The cowboy had seen me drop and gone to ground. I began to crawl in a half circle toward the knoll. I figured he would stay put since he commanded the high ground, but in a short while I saw the grass sway off to my left. The blades parted, framing the pockmarked, weather-beaten face of my would-be killer. He was staring toward where I had dropped from Brisco, not where I was. I took aim but let him crawl a few yards closer before I squeezed the trigger.
The cowboy was still alive but would not be for long. He glared up at me and groped for his rifle. I kicked it out of his reach.
“Where are the others?”
“Go to hell.” Blood dribbled over his lower lip and down his chin. His hand was pressed to the neck wound, but it would only buy him a few extra minutes of life.
I had no sympathy for him. “You should have stuck to punching cows.”
“Wanted the money,” he gurgled. “Extra thousand dollars.”
Gertrude was getting desperate, I reflected. “I’m surprised she didn’t have Bart Seton wait for me instead of you. He’s her hired killer.”
The cowboy snorted, and scarlet drops sprayed from his nose. “He’s more than that, mister. A lot more.”
Gertrude and Seton? Why not? So what if her husband had been dead only a month or so.
He coughed and was racked by a spasm that ended with him as white as snow and dripping sweat. “Finish me,” he said. “As a courtesy.”
“You don’t deserve it.”
“She’ll beat you yet,” the cowboy predicted out of spite. “She’ll hire an army of leather slappers and put an end to you once and for all.”
“Is that her plan?” Simple, but it could prove effective. Provided she lived long enough to carry it out.
“Do me a favor. I have a brother and a sister back in Ohio. Get word to them, will you? If I give you their names and where they live?”
If I had not done it for Calista, I certainly wasn’t going to do it for him. “No.”
“You miserable bastard.” He clawed at my leg, but he was too weak to do me any harm. “Everything they say about you is true.”
I was tired of his bluster, so I went after my horses. Brisco had not gone far. He was well trained. The mare took a while to collect. The cowboy’s horse was behind the knoll, but I had no interest in it. When I returned, the cowboy was gulping air like a fish. “Was the promise of a thousand dollars worth your life?”
“I want . . . I want . . .” But he did not get to finish. The life was snuffed from his eyes by the cold wind of death.
I did not bury him. There had been enough delays. I pushed on until well past nightfall in an effort to make up for lost time. A cold camp sufficed. I was asleep within minutes but tossed and turned, and when I awoke an hour before daybreak, I felt as if I had not slept at all.
I wanted to overtake them before they reached Three Legs, but it was not meant to be. It was night when I got there. Only two horses were at the hitch rail in front of the saloon and neither had been ridden hard. I paused at the batwings to let my eyes adjust. In addition to a grubby barkeep, two men were playing cards. Farmers, judging by how they were dressed. The country north of Three Legs was overrun with nesters, or so I had been told. I set my rifle down and stood with my back to the bar so I could watch the door and the window. “Whiskey.”
“Whiskey it is, friend.” The bartender slid a bottle and a glass over. He looked me up and down. “Is that blood on your clothes? You look like you’ve been through hell and back.”
My first impulse was to tell him to mind his own business, but I needed information. “A woman and some cowboys came through Three Legs sometime today. Did you see them?”
His eyes flicked toward the rear and then fixed on me. “Can’t say as I did, no. But then, I haven’t been out much.”
“They might have come in here.” He should remember if they had.
“Women generally stay shy of saloons unless they’re doves,” the bartender said. “Is the lady you’re after a dove?”
The idea of Gertrude Tanner in a tight red dress cozying up to half-drunk men who hadn’t bathed in a month of Sundays made me grin. “Not by a long shot.” I nodded at the card players. “Are they locals?”
“Frank and Cliff? Sure are. They’re in here nearly every night, but they don’t usually stay this late.”
I ambled to the table. The two farmers did not look up, they were so engrossed in their game. They sat rather stiffly in their chairs. “Either of you see anything of a fancy woman and some cowboys?”
“Can’t say as I have, no,” said the burliest. “But I’ve been out to my place all day. Usually I’m home by now.”
“I’m home by now, too,” the other farmer said. “Or my wife pins my ears back with a fork.”
“That must hurt.” My joke brought no response, so I shrugged and went to an empty table in the corner and sank into a chair. I put the bottle and glass in front of me. I was tired. I needed rest, the horses needed rest. Part of me was for pushing on, but the logical part was for resting until dawn and starting out fresh. I emptied the glass in one gulp and poured more red-eye. As I was raising the glass to my lips I noticed that the bartender and the two farmers were watching me out of the corners of their eyes. All three quickly looked away.
My instincts kicked in. The hints were there. I should have caught on sooner. I slowly sipped the rotgut and felt the liquid burn its way down my throat and warm the pit of my stomach. Gazing over the glass, I noticed that a door at the back was open a few inches. A room or hall beyond was as black as the pit.
My skin prickled. I lowered the glass and leaned back. I figured there was only one, but then hoofs thudded and a saddle creaked and in through the batwings came a lean cowboy caked in dust. He never so much as glanced my way but went to the bar and in a loud voice asked for some coffin varnish.
I casually lowered my right hand to my lap and held the glass in my left. I was wondering how they would go about it when the cowboy made a show of gazing about the room. Plastering a smile on his thin face, he came toward my table.
“Howdy, mister. Up for a card game?”
Nodding at the farmers, I said, “There’s already one under way. You might ask to sit in with those gents.”
The cowboy broke stride and pretended to see them for the first time. “Oh. I suppose I could. Or you and me could have our own game.” He stepped to a different table and beckoned. “What do you say? Have a seat.” He indicated a chair across from him.
If I did as he wanted I would have my back to the door at the rear. Shaking my head, I pushed with my boot against the chair across from me at my own table. “Right here will do.”
The cowboy would not last an hour as an assassin. His face gave him away. Reluctantly coming over, he put his glass down. “Fine by me,” he said.
“Don’t we need cards?” I brought up.
He slid his right hand under his brown vest. “As it so happens, I have a new deck.”
My own hand was on the Remington, but he did not unlimber a hideout. He did indeed place a deck on the table.
“Are you a cardsharp?” I asked mildly.
His laugh was brittle. “Where did you get a notion like that? I’m a cowpoke, not a gambler.”
“Do you always carry a deck of cards around with you?”
“I got it from the barkeep.” The cowboy began to shuffle, unaware of the mistake he had made.
I slid the Remington from my holster but did not raise it above the table. “When would that be?”
He froze and his forehead furrowed. “When what?”
“When did you get the cards from him? I saw you come in and all he gave you was whiskey.” I snapped the fingers of my left hand. “I know. He gave them to you earlier when you were in here with Gertrude and Bart Seton. Is that Bart in the back or a friend of yours?”
Sweat seemed to ooze from all his pores at once. “Mister, I don’t know what in hell you’re talking
