as a warning knock.
“Oh!” Lucy said, startled by the sudden appearance of the two men in the kitchen.
“Get your husband,” Arnold said, his voice little more than a growl.
Lucy left the kitchen, then returned a moment later with Scott. Scott wasn’t wearing his gun, which was going to make this even easier than they had planned.
“Lucy said you two boys just walked into the house without so much as a fare-thee-well,” Scott said, his voice reflecting his irritation. “You know better than to do that. What do you want?”
“The money,” Harry said.
“The money? You mean you have finished the wagon? Well, good, good. Let me take a look at it, and if I’m satisfied, I’ll give you your ten dollars,” Scott said.
Harry shook his head. “No, not ten dollars,” he said. “All of it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Harry drew his pistol, and when he did, Arnold drew his as well.
“The money box,” Harry said. “Get it down. We want all the money.”
“Scott!” Lucy said in a choked voice.
“It’s all right, Lucy, we are goin’ to give them what they ask for. Then they’ll go away and leave us alone. Get the box down and hand it to them.”
“You’re a smart man, McDonald,” Arnold said.
“You’ll never get away with stealing our money,” Lucy said as she retrieved the box from the top of the cupboard, then handed it over to Harry.
“Oh, yeah, we’re goin’ to get away with it,” Harry said as he took the money from the box. Folding the money over, he stuck it in his pocket. Then, without another word, he pulled the trigger. Lucy got a surprised look on her face as the bullet buried into her chest, but she went down, dead before she hit the floor.
“You son of a bitch!” Scott shouted as he leaped toward Harry.
Harry was surprised by the quickness and the furiousness of the attack. He was knocked down by Scott, but he managed to hold onto his gun and even as he was under Scott on the floor, he stuck the barrel of gun into Scott’s stomach and pulled the trigger.
“Get him off of me!” Harry shouted. “Get him off of me.”
“Mama, Papa, what is it?” a young voice called, and the two children came running into the kitchen. Arnold shot both of them, then rolled Scott off Harry and helped his brother back on his feet.
“Are you all right?” Arnold asked.
“Yeah,” Harry answered. “I’ve got the money. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
Matt Jensen dismounted in front of the Gold Strike Saloon. Brushing some of the trail dust away, he tied his horse off at the hitching rail, then began looking at the other horses that were there, lifting the left hind foot of each animal in turn.
His action seemed a little peculiar, and some of pedestrians stopped to look over at him. What they saw was a man who was just a bit over six feet tall with broad shoulders and narrow waist. He was young in years, but his pale blue eyes bespoke experiences that most would not see in three lifetimes. He was a lone wolf who had worn a deputy’s badge in Abilene, ridden shotgun for a stagecoach out of Lordsburg, scouted for the army in the McDowell Mountains of Arizona, and panned for gold in Idaho. A banker’s daughter in Cheyenne once thought she could make him settle down—a soiled dove in the Territories knew that she couldn’t, but took what he offered.
Matt was a wanderer, always wondering what was beyond the next line of hills, just over the horizon. He traveled light, with a bowie knife, a .44 double-action Colt, a Winchester .44–40 rifle, a rain slicker, an overcoat, two blankets, a spare shirt, and spare socks, trousers, and underwear.
He called Colorado his home, though he had actually started life in Kansas. Colorado was home only because it was where he had reached his maturity, and Smoke Jensen, the closest thing he had to a family, lived there. In truth, though, he spent no more time in Colorado than he did in Wyoming, Utah, New Mexico, or Arizona.
At the moment, Matt was on the trail of Harry and Arnold Baker for the murder of Scott McDonald, his wife, Lucy, and their two young sons, Toby and Tyler. Before he died, Scott McDonald managed to live long enough to scrawl the letters B-A-K on the floor, using his finger as a pen and his own blood as the ink. McDonald had hired the Baker brothers, not because he needed the help, but because he thought they were down on their luck and needed the job.
Matt had known the McDonalds well. He had been a guest in their house many times, and had even attended the baptism of one of their children. When the McDonalds were killed, Matt took it very personally, and had himself temporarily deputized so he could hunt down the Baker brothers and bring them to justice.
One of the Baker brothers was riding a horse that left a distinctive hoofprint and that had enabled Matt to track them to Burnt Fork. That brought him to the front of the Gold Strike Saloon, where he was checking the shoes of the horses that were tied off at the hitching rail. On the fourth horse that he examined, he found what he was looking for. The shoe on the horse’s left rear foot had a V-shaped niche on the inside of the right arm of the shoe.
Loosening his pistol in the holster, Matt went into the saloon.
A loud burst of laughter greeted him as he stepped inside, and sitting at a table in the middle of the saloon were two men. Each of the men had a girl sitting on his lap and the table had a nearly empty whiskey bottle, indicating they had been drinking heavily.
Matt had never seen the Baker brothers, so he could not identify them by sight, but the two men resembled each other enough to be brothers, and they did match the description he had been given of them.
“Hey, Harry, let’s see which one of these girls has the best titties,” one of the men said. He grabbed the top of
