with Lester?”

Both men glared at each other uneasily, but neither gave an answer. Both of them already had all the answers they needed.

TWENTY-TWO

Despite all his cursing and fuming when Lester had gotten away, Kinman would have been lying if he’d said that the escape came as a surprise. He’d dragged more than his share of prisoners from one place to another to know that every last one of them, no matter what they said or did, would always try to escape. It was human nature. It was the impulse that had put the prices on their heads in the first place.

Kinman had his tricks to keep prisoners in line, the least of which were the knots that kept their hands and feet bound to their saddles. One of the simplest and most effective of his tricks was to mark the horse being used by the prisoner when they were asleep or otherwise indisposed.

In Lester’s case, Kinman had spent a bit of time on the first night they’d made camp chipping various patterns into two of the shoes worn by Lester’s horse. All it took was a good knife and some quiet time, and Kinman carved a few marks that would show up just fine in the horse’s tracks. One thing that always surprised Kinman was just how many times this trick had worked over the years. Then again, it was an outlaw’s nature to charge forward without ever bothering to look back.

After putting on a bit of a show working to pick up Lester’s trail, Kinman followed it down a steep ridge that could very well have broken the necks of both horse and rider with one misstep. After what appeared to be a lot of slipping and sliding, Lester’s tracks took off in one direction.

“He’s headed south,” Kinman said.

Nick rode behind and to Kinman’s left. “That’s the only way he could have gone.”

“You want to do the tracking, you be my guest.”

Nick responded by dramatically waving Kinman along.

They didn’t hit a snag until Lester’s prints met up with some others that looked to have been set down within the last few days. Although the other tracks were older, there were enough of them crossing back and forth across Lester’s to make Kinman stop and climb down from his saddle so he could take a closer look.

“Looks like the Sioux pass through here quite a bit,” Nick said from his saddle.

Kinman didn’t take his eyes off the ground as he grumbled, “No shit.”

“What was that?”

“What else do you know about the Sioux around here?” Kinman asked as a way to steer the conversation into more fruitful territory. “You seemed to know all about their villages and burial grounds.”

“I only know what I needed to know to keep from getting killed.”

“You spoke their language.”

“Not too much,” Nick admitted, “but just enough. Where’d you catch up with Lester?”

“I roped him in Oregon.”

“He ran that far after stealing a horse in Texas?”

Kinman nodded. “Never steal a horse from a Texan. They tend to take it a bit more personal than most. I think I found Lester’s tracks,” Kinman said, even though he’d spotted the specially marked prints some time ago. “He’s still heading south and it looks as if he’s picking up speed.”

“Makes sense. He’s got a lot to run from.”

Kinman climbed back into his saddle and snapped the reins. His horse was accustomed to the speed that suited Kinman’s tracking. Kinman himself rode slouched and hanging a bit to one side. Even though he looked as if he might be drunk or wounded, the bounty hunter was merely putting his eyes as close to the ground as possible. When he pulled himself upright again, he winced and pressed a hand to his side.

“How’s the wound?” Nick asked.

“Stings like a bastard, but I can keep riding. I’ll need to stop later on to tend to it.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. Lester’s gonna need to stop before we do.”

“Yeah, but he won’t,” Kinman said. “I know that for a fact. He’s a little fucking weasel who’s been running for a good, long time. No matter how good I track him, he’ll beat us to his cousin’s place.”

“We’ll just have to take our chances.”

Once Lester rode clear of the Badlands, he felt as if he’d been shot from a cannon. Suddenly, there weren’t dozens of obstacles threatening to trip his horse or send it skidding down into a ravine. The land flattened out a bit and the ground was covered with less gravel and more packed dirt. Those things were mighty fine sights for Lester’s weary eyes and he couldn’t hold back a smile once he felt the wind flowing past his face as his horse picked up speed.

Lester didn’t know if the other two had killed each other or if they were hot on his heels. Assuming the latter, he kept his horse racing down the narrow trail, which cut straight through Sioux territory.

Every now and then, Lester caught sight of an Indian rider or a few figures perched upon higher ground. Making sure to steer away from them, he got away without an arrow lodged in his back. After riding for a while longer, he guessed that he couldn’t have been too far from the Nebraska border. He pulled back on his reins so he could take a moment to breathe and get his bearings.

As the sound of beating hooves faded from his ears, Lester filled his lungs and spat out some of the dirt that had collected in his mouth. Thinking back to how he’d gotten away from Nick, Lester cursed himself for not being able to get his hands on a gun or a knife during the struggle. As he thought about it some more, Lester was amazed that he’d managed to get away from the grave without being buried in it.

Craning his neck as he turned around in his saddle, Lester was shocked to find the jagged, multicolored landscape of the Badlands far behind him. The sun was lower in the sky than he’d originally thought, and the darkness was almost complete. Lester had only stopped for a minute, and he already wanted to climb down from his saddle and stretch his legs properly.

In fact, if he was climbing down anyway, he thought he might even find a spot where he could rest his eyes.

If he was resting his eyes, he might as well—”

Suddenly, Lester shook his head and slapped himself in the face. He hadn’t allowed himself to leave the saddle just yet and he knew if he did, he’d give in to the rest of his weary thoughts as well. Wesley’s place wasn’t far from the Badlands. Maybe a day’s ride, but Lester couldn’t rest until he got there.

Feeling a dry pinch in his throat, Lester realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a drink of water. He checked his saddlebags for a canteen, and then realized he didn’t have any saddlebags.

Lester snapped the reins and got moving again. He only hoped the old horse he was riding was up for a hell of a long run.

The sun crawled back into the sky sometime later. He’d ridden through the entire day and most of the night without stopping for any longer than his horse needed to stay alive. He’d found a stream along the way, but had only sucked down a few mouthfuls of dirty water before saddling up and moving on.

Lester could feel the other two closing in on him. Sometimes, he swore he saw Kinman charging toward him with that devil’s smile that was always plastered on his face. Other times, Lester nearly jumped out of his skin when he thought he’d seen Nick Graves lurking in some shadow like the ghoulish gravedigger he was.

All of those things nipped at the back of Lester’s mind just as surely as the two men were nipping at his heels. Lester didn’t allow himself to look away from the trail long enough to take a breath. He didn’t look away long enough to try and guess the time of day. He barely allowed himself to think of anything apart from where he was headed and who was after him.

When he spotted the town, Lester didn’t allow himself to feel relieved. Thanks to the pounding he’d taken from riding so hard for so long, he couldn’t feel much of anything. He rode up to the first saloon he could find and climbed down from his saddle. His legs were so tired that they were barely able to carry him through the door.

The saloon was just over half full. A few of the customers turned to look at Lester, but turned right back

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