The Last Gunfighter

“That’s not my worry,” Bosworth replied with a smug look on his face. “I’m paying you to take care of that. You keep losing men anyway,” he added scathingly.

Grimshaw reined in his temper. Bosworth didn’t understand. But he was rich, so he didn’t have to.

“Do you need to recruit more men?” the timber baron continued.

Grimshaw shook his head. “There are still eleven of us. Eleven good men. That’s enough.”

“I would hope so. But fifteen doesn’t seem to have been enough, at least so far.”

“Morgan’ll be dead before the end of the day tomorrow!”

The heated exclamation came out of Grimshaw’s mouth before he could stop it. Bosworth just nodded, though, and grinned. “That’s what I want to hear.” His rugged face grew serious again. “Just be sure you make good on it this time, Grimshaw. Otherwise, I’m going to start thinking that you can’t handle what I need you to handle.”

“Don’t worry,” Grimshaw snapped. “Morgan’s as good as dead.”

The look that Bosworth gave him as he replaced the cigar in his mouth spoke volumes. Prove it, Bosworth was saying. Results were all that mattered.

Grimshaw nodded. He left the room and turned toward the landing. He wanted some dry clothes, some hot food, and a drink. Maybe three or four drinks.

It might take that many to make him forget, even for a little while, that Frank Morgan might be gunning for him now.

Erickson stared into the shot glass sitting on the table in front of him. It had about an inch of whiskey in it, and floating in that amber liquid was Sutherland’s face.

Not really, of course, but Erickson saw it there anyway. It looked just like it did the last time Erickson had seen it. Sutherland’s mouth was wide open in a scream, and his eyes were bugged out so far, it looked like they were going to jump right out of his head. Sutherland was pleading for the others to help him, but there wasn’t a damned thing they could do. The Terror was too fast. It was gone, carrying Sutherland with it.

Erickson lifted the glass, threw back the drink. Thumped the empty on the table.

Sutherland still screamed up at him from the glass. Erickson reached for the bottle and poured more whiskey. He’d drown the son of a bitch and make him go away, he thought, no matter how much booze it took.

The other four men sat around the table in the Bull o’ the Woods, each of them as sullen and somber as Erickson was. They were putting away the whiskey, too. Nobody had said anything for a while. What was there to say? They had seen their friend and partner carried off by a monster. They had spent a long time looking for Sutherland, but hadn’t found hide nor hair of him. Not a single one of them, though, doubted that he was dead.

“I’m done,” Jenkins abruptly said into the silence.

Erickson lifted his head to glare at the dour logger. “What do you mean you’re done?” he demanded.

“Just what I said. Done. Finished. I’m not goin’ back out there, Erickson. Not to fell timber, not to look for Sutherland, and damn sure not to hunt monsters or gunfighters. If you want to go after Frank Morgan and the Terror, that’s your business, but count me out.”

The whiskey made Erickson angry. So, too, did the fear he had felt that afternoon when the Terror came out of nowhere and snatched Sutherland, but he didn’t want to admit that, even to himself.

“You’re throwin’ away a big payoff,” Erickson said. “When Chamberlain ups that bounty to twenty grand tomorrow, that’ll be four thousand apiece when we bring in the Terror’s head.”

Jenkins grunted. “Yeah, or else I’ll wind up with my bones scattered over some godforsaken hillside like Sutherland.”

“We don’t know the Terror killed him,” Erickson insisted. “He might’ve gotten away.”

That was such a ludicrous idea that none of them could believe it, even Erickson. The grim certainty of Sutherland’s death was etched on each man’s face.

Roylston poured himself another drink, tossed it back, and said, “I’m with Jenkins. I’m through monster- huntin’.”

“Now, damn it, you can’t both back out on me,” Erickson protested.

“Looks like we just have,” Jenkins said.

Erickson turned his head to glare at Dawson and Treadwell. “What about you two? Are you gonna turn tail and run, too?”

Dawson said, “I’ll stick. You know that.”

“Yeah,” Treadwell agreed. “We been ridin’ together for a while, Erickson. We’re still with you.”

Erickson snorted and leaned back in his chair. “Good. I was afraid you two might’ve turned yellow, too.”

Jenkins gave a hollow laugh and shook his head. “Forget it, Erickson. It won’t work. Roylston and me, we’re loggers, not gunmen. Not hardcases like the three of you. Neither was Sutherland. We just let greed blind us, that’s all. We thought we could throw in with you and be something we’re not. We know better now.”

“Good riddance then,” Erickson muttered. “I don’t ride with anybody I can’t trust.”

Jenkins shoved back his chair and got to his feet. “So long then.”

Roylston stood up as well and gave the other three men a curt nod. He followed Jenkins out of the saloon.

“Well, we’re back to a three-way split,” Dawson said, “and we didn’t have to kill those bastards to get there.”

“Yeah, we’re better off without ’em,” Erickson said. He was peering into his glass again, not liking what he saw