“Stay close," Preacher told Smoke. “I'll be circlin' around up in the high country. And stay shut of these fillies," he added with a grin. “I seen 'em swishin' around and battin' their eyes at you."

  Falcon and Smoke hit it off about as well as two lone wolves, but each respected the other's prowess with a pistol so they were at least civil with each other.

  “Be a weddin' here this summer," Falcon told Smoke. “I'm gettin' hitched. If you're around, you're invited."

  “Thank you," Smoke said.

  “Think nothin' of it."

  With that, Falcon went to one end of the town and Smoke went to the other.

  Kate was amused at the antics of the two, but said nothing.

  "Like two roosters struttin' around," Preacher said. “They'll be friends 'fore long. But for now, they're just circlin' one another."

  Goldtown was a good four days' ride from MacCallister's Valley. Before Jamie entered the boom town, he circled it, stopping often to dismount and look it over through field glasses. On his second day of observation from high up, Jamie spotted Cort Woodville. The man was leaning up against a porch support post in front of a saloon, smoking a cheroot. He was neatly dressed in a pale gray Confederate cavalryman's hat — complete with gold braid — black suit, fancy vest, with white shirt and string tie. He wore two guns, tied down low.

  Cort had lost all signs of innocence in his face. Even from afar, Jamie could see that the man's expression was hard and unyielding.

  Jamie entered the boom town from the rear, stabling his horse at the edge of town. Carrying his rifle, bed roll, and saddlebags, Jamie checked into the town's best hotel (which was quite fancy for the time) and cleaned up, ordering a hot bath and sending his boots down to have them blacked. He carefully shaved and dressed in a dark suit, then went out to eat. It was late afternoon when he pushed open the batwings to the Golden Rooster saloon and walked to the bar.

  Many of the men in the place knew who he was and tensed, for it had been a few years since Jamie had strayed from his valley, and they all wondered what was up. Although Jamie was no longer anywhere near a young man, he still carried himself erect, and anyone with a knowing eye could see that he was still powerful and not a man to trifle with. Those big Colts tied down low were a dead giveaway.

  But there were those in the place who did not know Jamie Ian MacCallister — men recently arrived from the East, men who still carried grudges spawned from the Civil War — and they took umbrage at the pale gray Confederate cavalryman's hat Jamie had carefully brought with him, packed in a leather case.

  Across the room, sitting by himself at a table, his back to a wall and playing solitaire, Cort Woodville smiled when Jamie strolled in. The smile was more than just seeing a trusted old friend, but at the hat Jamie wore. Things could get very interesting very quickly, Cort thought.

  "Whiskey," Jamie ordered, then turned to face the crowd, the glass held in his left hand.

  Jamie's hair was nearly all gray now, and the lines in his tanned and rugged face had deepened.

  "Another goddamn Johnny Reb." A man spat the words out, contempt dripping from his mouth.

  "Yeah," another said. "And an old bastard at that. Hey, gramps! You bes' be gettin' on back to your rockin' chair 'fore someone snatches that traitor hat offen your old head and makes you eat it."

  Cort smiled and laid the deck of cards aside, both hands dropping beneath the table and loosening the thongs to his six-guns. He had seen when Jamie walked in that his guns were loose in their holsters.

  Jamie's eyes were as cold as an icy mountain stream. He looked at the loudmouth and said, "If you must bray like a jackass, go down to the corral and do it."

  The man flushed, cursed, and pushed back his chair, standing up. "I don't have to take that kind of talk from any goddamn Johnny Reb."

  The bartender, a man from the East and new to the West, whispered, "Mister, that's Jimmy Johns. He's a bad one to mess with. You best back off."

  Jamie ignored the bartender and kept his eyes on the loudmouth. "You're still braying like a jackass. I thought I asked you to leave."

  Men began quickly getting out of the way, out of the line of fire.

  The loudmouth's hands were poised over the butts of his guns. "You want to make your play, Johnny Reb?" He threw out the challenge.

  "That's Jamie Ian MacCallister, Jimmy," a man spoke quietly from the crowd. "Sit down and shut up."

  Jimmy Johns' face paled, then flushed as sweat broke out on his forehead. Jamie left the bar and walked toward the man, the glass of whiskey still in his left hand.

  "Don't come no closer, MacCallister!" Jimmy hollered. "Don't make me kill you."

  Jamie kept walking toward him.

  "I got a sack of high grade dust says Jimmy will never clear leather," a miner spoke up.

  No one took the bet.

  "You're an old man, MacCallister!" Jimmy cried. "I can beat you. I can. Don't make me do it."

  Jamie continued closing the distance between them.

  "I got friends in here!" Jimmy said, his voice breaking. "I got pards behind you, MacCallister."

  "I'll take care of them," Cort said conversationally. "Don't worry about your back, Colonel."

  Several men cussed in low tones. If the man called Cord got into this game, the lead was going to fly and no one in the place would be safe.

  "Your play, tinhorn," Jamie said, his words dripping with sarcasm. The old recklessness had taken hold of Jamie, and he knew he was crowding the loudmouth. He also knew he was behaving foolishly, but he didn't care. Too many good men on both sides had died in that bloody conflict called the Civil War for any man to sneer at the beliefs of the other side.

  "Do it, you bastard!" Jamie said. "Or tuck your tail between your legs and slink on out of here."

  The loudmouth's shoulders sagged. "I'm done, Mister MacCallister. I'm leavin'. But I was just funnin' with you." He began backing up, then moving toward the batwings. He backed out onto the rough boardwalk, and the night swallowed him.

  "Well, that's over," a man said.

  "Not yet," Jamie said.

  "What do you mean?" another miner asked.

  Cort was smiling.

  "Just wait a moment. You'll see."

  Several men who had been long in the West added their smiles. They knew what Jamie meant, and why he was still standing facing the batwings, his coat swept back, his guns ready.

  Cort shuffled the cards and began laying out a hand of solitaire.

  The batwings flew open, and the loudmouth stood there, his hands poised over the butts of his guns. "No goddamn Southern trash talks down to me. Fill your hand, MacCallister!"

  "After you," Jamie said calmly.

  Jimmy Johns grabbed for his guns, and Jamie shot him twice in the chest. Jamie was not as fast as he once was; but he was still better than most, and more important, he made his first shot count. The challenger stumbled backward and fell to the floor. His bootheels drummed out a death song, and then he was still.

  Jamie holstered his .44. "Now it's over," he said, and walked to Cort's table and sat down.

  He had not spilled a drop of whiskey from the shot glass.

  32

  "My dear friend," Cord said. "Please sit down and tell me all about what you've been doing since our magnificent sacrifices for the Southern Cause and our ignoble surrender."

  Jamie sat down and smiled at the man. "I'm glad to see you have not lost your wit or the sharp edge to your tongue, Cord."

  "Ah, so that disreputable old mountain man did find you."

  "Preacher. Yes. We have to talk, Cord."

  "You sound serious, Colonel."

  "I am. Page and my grandson, James William, are planning to be married. And I know the truth, Cord. All of it."

  "You want to explain that, Colonel?"

  Jamie did. In full. Starting in the Big Thicket country of Texas and stopping when Roscoe and Anne slipped out of the valley in Colorado.

  Cort was silent during the telling. "That must have been quite a shock for both you and Anne when we suddenly appeared at Ravenswood back in '61."

  "It took me aback some, I will have to admit. I did some acting of my own."

  "Ross told me some of it, but now you have filled in the gaps."

  "I'm sorry."

  "No need to be. I'm happier now than I have ever been. I have found my place in the scheme of things. But this marriage. Oh, Lord, those two kids."

  "That's all I'm thinking of, Cort. Not that Page is a quarter-breed. I don't give a damn about that. MacCallisters have married Mexicans and Indians. My youngest boy, Falcon, is about to marry a Cheyenne princess."

  "You are far more broad-minded than I was, Colonel. And I stress was."

  "The war matured a lot of men, Cord."

  Cort nodded his head and then lapsed into a long silence. The men in the saloon left them alone, moving tables and chairs far away, and even their talk had ceased its boisterousness. "No," Cort finally spoke. "The marriage cannot be allowed, Colonel. Not unless both of them know the truth, and so far as I know, Page does not know."

  "My wife, Kate, put it this way: Do we have the right to stand between them and happiness?"

  Again, Cort was silent for a time. "No. No, of course not. It is not my intention to do that." Cort lifted his eyes to meet Jamie's, a smile on his lips. "What are we both saying? These kids are a thousand miles away. It probably took a month and a half for the letter to reach you. They might well be married by now."

  "Yes. And if that is the case, what do we do, if anything?"

  "Ah, Lord, I don't know."

  "Page's brother?"

  "You do know it all, don't you?"

  "Yes."

  "I lost track of him just before the war. Then, after I, ah, died, so to speak, I put the Pinkertons on the case and found him. He's a college graduate and working on a newspaper in Boston. I heard he was getting curious about his parents and starting to make inquiries."

  "That could bring Anne's world crumbling down around her."

  "Yes. Very quickly."

  "We need to get the kids out here before that happens, if it happens."

  "Your grandson was studying . . . what?"

  "He was going to read the law and then settle around Denver. It's a growing town."

  "So is MacCallister's Valley," Cort pointed out.

  "I thought of that, as well. Will you ever return to Virginia, Cord?"

  The man shook his head. "No. I have liquidated all my holdings and severed all ties. There is nothing left for me there." He smiled. "And before you make the offer, no, I will not settle in your valley, Colonel. After you leave this dismal hole in the road called a town, you will probably never see me again. For I intend to fall off the face of the earth and never appear again."

  "That's sort of drastic, isn't it?"

  "It sounds much more ominous than it really is, Colonel. I have more than ample funds to live out my life quite comfortably. I have this little spot all picked out. Where, is my secret. I left Page quite the wealthy young woman, so she is well taken care of. I left Ben Franklin Washington money. So I think my obligations to my children have been fulfilled."

  "It would seem so."

  Cort picked up the deck of cards and began shuffling them. "I understand you have a gang of hoodlums pursuing you."

  "So I hear."

  He dealt hands and was deft at it. Very deft. "You don't appear to be overly worried about it."

  "Men have been trying to kill me for over fifty years, Cord. I'm still around."

  "Yes, well . . . I assume, then, that we are going to allow our children, my child, your grandchild, to forge their own destinies without parental interference?"

  "I suppose so."

  "Thank you for the long ride to inform me of the events, Colonel. I guess all we can do is wish them well and hope for the best."

  "That's about it." Jamie held out his hand and Cort shook it. "Good luck to you, Cord."

  "The best of all things to you, Colonel."

  Jamie pushed back his chair and walked out of the saloon. The body of the loudmouth had been dragged off the boardwalk and the blood mopped up. Jamie wasn't sure exactly what this long ride had accomplished, but he felt it was something he had to do. He'd provision up come the morning and then ride south and some east. With any kind of luck at all, he'd intercept Grover Ellis' kin and bring another boil to a head. But he'd be doing the squeezing.

  The wedding was held on the last Sunday in May at Ravenswood. Ross was in attendance with his two children — naturally, it would not seem right for him to be left out, so Chastity was a flower girl. The couple was going to honeymoon abroad and then settle out west. Anne was deliberately vague about just where that might be. She just wanted the damn wedding over with and the kids gone. The detective agency she used had told her that another detective had been prowling around, asking a lot of questions about Anne and Ravenswood. The detective was home-based in Boston. Anne didn't need a college professor to tell her what that meant. Ben Franklin Washington was on the hunt — and closing fast.

  After the party was over, the kids gone and the guests departed, Anne sat with Ross on the porch, in the dark, and told him what she had learned. For once, they both were civil with each other.

  "Goddamnit, Ross," she finally let her anger loose. "I've provided for the boy and so has his father. He's wealthy in his own right. Why in the hell can't he just leave well enough alone?"

  "Why, darlin'," Ross mush-mouthed. "I 'spect the boy wants to see his mammy."

  Anne sighed at her brother's dark humor but did not lose her temper — with him. Her anger was directed at her child, a son she had not laid eyes on in more than two decades.

  "There is a way," Ross said, all sarcasm gone from his voice.

  "I'd like to hear it."

  "Kill the detective and the boy."

  She cut her dark eyes to her brother. "Are you out of your goddamn mind?"

  "It can be easily arranged."

  “You're talking about my son!"

  "I'm talking about our future and the future of your daughter. If your son is allowed to blow the lid off of our little charade, it's over for the both of us. Oh, we'll still have money. But no position. No standing in the community. We'll be half-breeds and treated as such. You think about that, Anne."

  "You know that Cort is still alive. He will know."

  "Cort, who goes by the name of Cord Woodson, is a gambler and gunfighter out in the Wild West. He is also an alcoholic who is drinking himself to death. He will eventually die from the bottle or the bullet. But we can take care of him as well. And then no one will know."

  Anne got up to pace the porch of the mansion. She whirled to face her brother. "I have never done anything like — "

  "Oh, shut up!" Ross flared at her. "Back during our touring days, you poisoned at least three men that I know of for what was in their purse. You stabbed another man to death backstage in St. Louis. Are you forgetting that I helped drag the body out and dump it in the Mississippi River? Don't go all moral and righteous on me now, sister dear. You really don't play the part well at all."

  Anne walked to the far side of the porch to stand staring out at the darkness. "I really don't know the boy," she finally said.

  "That's my sister of old," Ross said. "Now you're back in character."

  "I haven't said yes, yet, Ross."

  "But you will. There is no other way. Well, we could have him knocked on the head and shanghaied on board ship down on the coast, but that would only delay the inevitable."

  From the darkness she said, "You really are rotten to the core, aren't you, Ross."

  He sat quietly for a moment. She could hear his breathing. "You believe in heaven and hell, sister?" he finally spoke.

  "No." Her reply was cold. "I think living is hell."

  "So if there is no punishment after life, what difference does it make how we conduct ourselves while on this earth?"

  Anne came to sit by her brother's side. "Maybe we could talk to Benjamin?"

  "Don't be a fool, sister. You think he would take one look at what we have and not want a part of it? My God, Anne! We both fought, scratched, lied, cheated, stole, and murdered to get where we are. I'd kill ten people, fifty people, a hundred people to keep it."

  "What changed you so, Ross? You didn't used to feel this way."

  "The good life. How many more years do we have, Anne. Ten? Fifteen at the most. I intend to live out my time left in the lap of luxury. And nobody is going to stand in my way. Nobody, Anne. Nobody." There was cold menace in his voice.

  "I don't want to know about it when . . . well, it happens."

  "You won't."

  "Will he be hurt?"

  "No. It will be as quick and as painless as possible. I promise you that."

  Anne stood up and walked to the door. She opened it and paused there for a moment. "Just do it, Ross. Do it."

  "Consider it done, sister."

  She walked into the dark mansion and closed the door behind her.

  Jamie lingered long in his blankets. When he did decide to get up, he experienced a twinge of pain in his left shoulder. Doctor Prentiss had told him he had a slight case of rheumatism and there was nothing he could do for it.

  "Damn!" Jamie said, sitting up and rubbing his shoulder. He did not relish the prospect of growing old. But when the sun came up and warmed his shoulder, the pain was gone, and Jamie did not feel his age. He ate his pan bread and bacon and drank his coffee, enjoying the chatter of squirrels and the singing of birds. This was the year he and Kate would both turn sixty. Jamie just could not believe it. Where had the time gone?

  "Sixty years old," he said aloud, pouring another cup of coffee. "Sixty!"

  Then he smiled as he thought of Kate. She sure didn't look sixty, although there was a lot of gray among the gold now, and she was troubled with pain in her joints on cold mornings. But her figure was still good enough to put many a younger woman to shame, and the both of them still enjoyed a lively romp in bed.

  He laughed aloud at that.