Standing at the edge, between her legs, he hooked her heels behind his neck. He ran one big palm over her full breasts and flat belly and then, with one quick thrust, drove into her.

  She let out a sound, halfway between pleasure and surprise, but Slocum paid it no mind. He wanted—no, needed—the release of an orgasm now, and he single-mindedly pumped her. First fast, then slow, then fast again, until he felt himself rising up, felt that tickle in his loins grow into a bonfire, then a conflagration.

  Then he came in a sudden, spurting flood that drained him of the past days of stress and turmoil and too many dead bodies. He was vaguely aware that she came, too, that she made a tiny strangled scream in the back of her throat.

  When he opened his eyes and looked down, her eyes were half-lidded and she was panting hard, her mouth open a little. A thin skin of sweat coated her brow, and her hair was damp at the temples. The cords at the sides of her neck were just beginning to relax.

  To Slocum, she looked prettier now than ever before.

  He lay his hand on her belly, rubbing it in soft circles as he felt her inner thrumming carry through him, through his slowly wilting cock. Which was about to get hard again.

  “My goodness,” she breathed. “I may have to pay you!”

  He smiled. “That was just to get me loosened up, Honey,” he said, and chuckled when her eyes opened all the way and grew round. “What do you say that you and me wander on over to your bed?”

  Slowly, sinuously, she sat up, still impaled, and hugged him close. “I’d admire it,” she whispered into his ear, just before she kissed him.

  Fully dressed and sitting on the edge of the lumpy bed, Rance Carthage stormed, “You let me out of here, woman!”

  One more no out of her and, childhood friend or not, third cousin or not, he’d wring her neck.

  But she said, “Not on your life, Rance,” and he still couldn’t bring himself to kill her. And he couldn’t exactly figure out why.

  “You listen to me, Rance Carthage,” she went on, arms crossed, feet set, brow creased. “First off, its nighttime, and the moon’s clouded over. You wouldn’t be able to see where the hell you was goin’, and you wouldn’t get twenty feet a’fore your horse’d step in a hole and break a leg. Second, them poultices ain’t finished their work yet, and you ain’t leavin’ until they have. And that’s gonna be at least morning. And third,” she added, softening her tone, “I want you should stop over in the breeding shed, iffen you get my drift.”

  Now, this didn’t come exactly as a surprise to Rance, who figured Tish was after him to replace her dead, muledrug husband, but he hadn’t expected her to be quite so . . . blatant about it.

  But he said, “I get your drift, Tish.” And he felt himself swelling in his pants already.

  He waited a moment, just to make sure that someone wasn’t fooling him, and then he said, “So when you want to do it?”

  “Now’s as good a time as any, I reckon,” she said, and walked the few steps to the side of the bed. “Now, take off them britches you just put back on.”

  “All right,” he growled, pretending to be grumpy. He knew no other way. “But you get your ass outta them work skirts. I likes to see what I’m diddlin’.”

  He looked down, clumsily unfastening his buttons, then looked up. “And bare your titties, too,” he said. “I like titties. I wanna see what kind you growed up to have.”

  22

  Blue was pretty well in his cups and had switched over to black coffee, with a side of raw, sliced tomatoes, when Amos strolled into the bar.

  Amos, who had spent more than enough time with the doctor, so far as he was concerned, was wearing a fresh shirt, one shoulder and one side of which were fat with the clean bandages that lay beneath.

  “So what’d he say?” was the first thing out of Blue’s mouth. It came out a little slurry.

  “That you did a fine job of patching, and that I shall live to ride another day,” Amos said. He sat down and signaled the barkeep for a beer. “And you, old friend?”

  “Aw, hell,” Blue said. “I got myself too sozzled. Tryin’ to undo it now.” He cut off a slice of tomato, slathered it with sugar, and swallowed it whole. “Thinkin’ about what Rance Carthage might’a done to my folks back home. You know, once he realized he was alive and all.”

  Amos nodded. He supposed he’d be drunk, too, if he were in Blue’s boots. At least he had the sense to stop when he had.

  Amos said, “Where’s Slocum?”

  Blue rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Where else? You don’t suppose he just went through the place, killin’ everybody, do you?”

  “Who? Slocum?”

  Blue sighed. “No, Rance. I’d hate for anything else to happen to them people. They got nobody there to protect ’em, ’cept Frank. And he’s stove up. Course, he’s useless when he’s fine, too, but at least he was a body.”

  Amos nodded sympathetically, and reached for the pot on the table. He refilled Blue’s cup. “Here, my friend. Have another.”

  Actually, it sounded like Slocum had the right idea, but the only other soiled dove in the place—that he could see, anyway—was a sad-looking woman at the corner table. She clenched a bent cigarette between lips which hid no teeth.

  Sad, so sad. You’d think they’d take up a collection or something. After all, a soiled dove’s appearance said a great deal about the quality of the town in which she chose to work.

  He hoped Slocum had ended up with better.

  Slocum lay back against the pillows, enjoying Honey’s breasts, with which he toyed idly, and a pretty nice cigar. Not a Havana—or at least, not an expensive one—but certainly passable. After the last few days, it was practically heaven.

  Especially after three helpings of Honey, he thought to himself, smiling. She wasn’t only a pretty little thing, she was a pretty fair piece of ass.

  Right now, he’d worn her out and she was sleeping, curled up at his side, naked as the day she was born, and smiling softly in her sleep.

  He hoped she’d continue to have reason to smile.

  He didn’t expect Rance to come riding into Crowfoot tonight. It was too dark. There wasn’t enough moon showing.

  But wherever he’d got to, he’d be pretty damned sure to come riding in tomorrow.

  Slocum figured that maybe he’d got hurt again, or else those wounds he’d suffered back in Hoopskirt had finally caught up with him. And like an animal, he’d probably gone somewhere to hole up until he felt better. At least, until he felt like he could kill again.

  For Rance, that wouldn’t have to be much of an improvement. That snake would likely shoot somebody from the grave, if he had to.

  So things must have been pretty bad for him to take off last night. Slocum hoped that things had been bad enough that he’d died. But he doubted it.

  If he was going to be ready for whatever came tomorrow, he supposed he’d best get some shut-eye. He stubbed out his cigar, blew out the light, cuddled up with Honey, and closed his eyes.

  Since the town of Crowfoot had no hotel, both Blue and Amos slept in the saloon—Amos atop the planks that served as the bar top, and Blue across one of the larger tables. His legs dangled off the edge and his boots rested precariously on a chair’s back.

  The toothless whore, taking pity on them, had asked them both upstairs to share her bed, but for some reason, they’d refused politely. Sighing, she went on upstairs, alone.

  Sheriff Coltrane dropped by in time to witness her asking them, and wasn’t surprised when they refused. Of course they refused to acknowledge his presence, too. Well, maybe they didn’t notice him. After all, he was standing outside the door, on the walk, and they were pretty tired.

  He hadn’t gone in. Neither had he offered them the comfort of his home, such as it was. He’d let them stretch out on the hard wood and go to sleep, and he had gone on with his rounds.

  It was best to keep things as normal as possible, wasn’t it? That’s what he thought, anyway. He’d heard Sheriff Blue Parker tell him that the most exciting things, up in Hoopskirt, were righting the outhouses again after the kids dumped them on their sides on All Hallow’s Eve.

  Well, that was about the extent of his hardest duty, too. Except he didn’t have what he suspected was Blue’s background. He was a small rancher, pure and simple, who had accepted this job because it added thirty bucks a month to his already meager income. A rancher who only ran forty head of cattle didn’t tend to make much money.

  He never imagined anything like these goddamn Carthage brothers even existed when he signed on. They weren’t worth thirty lousy dollars a month. Nothing was worth that.

  All right, Slocum and the others had killed two of them. But according to Slocum, that man who’d killed Tom Dixon, Phil Grady and Charlie Estaban right out there on the street yesterday had been the third brother. One they thought they’d already killed.

  Now they said that he’d likely be back again, and who was to say the first two wouldn’t show up, too? It was just plain too much to even think about. Hell, poor little Penny Springer’s daddy was still sedated over at the boarding house.

  A shiver went through Coltrane, unbidden.

  It didn’t just make him mad. It scared the hell out of him.

  He stopped down at the livery to identify the horses the Carthage boys had taken. He supposed they belonged to the livery, all right. The other two mounts came as something of a surprise. He knew they belonged to Chris and Gene Hutchins.

  He’d known Chris and Gene. He’d stood up at Chris’s wedding.

  It crossed his mind that for the first time, he was glad that Chris’s Ella was gone to Jesus these last five years. He’d sure hate to be the one to tell her that Chris had been murdered.

  Coltrane checked in with his sentries, such as they were, then slowly, thoughtfully, walked back up to the jail.

  By the time he got there, he’d made up his mind.

  He left his badge on the desk, went out back and saddled his horse. It would be very slow going tonight, but at least it would be going.

  He didn’t much care where.

  And then, as an afterthought, he went back inside and left a single sheet of paper under his badge. And on the paper, he wrote, “I’m sorry. I quit.”

  Rance Carthage snuck out of bed before dawn, leaving a snoring Tish to hog the covers. She’d been all right last night, but man, she was sure ugly in the morning.

  He didn’t figure he’d be back.

  Ever.

  Well, unless he got shot up again, and just happened to be in the vicinity.

  He let himself out, and by the first rays of the early morning sun, saddled the bay. He was about to take the sorrel, too, when he thought better of it. Best leave Tish something that she could either ride or eat—sort of placate her, like—in case he ever did find himself in need of her again.

  Satisfied, he loaded up the bay with the rest of his gear and took off at jog, cutting across country and making a beeline for Crowfoot. He’d bet anything those brother-killing bastards were holed up there. And if they were, he was going to teach them—and that goddamn tomato-tossing town—a lesson they’d never forget, not in a million years.

  By Christ, he was going to teach them good!

  Slocum woke to the loud bang, bang, bang of somebody pounding on his door, and it took him a few seconds to realize where he was, and why. And with whom.

  He climbed over the just-waking Honey and, wrapping a sheet around himself, yelled, “Who the hell is it?”

  “Blue!” came the familiar voice. “We got a little problem.”

  “So what else is new?” Slocum muttered to himself, then called back, “Be out in a minute.”

  With a dejected Honey swinging her legs back and forth off the side of the bed, Slocum hurriedly dressed and strapped on his gun belts. He gave her a quick kiss good-bye, dropped a few dollars on the dresser, and started to go out the door.

  “Don’t pay me,” she said softly.

  He turned. “Huh?”

  “Just . . . just don’t pay me, that’s all.” She was looking down at the floor.

  Slocum scooped up the coins and put them back in his pocket. He’d buy something pretty for her, that’s what he’d do. If he lived through Rance.

  “All right, Honey,” he said softly. “But you’re gonna get a little present if we make it through this.”

  She didn’t answer, but then, he didn’t wait for one. He was out the door and down the hall before she would have had time to open her mouth.

  Blue was waiting at the end of it, leaning back against the wall, his hat cocked forward.

  “What now?” asked Slocum.

  “Sheriff Coltrane quit in the middle of the night,” Blue said, slowly standing erect. “Took everything but his badge and the keys to the cell.”

  “Can’t see that he was doin’ us much good, anyhow,” Slocum replied as he started down the stairs.

  Blue followed him downward. “Except for one thing,” he said. “He’s the feller what got all these so-called sentries organized. They was pretty lousy, but they was better than nothin’ at all. Most of ’em went home and pulled the covers over their heads—maybe climbed clear under their beds, for all I know—the second they heard he was gone.”

  “Great,” said Slocum in disgust, and without thinking, put his fist right through the plastered wall. “Just great. Ouch.”

  23

  Rance Carthage came within two miles of Crowfoot just before noon. He knew he was on the right path, because he’d joined up with the posse’s tracks about six miles back.

  Three riders, leading a passel of unmounted horses.

  Wasn’t it bad enough that they’d had to blow his poor little brothers to hell without taking their horses, too?

  Christ on a sonofabitching crutch!

  He reined in his horse and sat there, thinking. What to do? Go after the posse first, or shoot up that little shithole of a town?

  Course, maybe the posse was still in the town. He hadn’t thought of that before, and the idea brightened him up some. He could kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.

  But he’d best be careful. These boys were damn tricky.

  Finally, he reined his horse to the east and began to make a wide circle around Crowfoot. He knew they’d be headed back to Hoopskirt if they had, in fact, left Crowfoot. If he had a choice to make, he could make it then.

  Slocum had been busy.

  First, he and Blue and Amos had gone door to door, rousting out every able-bodied man they could pry away from his wife’s apron strings, armed him with plenty of ammo, and situated him on the roofs or upper porches of the buildings all around the town.

  Strangely enough, the women seemed more riled than the men. They had several female volunteers, which they gladly accepted.

  “How’s your shoulder, Amos?” Slocum asked, after they’d dragged their thirteenth or fourteenth volunteer into place.

  “Lovely, thank you, just lovely,” Amos replied through clenched teeth. “It only pains me when I move.”

  But he kept on moving, God bless him, and Blue did just as much, if not more. By noon, they were all set up, and the few women who hadn’t exactly volunteered for rooftop duty were scurrying around the town, carrying baskets of sandwiches and limeade.

  “How odd,” said Amos, eyeing a ham sandwich. He and Slocum were up on top of the bank, looking out toward the western hills. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been on a catered stakeout before.”

  “Shut up and drink your limeade,” Slocum grumbled around a mouthful of sandwich. He’d gotten chicken, and it was as dry as hell. Not enough salt, either.

  Also, more than half the day had gone by, and there was still no sign of Rance. He didn’t know quite what to think of that. Maybe old Rance had crawled into a hole somewhere and died.

  Now, there was a happy thought, but Slocum knew better than to count on it. He just didn’t have that kind of luck.

  By two o’clock, there was still nothing, and the men were beginning to get grumbly. Several of them had tried to leave their posts only to be forced back up, at gunpoint, by Blue or Amos.

  By three, the heat on the rooftops was getting to all of them, Slocum included. He let the men on the roofs go down into the saloon, by shifts, for twenty minute intervals. A few tried to scurry home, but either Blue or Amos was always there with a shotgun and a scowl. Or, in Amos’s case, a smile.

  Slocum came down from the bank roof exactly three times, to patrol the streets. The place looked as empty as a starving coyote’s gut.

  At four o’clock, it finally dawned on him that Rance, if he was out there, was likely waiting for sundown. He would, if he were in Rance’s place. He’d be able to get in closer without being seen, be able to move around in the shadows.

  Well, this lookout time hadn’t been wasted. The men had at least got the feeling that they were protecting their town. They had banded together, even if it was sort of against their collective will.

  He couldn’t wait to tell them that their duty wouldn’t end at sundown.

  Well, hell. Amos had gotten him into this. Let Amos tell them. And while he was at it, Slocum reminded himself to ask Amos about any pay that might be coming his way.

  It had better be, or he and Amos were going to have some words, by God.

  By just before sundown, Rance Carthage was west of town, in the low hills that hugged the horizon. His horse was tethered down below him, and he was on his belly with his binoculars to his eyes, watching the town.

  He’d about got the pattern figured out by now: when the men on certain buildings went down for a break or to take a leak, and when they came up again.

  His wounds were bothering him a little bit, but he’d remembered to change the poultice, like Tish had told him the night before. The old ones had come away filled with pus and the new ones stung when he put then on, but he figured that the pain was a sign of healing.