“But … why!”
“Because you deserve death!” she cried, levering another shell into the rifle and sending it scorching through his brain.
Betty rushed inside the saloon. Pointing her rifle at the most harmless-looking pair she could find, she yelled, “You and you, pick my friend up and bring him with me!”
A half hour later, a doctor left their hotel room, saying, “I’ll have to dig that slug out first thing tomorrow morning if you ain’t dead before then.”
“I won’t be,” Smith vowed.
“Just don’t move or you’ll start bleeding again!”
When they were alone, Betty said, “What are we going to do about Tom?”
“I’ll kill him too,” Smith promised.
“No, we’ll do it together,” she said. “That way, I know you will not be shot again.”
“I should have just shot Dave instead of giving him an explanation,” Smith said angrily. “That was my big mistake tonight.”
“We will have to do better with Tom, or he will kill us for sure,” Betty said, coming to lie down beside him.
“I guess you’re right,” Smith agreed, using his good arm to draw her close. “A whole hell of a lot better.”
“I’m glad you finally are making sense,” Betty whispered, kissing his pale cheek.
Chapter 17
It was late afternoon when Longarm galloped into the little Colorado ranching town of Cortez, and the saloons were already doing a brisk business. Longarm tied Splash in front of one called the Two Bits Bar and wearily strode inside. No one seemed to pay him the slightest bit of attention, and he ordered a whiskey and drank it down neat.
“Bartender?”
“You want another?”
“Yeah,” Longarm said, “but first I need some information.”
The bartender was in his thirties, a handsome man with his oily black hair parted down the middle and a dimple in each cheek. He leaned close across the bar and said with a smile, “Information might cost you more than my whiskey, stranger.”
“I’m looking for a man with burn marks on his neck who is traveling with a pretty woman that looks to be either Indian or Mexican. They would have hit this town driving a buggy. Black with red fringe on top.”
The bartender poured Longarm another shot. “Whiskey is two bits a throw, information one dollar.”
“Fair enough,” Longarm said, paying the man.
“The pair you describe,” the bartender said, after refilling Longarm’s glass, “is holed up at the Fairplay Hotel just down the street.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yep. Fact is, that couple is famous in this town. Are you a friend of the Marble brothers?”
“No, but why do you ask?”
“Because the man braced Dave Marble but had the tables turned on him and was shot.”
“The Assassin was shot!”
The bartender frowned. “The Assassin? Is that what he is called?”
“By some, yes. Anyway,” Longarm said impatiently, “what happened then?”
“Well, that woman he was with came in and shot Dave Marble down with a rifle. Just drilled him twice as clean as you please.”
“She did?”
“I’m tellin’ you the truth.” The bartender straightened up and glanced down his bar. “Hey, boys, didn’t that pretty Indian gal kill Dave Marble last night?”
“Damn right!” a bearded man shouted. “Shot him deader than a doornail!”
The other patrons nodded in agreement, and one yelled, “Let’s have a toast for the Indian gal who did us all a big favor!”
Longarm raised his own glass and joined the toast. He was now a believer. Then he said, “And what happened to the couple after that?”
“The man was wounded in the shoulder,” the bartender said. “Our Doc Halsey dug the bullet out early this morning. The fella is in rough shape, but he’s expected to live.”
“And the woman?”
“She’s stickin’ to her man like a louse on a tall dog,” the bartender answered. “People around here are betting that Tom Marble is going to learn of this and come to kill ‘em both, but until then, they’re famous.
“We ought to help them two get away,” an old man with tobacco-stained whiskers interjected. “We ought to put ‘em in their buggy and send ‘em packin!”
“Sure,” another said sarcastically. “Then Tom will shoot up the town and probably kill a couple of us for our
