Just on the off chance that anybody was trying to follow him, he’d buried the old bandages two feet down, beneath a palo verde.

  He was glad to get rid of the pus, too. Felt about fifteen pounds lighter with it gone.

  Good old Tish. He was feeling a little bad about riding off on her like that.

  But not that bad.

  Through the glasses, he watched as a tiny, antlike dot of a man climbed down from a roof near the center of town, then disappeared into an alley, while another ant-man emerged from another alley and began to climb up to another of the town’s many flat roofs.

  That was one good thing about adobe. You couldn’t build a pitched roof on it to save your life. It made watching for men a whole lot easier.

  He glanced back over at the sun, which was sinking into the west. About another half-hour, he figured, and he could get ready to go on down. If he traveled slow, he could make it near to town before he came into sight. Further, if he left the horse staked out and went in on foot.

  He’d been awful glad to see that the posse hadn’t left town. There was no sign of tracks going out the other way, toward Hoopskirt.

  The fools. They were about to meet their maker, sure as shooting.

  And he knew. He was going to be the one pulling the trigger.

  Rance began his trek down to Crowfoot a little later, when the sky had gone to purples and oranges. He knew they couldn’t see him from the town, even with spyglasses, at this distance because of the darkness.

  And so he took his time, ambling along, resting his wounded body for the trials he’d be putting it through later on.

  Although he didn’t think of the ensuing conflict as a trial. He just thought of it as revenge.

  He hoped his brothers were watching from somewhere, wherever they were now. He wanted them to know that he was alive, and he was getting even for them. And once he got even, he planned to have a good enough time for all three of them.

  Oh, there’d be hangings and rapes and heads on spikes; bodies ripped apart by horses, arms and legs chopped off, and all manner of fun. Old Rafe and Rufus would have really gotten a kick out of what he had planned for the citizens of Crowfoot.

  And never did he entertain, for one solitary moment, a single, simple doubt that he was not perfectly able to do it.

  Not once.

  Once the sun began to set, Slocum himself went around to all the posts, speaking softly with the men, reassuring them, but giving them little doubt that they’d better hold their positions and keep their eyes open, or else.

  He left it up to them to figure out the “or else” part.

  By the looks on their faces, most of them seemed to be doing a pretty fair job of it.

  Once they’d made their final rounds with supper, he and Amos—who had a much more persuasive way with women, at least en masse—rounded up all those females who hadn’t taken up guns and posts, and all the town’s children, and put them in the bank. It was the sturdiest building in town, Slocum figured, and the easiest to defend.

  One matron, angry about everything from the assaults on her town to the indignity of being made to hide in a bank, said, “What kind of men are you? You say there’s only one of them out there! Why, we chased him out of town with eggs and tomatoes!”

  Slocum started to growl something rude, but fortunately Amos cut him off. “Because, my dear madam,” he said. “This one man is worth fifteen others. I, myself, have seen him single-handedly kill thirteen woman and children in the space of three minutes, and all without a backward glance. I assure you, he is quite ruthless.”

  That speech, delivered in Amos’s patented cool-but-in-charge tone, shut her up pretty quick.

  “Thirteen women and children in the space of three minutes?” Slocum asked as they climbed up to the roof.

  “A slight exaggeration,” Amos admitted. “But it worked, didn’t it?”

  Night had fallen by this time. Slocum said, in a low voice, “Y’know, I did think about lightin’ fires all around the town. The place is small enough that we could’a done it.”

  Amos nodded. “Once again, you’ve read my mind. I decided against it because I figured it would only slow him down. Keep him out until we ran out of kindling, so to speak.”

  Slocum scowled. “Get out of my head, Amos.” Amos snorted a laugh, then asked, “Where’s Blue?”

  “Makin’ rounds. He figured that since Crowfoot didn’t have a sheriff anymore, if was up to him to see things were locked up proper.”

  Amos shook his head. “As if it matters a whit.”

  “It does to Blue,” Slocum said, and lay down on his belly, resting his rifle on the rim of the roof’s edge.

  “Sheriff,” said Amos. “I keep forgetting.”

  Slocum turned on his side, “Speakin’ of forget-tin’, did you forget to tell me just how much this little job of yours pays?”

  Amos cocked a brow. “Why, you mean to tell me that you wouldn’t do it for the Queen—I mean, President—and country?”

  “I don’t see him out here helpin’ us none,” Slocum replied dryly.

  Amos tipped his head. “Point well taken, Slocum. Well, the truth of the matter is that—”

  “Slocum!” shouted a voice from several rooftops over. “I think I seen somethin’! Over there!”

  “So much for the element of surprise,” Amos muttered as Slocum took out his spyglass and held it to his eye. “You see anything?”

  After a moment, Slocum said, “Just black. And a pair of coyote eyes flashin’.”

  Amos called back, in a stage whisper, “All clear. It was only a coyote. Good watching, Fred.”

  “You’re gonna compliment him on that?” Slocum grumbled.

  “Better that than he goes to sleep,” Amos replied. “I’m going over to the other side of the roof, now. I trust you won’t be too lonely.”

  Slocum didn’t turn to look at him. “Aw,” he growled, “get out of here, Amos.”

  24

  Rance stopped his horse about a mile and a half from town and sat there, in the saddle, thinking things over. He’d changed his bandages a second time, and there wasn’t as much pus, but it was still flowing strong. He felt a little feverish, too.

  But then, that could be marked up to the excitement of the battle ahead, the thrill of the rising body count and seeing the two men who had put him in prison once before dying—slowly—before his eyes.

  Still, he dismounted, took off his shirt, and laboriously changed his poultices and bandages one last time. He figured there would be a doctor’s office. He could steal any further supplies he might need.

  After all, the town would be his.

  The last bandage tied and the old ones buried, he put on his shirt again—now a faint pink, after Tish’s scrubbing—and checked his pocket watch.

  Eight twenty-five.

  He wondered if they were growing weary of waiting for him to show up. Had they gone home to their wives and their suppers and their porches? Did they think Rance Carthage was dead? Or worse, had run away?

  Fat chance. Not in a million years.

  He led his horse another hundred yards or so, then decided it was time. Pulling down his rifle and his bands of extra ammunition, slinging one over each shoulder—wincing when one hit his right shoulder at the wrong angle—along with his extra canteen and a few other items, he shooed away the horse. It walked ten feet, then started to graze. It would be no problem.

  This was a good thing, because now wasn’t the time to waste a bullet on it. He was too close. It would be heard.

  He raised his binoculars to his eyes for the third time in as many hours, and scanned the darkened rooftops. Nothing. Nothing.

  But there! There was a head!

  So they had not abandoned their posts after all.

  He smiled. It pleased him that they must be very afraid.

  As well they should be. Death was coming, and its name was Rance Carthage.

  Sheriff Coltrane had thought better of his actions at about two that afternoon.

  What had brought him to this realization—that he should go back and do what he was hired to do—was his discovery of the bodies of two men, left to rot on the open plain between Crowfoot and Hoopskirt.

  They weren’t so far gone that he didn’t recognize them, though. They were the two fellows who had ridden into town with Slocum and Sheriff Parker and the rest. The two who had decided to turn back.

  Dutch and Harry, that was it, wasn’t it?

  He’d buried them right there, of course. A couple of days in the heat didn’t go very far in helping a body hang together, especially when you had to transport it over the back of a horse.

  He’d made the men crosses out of some ironwood limbs he found, and piled the rocks high on their cairns to keep the coyotes out.

  And then, at about six, he’d turned back.

  It was either the best or the worst decision he’d ever made in his life.

  At about eight-thirty, he saw, in the gloom up ahead, something moving. Something too big to be a coyote.

  He had a spyglass in his saddlebags, and he pulled it out and had a look through it, but it didn’t do much good. It was too dark, and the rider—at least he’d established that part—was too far off.

  Now, the first thought that came into his head was that it was Rance Carthage. But the second, charging hard on the heels of the first, was the question about why in the hell Carthage would be coming from the west.

  That didn’t make any sense at all. He should have been coming from the south. And shouldn’t he already be in town, if he was coming at all?

  “You’re givin’ yourself a case of the collywobbles, Coltrane,” he muttered. “Cut it out.”

  And then the rider disappeared.

  Coltrane checked through the glass again, but there was nothing. Of course, the brush was so high out here, in places, that if the rider had dismounted and let his horse graze, it was possible that nothing would stick up into viewing range.

  Still . . . could he have imagined it?

  Cotrane sat on his horse, holding very still. In truth, he was heartily tempted to just turn around and go back the way he’d come. He’d been looking for a good excuse ever since he’d buried those bodies and decided to do the “right” thing.

  He didn’t want to do it, though, that was for certain.

  But after a moment, he reined his horse off to the side, avoiding the possibly imaginary rider’s path, and headed toward town at a walk.

  Christ, it was blacker than the devil’s innards out here!

  At a quarter to nine, Amos, who was on the northwest corner of the bank roof, whispered, “Slocum! Rider coming in.”

  Quickly, Slocum scrambled over to his position, and grabbed away his spyglass, asking, “It Rance?”

  “No,” said Amos, at the same time Slocum brought up the glass and squinted through it.

  It wasn’t Rance. The figure was far too thin, not muscle-bound in the slightest. Rance Carthage’s massive arms would bow out wider than his horse’s belly.

  “Who the hell is it, you think?” Slocum said, handing the glass back.

  Amos shrugged. “I might be mistaken, but I believe Crowfoot’s sheriff has had a change of heart.”

  “Great,” Slocum grunted. “That’s all we need. Coltrane messin’ things up.”

  “Seems to me we should be glad of the help,” Amos said, a lot more calmly than Slocum felt at the moment. “Any help, no matter from what quarter.”

  “Fine,” was all Slocum said, then made his way, on hands and knees, back to his previous position and settled back in.

  He heard Amos say, across the space of the alley below, “Coltrane’s coming in from the northwest,” to the man on the next roof. “Pass it along.”

  It took exactly seven minutes for the news to make it around town and circle back to Slocum. “Don’t shoot to the northwest, Slocum,” called a voice softly. “It’s Sheriff Coltrane.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” grumbled Slocum. He kept his eyes peeled, out into the distance.

  At nine thirty-three, Rance Carthage was secreted in the bushes at the edge of town, right behind Chambers Feed and Grain. He was right beneath the ladder that led up to the roof, as a matter of fact.

  The lookout posted up there should be coming down at any time, because, if they were going in the circular pattern he thought they were, it was his turn next. The man on the roof next to him had just gone back up.

  Rance had held very still. The man didn’t see him in the darkness.

  Sure enough, after five long minutes, he saw a shadowy shape, then heard footsteps above, on the ladder. He bided his time, waiting until the dark blob turned into a shape with legs that came down nearer and nearer until boots, then calves, then thighs were even with his head.

  Still, he waited until the man stepped down to the ground before he lunged, grabbed him, and snapped his neck in one smooth motion.

  Once he established that the dead man had no weapons that were better than those Rance already had, he quietly dragged the body—a middle-aged fellow, looked like a storekeeper—back into the bushes.

  Then he, himself, climbed up the ladder.

  He was halfway up when a voice whispered, “Frank? That you? You forget somethin’?”

  Rance paused. “Yeah,” he whispered, then continued on up, his gun drawn and ready. He didn’t want to start shooting this early in the game, but if that was the way it had to be, so be it.

  But when he got up to the rooftop, the other man up top was staring out toward the desert, away from him, and was clear down at the other end of the building to boot.

  Easy pickings.

  Handling his bulk as gracefully as a dancer, Rance moved softly down the roof, creeping up behind the other lookout. He had to be a kid. Couldn’t be more than fifteen.

  Well, say good-bye to ever seein’ sixteen, Rance thought just as the boy turned around, eyes popping in surprise.

  Before the kid could call out, Rance had one big hand over his mouth and the other at the back of his head. He twisted.

  Snap!

  He let the boy’s body down slowly, to avoid making any sound, then sat down next to it.

  The kid had a spyglass, a box of shells, and a shotgun. A knife, too, likely his papa’s second-best pocket whittler. Rance already had himself twelve inches of Arkansas toothpick, and so laid the boy’s knife aside disdainfully.

  With a grunt, he shook his head. Like they thought these toys would be enough to hold him off! Him, Rance Carthage, whose brothers had just been murdered in a foul and cowardly manner!

  It never crossed Rance’s mind that he had ever done anything wrong, not really, not in his entire life. He couldn’t figure out why anyone would be angry with him just for having a good time. Neither did he give a good goddamn how they felt.

  He had no sense of right or wrong in him. But if he had anything human in him at all, it was a strong sense of brotherhood.

  And that had been taken from him.

  He picked up the spyglass and began slowly scouting up and down the street. If those bastards who had shot him, put him in prison and killed his brothers were up here, he’d find out quick enough.

  He peered up and down the road, then up and down the rows of rooftops, but all he could see was an occasional hatted head sticking up here or there.

  And then he saw something more interesting. Someone riding right down the middle of the road, from the opposite end of town.

  He smiled. Well, somebody sure had him some balls, didn’t he?

  The funny thing was that Rance’s wounds hadn’t bothered him one whit since he got off his horse and started this final walk to town. He supposed the poultices had something to do with it, but it was more likely the thrill of the hunt. He was going to have himself a mighty good time, and he knew it.

  Quietly, he stepped over the boy’s body and made his way to the ladder. Down he went, moving carefully so as not to make the boards creak, and then he moved north, hugging the buildings, in the direction of the rider.

  He’d teach whoever that was to be cocky about Rance Carthage!

  Sheriff Coltrane was welcomed with loud whispers of, “Good to see you,” and “Howdy, Sheriff,” and the occasional, “Stinkin’ coward!” as he rode up the deserted street.

  When he got to the bank, Blue leaned over the edge of the roof and hissed, “Psst! Sheriff Coltrane! Glad to have you back!”

  “That you, Blue?”

  “Yeah, and Slocum and Amos are up here with me. We got somebody on every roof in town.”

  Coltrane got off his horse and started toward the outside steps, but before he made it three feet, Blue whispered once more, “No, inside. We got all the women and kids in the bank and we need somebody to . . . guard ’em.”

  It was what he should have expected, Coltrane thought. He’d girded his loins and come riding back in with his tail betwixt his legs, and now he was the official baby-sitter for the town, goddamm it.

  With mixed emotions, he signaled Blue that he’d heard, then started back toward the bank’s entrance.

  He was nearly to the door when somebody else, somebody in the alley, hissed, “Psst! Over here!”

  “Who is that?” he called softly. He didn’t know why the hell everybody in town was whispering, but he supposed they had their reasons.

  “Help!” whispered the voice.

  Automatically, he started toward it, toward the alley. He was the sheriff, after all. Maybe somebody was hurt. He’d have to find the doc, he supposed, and then he wondered where the doc was tonight.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked as he turned the corner, into the mouth of the alley. It was as dark as Kentucky dirt back there.

  Squinting, he took a step in.

  Suddenly a hand lashed out and, with more power than Coltrane could have ever imagined, grabbed him around the mouth and hauled him back. There was a flash of steel, huge, enormous, and then searing, terrible pain.

  Then nothing.