him quietly, with a knife or a garrote. Neither was his style, really, and he hated the thought of getting that close to another person, let alone the blood if it came down to a knife.

  The other option was to somehow lure Slocum out into the open, and shoot him from a distance. That had always been his stock in trade. He knew he was a very good sniper—possibly the best who had ever lived—although he was handy with a pistol, too.

  He was handy with just about any implement that resulted in someone else’s death, and he was proud of it. Perhaps too proud.

  But how to lure Slocum out into the open?

  20

  Slocum was about fifteen minutes away from the road that went north, up toward the S Bar J, when he spied a flash of something from the corner of his eye.

  Quickly, he turned his head and squinted, then yanked his rifle from its boot. In one smooth move, he leapt off Concho, smacked the horse in the hind quarters, then went facedown in the weeds.

  The startled Concho took off running, but it wasn’t quick enough. The horse hadn’t gone fifteen yards before he screamed. And, as he stumbled to his knees, Slocum heard the report of a rifle.

  Slocum gritted his teeth and swore silently as he scuttled and crawled toward the nearest shelter, a clump of prickly pear. It was useless for stopping bullets, but at least it was some cover. And as he flopped out behind the cactus, searching for a place to shoot from, he heard Concho groaning.

  It nearly killed him to hear a horse in agony, especially when it was his horse, his Concho. But he could do nothing about it now. Concho was down in the brush about forty feet off. All he could see of the horse was part of the stirrup leather, rising and falling as the horse labored for breath.

  And there were more important matters at hand. That goddamn horse killer, for instance.

  It had to be Crowfoot. It couldn’t be anybody else. And he had most likely aimed at the horse on purpose, to make sure Slocum stayed put.

  Damn his eyes!

  Cursing, Slocum found a small space between two prickly pear pads big enough to shoot—and see—through. There was no sign of that bastard Crowfoot. No sign, even, of his horse.

  Slocum wondered if Crowfoot had trained the horse to lie down. He’d heard of a few bounty hunters and shootists that trained their mounts to do that.

  He knew that Crowfoot had to be there, though.

  He was out there, just waiting.

  Off to the side, Slocum’s horse groaned again, a deep, rattling sound, and Slocum was suddenly aware that poor old Concho was going to die before he had a chance to put him out of his misery.

  Cold, hard rage coursed through his system, and for a moment, he stopped thinking. He just aimed at a clump of vegetation large enough to hide a man—or a horse—and fired three times, quickly.

  Nothing.

  But the returned shots spattered into the cactus mere inches from his head, and sent prickly thorns into his cheek and forehead.

  Ignoring the pain, Slocum fired twice at the next largest clump, the one from which the shots had come: a grouped trio of barrel cactus.

  This time, cactus exploded and he heard a faint yelp.

  No movement, though. At least, none that he could see. And no shots were returned.

  But Crowfoot was a tricky as well as a sneaky sonofabitch.

  Slocum didn’t move. He aimed directly at the left-most barrel cactus, and fired three more shots, low to the ground, and going toward the right.

  Shattered cactus sailed into the air. He saw a flash of fabric as it fell to the side, and a puff of dust as Crowfoot hit the ground.

  Crowfoot was down, but Slocum couldn’t be certain he was dead. He could very well be playing possum, waiting for Slocum to come check on him. It had happened to Pete, and it could happen to him.

  But first things first. On his belly, he began to work his way over to Concho, who was still giving out strangled, rattling groans.

  When at last he reached Concho, the gelding’s beautiful leopard hide was covered in blood. He’d been shot through a lung, as far as Slocum could tell, and was helplessly drowning in his own blood. There was no saving him.

  Choking, Slocum drew his Colt. He stroked the horse’s neck and scratched him on his forehead, where he liked it. And then he pressed the barrel of his gun into the hollow just above the horse’s eye.

  “Sorry, Concho, ol’ son,” he whispered. “You were one damn fine horse.”

  He pulled the trigger.

  No sooner had he put the horse out of his misery than the horse’s body jolted again. Slocum saw the entry wound, mere inches from where his gun hand had been, before he heard the report.

  Shit!

  He grabbed his canteen off the saddle, as well as an extra box of ammo from the saddlebag. Then, on his belly, he began to crawl back toward the cactus, careful to disturb the brush as little as humanly possible.

  When he reached it, he stretched out on the ground, on his back, and reloaded his rifle. The magazine wasn’t empty, but he was taking no chances. He wanted every possible advantage.

  He figured he’d need it.

  Jeb Crowfoot, bleeding copiously from his thigh, was busy tying off the wound with a fresh handkerchief. He swore softly under his breath. This was supposed to be an easy job. It was why he’d broken his rule about never going to the same place twice.

  He should have listened to himself, because here he was, stuck full of cactus thorns, filthy dirty, and he was pretty certain that Slocum’s lucky shot had nicked the artery in his leg. It was surely bleeding enough. It had ruined his britches. He’d have to throw them away.

  That made him madder than the pain of the injury. That, and being dirty.

  He hadn’t seen anything since he’d fired that last, lone shot. Maybe he’d gotten lucky and taken Slocum out. The idiot had probably gone to shoot his horse, finish it off. Crowfoot knew he’d only shot it through the lungs. Enough to drop it, and enough to worry Slocum, if he was truly the horse-loving man he’d been cracked up to be.

  Crowfoot had heard one story about Slocum strapping some fool across a big boulder, crucifix-style, and painting “Horse Killer” in the man’s own blood.

  He stuck a stick between his leg and the handkerchief and gave it a twist. It struck him that he’d best get on with things, or he’d bleed to death before he got his goddamn money.

  He decided to take a chance. He’d seen no movement, so he had every reason to believe that Slocum was still over there, where the horse had gone down. He let go of the stick and brought his rifle to his shoulder.

  He took careful aim, then fired a salvo of bullets at the site.

  Slocum did a quick flip onto his belly when the shots started. They were coming from the brush to the right of what was left of the barrel cactus, but Crowfoot wasn’t aiming at him. The shots were all headed toward Concho’s corpse.

  Without thinking, Slocum flattened out, steadied his rifle, and began squeezing off shots, aimed just behind Crowfoot’s rising gun smoke.

  He saw the brush shake with the impacts, saw twigs flying, saw whole branches sailing upward. He just kept firing, firing like he was a machine, not a man, and in no time half the brush was blown away.

  And then he saw Crowfoot, or at least, part of him. Crowfoot wasn’t firing anymore. Even from this distance, Slocum could see that Crowfoot’s pants leg was covered in blood, and Slocum knew then that the wound had been from his earlier volley.

  Slowly, he rose and began to walk toward the body. Or at least, he hoped it was a body, and not Crowfoot playing possum.

  He doubted it, though. The closer he got, the better he could see just how much blood the killer had lost. If he was alive, it was doubtful that he was conscious.

  At last he got close enough that he pulled out his handgun. He wouldn’t need a rifle at this distance.

  He walked up to the body slowly and carefully. Crowfoot was on his back, as jumbled as a discarded rag doll.

  Slocum holstered his gun. Crowfoot had been shot not only in the leg, but in the shoulder, arm, and head as well.

  He was good and dead.

  Served him right. Goddamned horse killer.

  Which reminded Slocum of Crowfoot’s horse.

  He whistled softly, and heard a nicker, but still couldn’t see anything. He walked toward the nicker and whistled again.

  The horse answered with a whicker.

  Slocum practically tripped over him, and what he saw made him sick. This horse hadn’t been trained to lie down. He’d been tied, front and back, by short ropes quickly lashed around his pasterns. Then he’d been simply shoved to the ground, and his hobbled front and rear legs tied together.

  “Sonofabitch,” Slocum muttered angrily as he worked at the ropes. “You’re lucky to be shed of that bastard, horse.”

  At last, he freed the last rope and the horse gained his feet, then had a good shake. Slocum picked the sticks and twigs from his hide the best he could, and only belatedly did he realize that the horse was an Appaloosa, having just five spots of white, each about the size of a baby’s fist, scattered over his sorrel rump.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Slocum said, and the horse nuzzled him in return, as if in gratitude.

  He relieved Crowfoot’s body of his rifle and sidearms, then mounted the new horse. He’d come back later with a spare horse—and maybe Dave, too—to get his tack and build a pyre over Concho. They could do whatever they liked with Crowfoot’s lousy corpse.

  He didn’t give a good goddamn.

  From atop his new Appaloosa, he spat down on the body. Then, absently picking cactus spines from his cheeks, he reined the horse around and started back toward the S Bar J.

  Becky was on the porch when he rode up, and she ran out to meet him, crying, “Slocum! Slocum, are you hurt?”

  He’d been thinking so hard about what was going to happen next, now that he’d killed McMahon’s ace in the hole, that only then did he realize that he was spattered with blood. Probably Concho’s.

  He shook his head. “No. Got some stickers in me, though.”

  Cassidy, just riding in from the southwest, kicked his pony into a canter and rode up to Slocum. “What the hell happened to you, son? You must’a found all the trouble, ’cause I sure ain’t seen anything but cows and coyotes. And a jackrabbit or three.”