Quietly, Rance let the body slide to the ground. He wiped his blade on his britches and smiled. There was nothing like a nice, clean, knife kill.

  And that was a extra good one, wasn’t it? The town sheriff. Imagine a fellow like that having the balls to ride down the middle of the street in a town Rance Carthage had staked out for his own. Rance guessed that the skinny sheriff had more gumption than he had given him credit for.

  And, he was happy to note, he’d learned that his primary target were all on the same building, all up on the bank’s roof.

  Sitting ducks, all in a row. Blam, blam, blam.

  And hadn’t it been real thoughtful of them to tuck all the women and kids in one place? Why, he believed he’d give Slocum a real big thank-you.

  Right before he killed him.

  25

  “Did you hear somethin’?” Slocum asked. There had been a sound, down in the alley.

  “Just the sheriff, goin’ in the bank,” whispered Blue in reply. His glasses, hanging by one earpiece, dangled precariously from his breast pocket.

  “Best get those or you’ll lose ’em,” Slocum said softly, pointing.

  “Thanks,” Blue said, and tucked them back in. “He’s sure takin’ his time, ain’t he?”

  Boots scratched the adobe clay of the roof, and Amos crawled over. “I’m beginning to wonder if we haven’t already killed him,” he whispered. And then he added, more brightly, “I say, that’d certainly take the cake, wouldn’t it, if he were lying out there dead someplace on the desert? And here we are, all primed and ready, with the citizenry armed to the teeth and scared half to death.” He paused. “And the women ready to beat us to death.”

  “At least one woman,” Slocum replied with a grunt. “Bet she could do it, too.”

  “Who?” asked Blue.

  “A rather imposing-looking woman downstairs,” Amos said, “who informed Slocum and myself that the townspeople had taken care of this Rance Carthage once already with eggs and cabbages and such. She indicated that they could do it again, if necessary.”

  Blue snorted. “Hope you set her right.”

  Slocum was no longer thinking about the testy woman downstairs, though. If he was thinking about any woman it was little Honey, from last night. She was down there, too. He sure hoped they lived so that he could buy her something nice.

  Maybe shoes. Gals liked shoes.

  He cleared his throat—and cleared thoughts of Honey from his head—and said, “All right. Back to your posts, boys.”

  Amos shook his head. “And here I thought I was in charge.”

  Blue slapped him on the back. “You just keep on thinkin’ that way, Amos,” he said with a grin before he scuttled back into position.

  Amos rolled his eyes. “I am surrounded by men who believe they are comedians.” Then, without waiting for a reply from Slocum, he crept back to his place, across the roof.

  Slocum turned to stare out across the desert once more.

  And he thought, Come on, Rance, you crazy bastard. Come on if you’re comin’.

  Rance was nearly directly below Slocum, hugging the wall, his breath coming shallow. The thrill of the hunt was on him, so much that when he’d thought about going on into the bank and taking the women hostage, he’d brushed the idea aside.

  Logically, he knew it was probably his best chance of owning the town.

  He knew he could get himself all the ass he wanted while he was waiting.

  He also knew he wouldn’t hurt for food or water, no matter how long he had to hole up in there. After all, the menfolk wouldn’t let the women suffer any, now would they?

  But the blood lust, the chance to take out Slocum and the Englishman, was too strong. He wanted them dead, dead for himself and for his brothers, and he wanted to get started on it right now.

  Not that he wanted it to end all that soon, of course. He wanted them to linger. A long time.

  When the whispers from up on the roof settled down and he heard men scrambling back into position, he let himself relax a little.

  Now, he’d been all the way around the bank, and the only outside staircase he’d found had looked like a skinny rat would get it to squeak.

  He was no skinny rat, he knew.

  So he decided to do the next best thing. He’d go to the roof next door. It was easy enough. He’d already done it on three different rooftops, and either stabbed to death or throttled five lookouts, male and female alike.

  So, quietly, he made his way around the next building, making sure to go clear around to its far side so that Slocum and his buddies wouldn’t see him going up the stairs.

  He started up.

  Three steps up, a step complained.

  He stopped.

  “Who goes there?” came the hissed challenge from the rooftop.

  “It’s me, you fool,” Rance hissed. “Frank.” Frank somebody-or-other had been his first kill of the night, and was the only townsman’s name that he knew, on account of that kid calling out.

  It had worked so far, anyhow.

  “Come on up,” the rooftop voice whispered. “What you doin’ out of position? I thought you was down by the Feed and Grain!”

  “Was,” Rance said softly, just before his head bobbed up into the lookout’s line of sight. “Ain’t no more,” he added, and threw his knife.

  The blade took the man—a kind of tall, skinny, rangy fellow—right dead center in the chest, killing him instantly. He fell with too loud a thud, and Rance scrambled up, over the edge, and lay down as flat and as fast as he could.

  “Marcus!” a voice called, the tone low but unmistakable. The Englishman! “Marcus Webber, are you all right?”

  “Slipped and fell,” hissed Rance, just loud enough to be heard on the next building. He hugged that roof like nobody’s business.

  “Show me,” said the Englishman.

  Rance scowled, had a few particularly nasty thoughts about what he’d be showing that limey in a few minutes, then held up his rifle.

  That would be the only part of him that they’d be able to see, he hoped. His arm and his rifle.

  Amos frowned and wrinkled his forehead.

  “Slocum,” he whispered softly, “does that look like Marcus Webber’s arm to you?”

  Slocum crawled over. “Who’s Marcus Webber?”

  Amos tipped his head. “Next roof over.”

  Slocum looked, his brow furrowing. “Ain’t he a tall, skinny feller?”

  Amos nodded.

  Slocum set down his rifle and quietly drew his handgun. “If it is, he’d been doin’ a whole lot of blacksmithin’ since he went up top that roof.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Amos concurred.

  Blue looked over and started to come their way, but Amos held out his hand, then held a finger to his lips. He pointed to the next building over.

  Blue, suddenly serious, nodded.

  Blue and Slocum were looking terribly solemn all of a sudden. Amos supposed that he was, too, and asked, “How do you feel we should handle this?”

  “Real goddamn careful,” said Slocum, and checked his sidearm again. “I’ll go down. Hope I can do it quiet, but if I can’t, cover me. But stay down flat. That damned Rance can shoot the eyes out of a horsefly on the wing.”

  He started to move away, but Amos caught his arm. “And why the bloody hell do you get to go over there?” he demanded softly.

  This was his job, after all, whether he’d brought Slocum along or not. Blue, too, for that matter. It was his place to go over and face Rance Carthage.

  “Because I drew straws when you wasn’t lookin’, and I lost,” Slocum said, annoyed. “Sides, you only got one good arm.”

  There were some things about John Slocum that Amos would never be able to understand. For instance, why, when danger was imminent, Slocum was always the first one to plunge into it. Perhaps he felt that he was the only one who could save himself. Amos didn’t know.

  But he said, “Hold on, Slocum. We need a better plan.”

  “You got one?”

  “Not exactly,” said Amos, lifting his brows. “But I’m thinking.”

  Both their heads turned at a quiet little plop and crackle sound off the far edge of the bank’s roof.

  And they both noticed, at the same moment, that Blue was gone.

  “Shit,” Slocum swore under his breath, then turned back toward Amos. Quickly, he whispered, “I’m goin’ now. I’m gonna try to catch Blue. He goes up from one side, I go up from the other.” He paused. “That building’s got two ways up, don’t it?”

  Amos nodded yes.

  “You stay here, and when I signal you, stand up,” Slocum said, all in a breathless rush. “That’s the only way you can see down into that roof, since it’s the same height as this one. If it’s really Rance over there, just start shootin’ at him.”

  He started toward the far side of the roof, thinking that he was going to have to jump down.

  Great.

  Damn that Blue, anyhow, showing off! Skipping the stairs and aping Blue was the only way he could get down to the ground without making a squeak or a creak.

  As an afterthought, he turned his head back toward Amos. “And try not to shoot me or Blue,” he added.

  Faintly, he heard Amos mutter something or other, but paid it no mind. Dragging himself to the edge of the roof, he checked down below. There was Blue, grinning up at him and dusting off his britches.

  “Damn your hide!” Slocum mouthed.

  He holstered his gun and eased himself off the side until he was hanging by his hands. He felt Blue’s hand on his boot, steadying him. He let go.

  Miraculously, he landed on his feet, although Blue being there to direct his fall helped some. He didn’t mention it, however. Briefly, almost silently, he brought Blue up to speed on the plan.

  “Rance already got Sheriff Coltrane,” Blue said, after Slocum was done. “Over there.” He tipped his head, indicating a dark shape on the ground, near the wall. “The bastard gutted him like a fish.”

  Slocum drew his gun again. “That sonofabitch can’t be dead soon enough, far as I’m concerned.”

  He had never meant anything so much in his life.

  Blue simply and grimly, nodded in agreement.

  Quietly, guns drawn, they started making their way around the back of the bank.

  Slocum turned in at the near side of the building, crept to the foot of the stair, and waited for Blue to make his way around the other side.

  Always, his head was turned upward, watching, watching for any sign of movement.

  And he knew those old wooden steps were going to squeal when they went up, so he’d told Blue to just startle the hell out of Rance and take them at a run. The same way he planned to.

  If they panicked the bastard enough, maybe he’d only get one of them before they got him.

  Or maybe he’d stand up—or at least sit up—and Amos could take him out.

  Any which way you looked at it, it was a tricky situation, and one with which the townspeople couldn’t possibly help.

  In fact, they’d be a hindrance.

  Oh, he’d thought about just yelling out that Rance Carthage was up on top of the mercantile. But what good would that do?

  If folks just started shooting from their present positions, the town would likely kill half its own population in the crossfire.

  And if they came down, Rance would have them at his mercy. Lord knows how much ammo he’d hauled up there with him.

  If Slocum was any judge, Rance wasn’t the kind of man to go around under-armed.

  So it had come to this.

  Slocum knew that Rance could, and likely would, take at least one of them out before they got him. Blue knew it, too. So did Amos.

  He felt pretty damned rotten about that part, about Blue, that was. He and Amos had signed up for this years ago, the first time they’d gone out after the Carthage boys, but Blue was more or less an innocent bystander. There was nothing he could do about it, though. Now, it was up to God or the fates. They’d all do the best they could.

  Including, he supposed, Rance Carthage.

  He heard a chuck-chuck, chuck-chuck sound from the opposite side of the building.

  Blue was in place, and signaling that he was ready.

  Slocum took a deep breath, then bolted up the stairs two at a time, hollering like a banshee rebel.

  26

  Blue was screaming, too, but when they gained the rooftop there was no one there, and they were hollering at each other.

  Well, no one except the body of the late Marcus Webber, knifed through the heart.

  Slocum barely had time to take this in when he heard a shot from behind him.

  As one, he and Blue turned toward the sound, dropping to the rooftop as they did, and Slocum just saw Amos’s hat as he fell. Or dropped down. He couldn’t tell.

  But then a voice carried over the rooftops. Rance Carthage called, “Got your little English buddy, Slocum. You’re next.”

  Slocum shouted, “In your dreams!” and rolled.

  As he expected, Rance fired toward the sound, and a slug dug into the adobe where Slocum had been when he shouted.

  Amos. Amos, dead?

  But he couldn’t stop to think about that now. He and Blue had a whole town counting on them.

  “Get you, Slocum?” Rance shouted, and then he laughed.

  “Pert near,” Slocum replied, signaling Blue as he rolled again. From the corner of his eye, he saw Blue slip over the side of the building as Rance’s second slug put a new hole in the mercantile roof.

  Slocum figured he was going to run out of places to roll before long. Blue had better hurry.

  “Goddamn it, Rance!” he shouted, hoping to keep him distracted.

  He rolled again, this time in a different direction. It was a good thing he’d changed course, because this time Rance’s bullet struck in the place where Slocum would have been, if he’d kept moving the way he had been.

  Where was Blue?

  He gritted his teeth and shouted again. “Nice try, you sonofabitch!”

  Again, he rolled, and Rance fired. “If nothin’ else, Slocum, I’m makin’ you get your exercise!” he shouted, then cackled as if he’d made a wildly inventive joke.

  Slocum was close enough that with the next roll, he could get behind the building’s low chimney. It wasn’t much protection, but it was some.

  He shouted, “And you’re gonna die tonight, Rance!”

  He practically threw his body back behind the short, slender, adobe chimney just as Rance’s slug glanced off it, right at roof level.

  Slocum heaved a little sigh of relief.

  Holding his body sideways, he rose up behind the slim chimney a little way, took off his hat, and peered around the stack with one eye.

  The roof across the way showed no movement. Rance was down, biding his time.

  But his voice rose up. “Are you dead, yet, Slocum? Hope not. Just like to wound you a little, that’s all.”

  “Why’s that?” Slocum shouted back, hoping against hope that he’d lift his head.

  But he didn’t, not this time. Instead, he shouted, “Got plans for you, Slocum. Gonna haul you down into the street. Gonna make you take a real long time to die. Gonna string your guts out, Comanche style, and let you watch the dogs eat ’em.”

  Somebody, back behind Slocum on another roof, lost his lunch rather loudly, and once again, Rance Carthage laughed.

  And then, Slocum saw the very top of Blue’s head peek over the far rim of the bank’s roof. He tensed. “Sounds real entertainin’ Rance!” he called, hoping to distract him long enough for Blue to get off a shot.

  He wished he hadn’t put the women and kids in the bank. He wished he had some more of that dynamite. He’d signal Blue to drop from the roof, then blow Rance Carthage to hell, where he belonged.

  All this, he wished in the split second that it took for Blue to pop up, fire, then drop back down.

  Rance let out a yelp, then Slocum heard him scrambling. He fired at the sound.

  “Missed me, you bastard,” Rance called.

  “Somebody hit you,” Slocum shouted back.

  And Rance finally popped up to take another shot at Slocum.

  Slocum fired.

  He saw the shot knock Rance back a few feet, and then he dropped out of sight.

  From somewhere out of sight, he heard Blue call, “You get him?”

  Slocum’s eyes were narrowed. “Wouldn’t count on it if I was you.”

  Now Rance was wounded, but there was nothing more dangerous than a wounded animal. And Slocum reminded himself that they thought they’d put an end to him once before. The man was damned near impossible to kill.

  Slocum was just preparing to stand up, take his chances and fire another slug into Rance, when Blue popped up again.

  He fired, but the fire was returned quickly, and with a tiny cry, Blue fell. Slocum heard him crash down the steps, then nothing.

  “Sure hope he ain’t dead, Slocum,” Rance called. The bastard didn’t even sound hurt! “I’d like to stake him out next to you.”

  Blue and Amos, both dead. Killed by this goddamn pig of a man. No, that was an insult to pigs.

  But in the space of less than five minutes, Carthage had killed two of the best friends Slocum had ever known. It wounded him deeply, but he didn’t have time to feel it. He couldn’t let himself. Neither could he allow himself to feel the rage boiling in his veins.

  He ground his teeth for a moment, gathering himself, then shouted, “Rufus didn’t die right away, you know. He was all blown to pieces, but he hung on for a good hour. Must take after you, Rance.”

  Silence.

  And then, Rance said, “He couldn’t have. You blowed that place apart.”

  “He was in terrible pain, Rance,” Slocum continued. He kept his gun aimed at the opposite roof. No shooting at sounds, this time. He wanted a clean head shot.

  “Blew off both arms and a leg,” he went on, trying to add as much joy to his voice as possible. “Blew the skin right off his face. Nose and an ear was gone, too. But we fixed him up so that he lived for a while.” Slocum paused. “Did, too. Course, he was screamin’ most of the time.”