back, sat Bill Dinkins, Cole Parnell, Travis Slater, and his brother Frank.
Parnell had been reading the newspaper, and he slapped it down on the table with an angry snarl. “Son of a bitch, they know who we are.”
“Who knows who we are?” Dinkins asked.
“The law knows who we are.” Parnell pointed to the paper. “It says right there, that the Bill Dinkins’ gang held up the bank and killed the bank president, some merchant, and the sheriff.”
“Don’t forget the woman,” Frank said. “Dinkins kilt her, too.”
“She ain’t dead,” Parnell said.
“How do you know she ain’t dead?” Travis asked.
“Hell. ’Cause it says right here in the newspaper,” Parnell said. “It says she is recuperatin’ just fine.”
“Then that’s prob’ly how they found out who we was,” Travis said. “She prob’ly told the law ever’thing.”
“That ain’t the bad thing,” Parnell said.
“What is the bad thing?” Travis asked.
“This ain’t just any woman that you shot.” Parnell looked directly at Dinkins. “Maybe you don’t know it, but the woman you shot is married to Mr. Smoke Jensen.”
“Smoke Jensen?” Dinkins replied. “That ain’t good.”
“Damn right, it ain’t good,” Parnell said. “Ac-cordin’ to this here newspaper, he’s done got hisself deputized, and he aims to come after us.”
“Deputized? Hell, that don’t mean nothin’. All we got to do is leave the county, and he can’t come for us.”
“Uh-uh. That won’t work. He’s been deputized a United States marshal, and that means he can go anywhere he wants,” Parnell said.
“Yeah, well if he does come after us, he just may be bitin’ off more than he can chaw,” Dinkins said. “I’ve sent word for someone to join us.”
“What do we need someone else for?” Travis asked.
“We lost Putnam, didn’t we? I figure on replacing him.”
“I know’d Putnam when we was in prison together,” Parnell said. “It’s goin’ to take a good man to replace him.”
“The man I’ve got comin’ is worth five Put-nams,” Dinkins said.
“Who would that be?” Frank asked.
“You’ll see when he gets here,” Dinkins said mysteriously.
“When will that be?” Travis asked.
Dinkins twisted around in his chair and looked up at the clock. “The train gets here at two. We got less than an hour to wait now, I reckon.”
He stood on the platform for just a minute, looking around. Behind him the train was a symphony of sound, from the bubbling water in the boiler, to the venting of steam, to the snapping and popping of heated journals and bearings. Nobody came to meet him, but he wasn’t expecting anyone. A child who saw him was frightened by his skull-like head, and turned his face into his mother’s skirt and clutched it about him.
Harley waited on the platform until his horse was led down the ramp from the cattle car, then walked down to claim him.
“Yes, sir, here is your mount, as fresh as he was when he boarded the train.” The groom held the horse’s reins in one hand, while his other hand was palm up for the expected tip.
Harley ignored the groom’s palm and, without a sound, mounted, and rode away. It took but a minute to ride from the depot to the saloon where he dismounted and tied his horse to the hitch rail. He glanced up and down the street as if making certain there was no potential threat, then pushed his way through the swinging bat wing doors.
He was wearing a gun strapped low on his right hip, and once inside, he stepped away from the door so he wasn’t back lighted. He paused for a moment. Only when his eyes were fully adjusted to the dimmer light, did he walk over to the bar.
“You know who that is?” Dinkins whispered to the others.
“Can’t say as I do,” Parnell said.
“That is Wes Harley. I reckon you’ve heard of him, ain’t you?
“I’ve heard of ’im,” Travis said. “He’s a—”
“He’s a gunfighter,” Dinkins interrupted, intending to keep control of the conversation.
“He’s supposed to be fast,” Travis said.
“He’s not just supposed to be fast, he
“I don’t believe that is him,” Parnell said.
“What makes you say that?”
“Well think about it. What would someone like that be doin’ here?”
