“Are you ready to die for this person?”

  The smile faded.

  “Didn’t think so. Last chance. Escort me to the safe, open it, and give me what I want. Otherwise we do this the hard way.”

  Darrel’s gun was still pointed through the bars as he twisted around to take a quick look over his shoulder. “Looks like we got some folks wanting to do business of their own, John. Ain’t much time left.”

  “Open that safe and live to see tomorrow,” Slocum said. “Try to stand up to us and you’ll die here. Surely one of your other workers will become more cooperative after that.”

  The clerk squirmed in his shoes. This time, he did so while making a soft whining sound under his breath.

  “Nobody else can open that safe,” Emberson promised. Nothing in his expression gave Slocum a reason to distrust that statement.

  “Then we take the safe out of here and have someone crack it.”

  “Be my guest.”

  “God damn it,” Darrel snarled as he climbed onto the counter and scaled the bars to the space between the top of the iron frame and the ceiling. “I always preferred the hard way anyhow.”

  Slocum took the easier way by sidestepping toward the narrow door that led around to the back of the counter. Outside, the rest of the men that had come into town with him were already reacting to Darrel’s move. Landry positioned himself next to the door and Ackerman barged in with his gun drawn.

  “We got lawmen riding down the street,” the younger outlaw said. “Someone must’ve told them we’re here, because they’re loaded for bear!”

  Now that he was on the other side of the teller’s window, Darrel made himself comfortable. “You think you can just hold out until the law saves you?” he asked Emberson. “Bet you didn’t realize we came with an ace up our sleeve. Show him our ace, John.”

  It seemed the day was going to get a whole lot rougher in a very short amount of time.

  2

  RENO, NEVADA

  TWO WEEKS EARLIER

  The Jackrabbit Lodge was the name of a little saloon that had a big reputation. That wasn’t the name on the sign nailed to the front of the building, but nobody ever called the place by its given moniker. Given Reno’s history, just about everything in town was named after the Truckee River in some fashion or another. Most restaurants steered toward the bridge spanning the river as the source for a title, but didn’t stray too far.

  Truckee’s Bridge Saloon was one of the most uninspired names in town. The place was kept afloat thanks to the owner’s willingness to cater to his customers’ needs no matter what they were. If enough people asked for a certain kind of whiskey, he would order it special. When folks wanted to gamble, he filled his place with tables. And when miners, cowboys, or any number of travelers asked for female companionship, he paid to float some of the prettiest girls down the river straight into his establishment. Those girls were such a welcome sight in town that they’d rarely gotten a chance to leave their beds for the first few months after they’d arrived. The business kept up even after additional girls were brought in until folks just forgot about the name on the sign and referenced the place by all the hopping from bed to bed. From then on, the Jackrabbit Lodge had become something of a local institution.

  Slocum walked in through flapping doors that looked out to a busy street. It had been a short ride from Carson City, but the sun was merciless in its intensity and had scorched his face and neck worse than if he’d fallen asleep on a griddle. He stank of sweat that had poured out of his broken-down horse and was covered in a thick paste of water that had been dumped onto his head from his canteen and dust that had blown onto his face over the stretch of thirty miles.

  “How’s your beer in this place?” Slocum asked as he stepped up to a narrow bar and propped his foot upon a polished brass rail.

  The bartender’s thick arms, coarse skin, and dark stubble made him look like one of the many cactuses lining the trail into town. “Best in the state of Nevada!” he beamed.

  Glaring at the other man from behind his filthy mask, Slocum said, “Best be sure about that, mister.”

  “Best in Reno,” he amended. “And I’ll stand by that.”

  Slocum nodded while slapping the top of the bar directly in front of him. A few seconds later, that spot was filled by a mug of dark, sudsy brew. Without hesitating, he brought the mug to his lips and tipped it back. The first swig cut through the trail dust well enough. After setting the mug down no longer than it took to tap it against the bar, he lifted it again and took another swallow.

  “Well?” the bartender asked with an expectant grin that raised the corners of his wide mouth as if they’d been snagged on a pair of fishhooks. “What’s the verdict?”

  “I’ll know after another one. Top it off.”

  Taking the mostly empty mug away, the barkeep held it under a tap to fill the order. “Ain’t seen you in town before. What brings you to Reno?”

  “A horse that should’a been put down before I ever paid good money for it. That’s what brought me here. And it just barely brought me here, I might add.”

  “Sounds like a hell of a situation.”

  “It sure does. You know a man by the name of Warren Staples?”

  It didn’t take long for the thick fellow behind the bar to wilt under Slocum’s steely, impatient stare. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I know him. He sell you that horse?”

  “Yep.”

  The bartender’s grin was more like a thin coat of paint that had been hastily slapped onto a crumbling wall. “I’m sure he’ll stand by his offer. You keep the bill of sale?”

  “He lost the horse to me in a card game. Told me it was worth enough to cover his bet and it’s barely enough to cover the ante. If that son of a bitch doesn’t make good on that as well as the trouble I took to get here, there’s going to be hell to pay. Where can I find this barn of his?”

  “Why don’t you finish your beer first?” the barkeep asked. “Maybe it’ll take the edge off a bit.”

  Tightening his grip on the mug, Slocum said, “I built this edge riding from Carson City on a damn hot day. Warren deserves to see every bit of it. Where is he?”

  “He works out of an old barn a few streets down from here. I can direct you there, but first—”

  Slocum reached across the bar and grabbed the barkeep by the front of his shirt. Another man sitting at a corner table jumped from his chair and brought a shotgun to his shoulder, but was held in check by the bartender’s quickly raised hand. It was difficult for him to motion that way from his current predicament, but it came across well enough to keep the lead from flying.

  “Hold on now,” the bartender said. “I understand you’re upset, but I didn’t have anything to do with selling you that horse.”

  Scowling at the man directly in front of him, Slocum shifted his gaze toward the one holding the shotgun. It wasn’t the first time a scattergun had been pointed at him and wouldn’t be the last. Even so, it wasn’t pleasant. Still keeping the barkeep’s shirt in his grasp, Slocum asked, “You gonna tell me where to find Warren Staples?”

  “Just as long as you’re civil about it.”

  Slocum had to admire the bartender’s sand. He eased him back down and let go of his shirt so they were once again standing across the bar from each other over a now-spilled mug of beer. After digging into his pockets, Slocum collected enough money to cover the price of his drinks and placed it into the bartender’s outstretched hand. He placed another couple of dollars onto that and said, “That’s for your cooperation.”

  “Not at all,” the bartender said as he handed the extra money back. “Civil’s all I asked for and that’s enough for me. Just walk out of here, take a left, go down to the end of the street, and turn the corner toward the east end of town. Keep walking until you find the Staple Horse Trading Company. Can’t miss it.”

  “Much obliged.” When he looked over to the other side of the room, the man with the shotgun was already back in his seat. Slocum glanced down at the bar and the pool of beer that was slowly spreading across the polished wood. It was a damn fine brew and a genuine shame to see it wasted that way. “What’s your name?”

  “Conrad,” the barkeep replied.

  The contrast between the bartender’s appearance and name struck Slocum as funny for some reason. Either that, or the beer truly was good enough to cut through all the trail dust to put a crooked smile on his face. “Thanks for the directions, Conrad. Oh, and sorry about the misunderstanding.”

  “Don’t mention it. Warren’s been around here long enough for me to know you’re not the first man to have that particular misunderstanding with him. Do me a favor, though. Don’t mention who pointed you in his direction.”

  “You got it.”

  From there, Slocum left the Jackrabbit and followed Conrad’s instructions. It was just long enough of a walk to stretch his legs while leading his sorry excuse for a horse one last time. When he caught sight of the barn marked by the sign Conrad had described, Slocum was actually starting to feel bad for the animal connected to the reins in his hand. The pity in his heart lasted right until the horse dipped its head, shook its mane, and knocked Slocum on the shoulder as if purposely trying to shove him into the water trough they were passing.

  “Goddamn nag,” he grumbled.

  The barn was in good condition and had a steady flow of smoke curling up from a chimney that looked to be the newest thing on the whole structure. When Slocum got a little closer, he caught the distinct odor of ham being cooked over a fire. Sure enough, the inside of the barn was built to keep livestock, but a side portion had been cleared out and sectioned off by a wall that was only slightly taller than those making up the stalls along the opposite side. Slocum may not have been able to see the man who sat within those walls, but he recognized the hat that bobbed just above it.

  Slocum’s boots knocked against the clean floor. His horse’s steps were loud enough to echo all the way up to the rafters.

  “Be right with you,” the man called out from his space.

  Approaching the modified section of the barn, Slocum looked over the wall to find a modest but comfortable living space. There was a cot with several blankets piled on it, a small writing desk, a few strongboxes, a little round table with two chairs, and, of course, the small fireplace connected to the chimney he’d spotted from outside. The man who huddled in front of the fireplace had a wide, flat back that made him look like a glob of dough that had been dropped onto a table and wrapped in a cheap suit. Long, thick hair hung in a tangle past his shoulders below a rounded hat that looked more like a dome on top of his head.

  After standing there for a few seconds, Slocum realized the man wasn’t about to turn away from the frying pan he was tending. “Smells good, Warren,” he said. “Mind fixing me a plate?”

  Warren Staples twitched so hard that he nearly tossed the ham up into the chimney. When he turned around, he knocked his pan against the brick and hastily set it down onto a metal grate on the floor. “Oh, hello, John! You surprised me.”

  “I’ll bet I did.”

  “What are you doing in Reno?”

  Tugging the reins, Slocum tried to get his horse to approach the wall so Warren could get a better look. As usual, the nag wasn’t about to cooperate. He gritted his teeth and said, “I imagine you didn’t think I’d make it this far riding this sorry excuse for an animal.”

  Warren’s face sagged almost as much as the clothes he wore. It was covered in a brushy beard that was a mixture of dark brown, light red, and gray. Whatever patches that weren’t covered by the beard were coated in uneven stubble. His eyes were friendly and a little scared, rattling nervously beneath thick brows. “You’re having a problem with the horse? How can that be?”

  “Maybe it’s because the only thing this horse is good for is target practice. I wouldn’t even strap a plow to its useless ass.”

  Standing up and straightening his rumpled shirt, Warren said, “There’s your problem. Listen to the way you talk to her. Have you tried naming her?”

  “Naming her?”

  “Yes,” Warren said with a smile. “You can refer to a mule or pack animal as an it. A horse is different. She’s your only friend on the open trail. Once you give her a name, you treat her better and they can sense that.” Extending both arms as if to embrace the other portion of the barn, he added, “Believe me. I know my animals.”

  It took Slocum a moment to decide what he was feeling more: disbelief that these words were actually coming from the horse trader’s mouth or anger that Warren seemed so convinced that he could use them to smooth out everything else. Deciding on the latter, Slocum dropped the reins and vaulted over the wall. It wasn’t a graceful maneuver, but he hit the floor with both feet and lunged at Warren.

  Even though Warren got his hands on an old .38 lying on an unoccupied chair, Slocum didn’t concern himself with it. “You pass off this goddamn nag to me and then you’ve got the gall to lecture me on how to handle it?” Shaking Warren hard enough to make him drop the .38, he growled, “You wanna talk to me like it’s my fault this horse ain’t nothing but a slump-backed pig?”

  “See, now. There’s your—”

  “And I swear to Christ, if you keep lecturing me, I’ll shove your head into that cooking fire.”

  Warren’s eyes darted toward the fireplace and he swallowed hard. He was being held up on his tiptoes by the collar of his shirt. Rather than fight it, he hung there like a dead fish on a hook. “If you have a grievance, I’m more than willing to hear it out.”

  Slocum felt like he was about to burst. Since he doubted he could form a complete sentence at that moment, he dragged Warren across the living space while making sure to knock over as much as he could along the way. Warren’s legs were still entangled on the little table when he was slammed against the wall separating the space from the rest of the barn.

  “See that horse?” Slocum asked. “See it?”

  “Y-Yes.”

  “It’d serve me better as jerked meat and it sure as hell ain’t valuable enough to cover what you owe me from that card game.”

  “To be fair, you examined that horse yourself back in Carson City.”

  “It barely got me here. I could’a died if that nag keeled over while I was in the desert!”

  “But you did examine it,” Warren insisted.

  “I was drunk.”

  “Is that my fault?”

  Once again, Slocum was overcome by conflicting emotions. Anger was still at the top of the list, but he also had to admire Warren’s tenacity to point that out when he had to know how close he was to being fed to his own animals. What stuck in Slocum’s craw even more was that the horse trader had a point.

  Not allowing Warren to see that concession, Slocum let him stand on his own two feet before shoving his back against the partitioned wall. “So if I was drunk, that’d excuse you for shortchanging me? I know some men who’d feel more than justified in gunning you down for something like that.”

  “That’s for a cash transaction,” Warren scoffed. “This is—”

  “This is a debt,” Slocum growled. “You made a bet. You lost. You owed me some goddamn money and this was supposed to pay it off. What you gave me ain’t worth half of that debt!”

  “That’s your opinion.”

  No matter how angry Slocum may have been or how much he may have possibly admired Warren for sticking to such a cockeyed story, all of that was washed away when the horse trader tried to pass those three words as something even vaguely resembling reasonable.

  “That’s my opinion?” Slocum asked, giving the other man one scrap of a chance to save his own hide.

  Amazingly enough, Warren nodded. He even showed a spark of hope in his eyes when he added, “This is a bartering business, after all. A horse is valuable no matter what condition it’s in. We made a deal and—”

  Slocum stepped up close enough to press Warren against the partition even harder. “This is a bartering business,” he said. “You’d know that more than anyone, right?”

  “That’s right,” he replied in a voice that was wary, but not certain of where else to go from there.

  “And since this is your business, you tell me. Enlighten me with your professional opinion.” Raising his arm to point past Warren’s head with a finger that could very well have been attached to the hand of Death himself, Slocum asked, “Is that horse worth enough to cover the debt you owe me?”

  Warren didn’t have to turn to get a look at the animal. He barely even had to shift his eyes in their sockets. All he did was shrug toward the nag that was gnawing on some oats that had been spilled onto the floor. The animal’s timing was impeccable as it coughed and spat out a juicy wad. “You know something?” Warren finally said. “Probably not.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Slocum grunted as he took half a step back. Although he gave the horse trader some room to breathe, it wasn’t much. “So what do you propose we do to rectify this situation?”

  “I could make it up to you some other way.”

  “Very good. See? Now this is why I decided to come all the way here after tracking you down.”

  “Mind if I ask how you did that?”

  Slocum chuckled. “Wasn’t as easy as you may think. Especially since you told the man who runs that hotel in Carson City you were bound for Sacramento. Good thing plenty of other folks knew who you were and where I might find you. Next time you decide to lay a false trail, try to have it start a little farther away from home.”

  “Yeah,” Warren sighed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Because of what you owe me from that game, plus interest, I’d say we’d be square if you take this horse back and hand over one of those fine specimens over there.”

  Warren’s eyes widened as if the proposal had been for him to reach in and pull the beating heart from his chest. “I couldn’t do that! Do you know how much those animals are worth?”

  “I said there’d be interest,” Slocum reminded him.

  “Not that much interest. I still have a business to run. I’ve got some horses out back. They’re fine animals and a lot better than this old girl.”