Or was that just the devil playing him, baiting a hook to see if he’d take it?
At the livery where he’d stabled Locomotive and the packhorse, he took one last look around, and stepped inside.
“You looking for me?” a voice asked from the shadows.
Billy turned slowly, hand resting on his pistol.
Parmelee was watching him from the shadows, a rifle held low at his waist.
“Nope. Just come to head out, is all.”
“Where to?”
“Colorado. California. Salt Lake. Maybe that ain’t your business.”
“I’d hate to see you show up on my back trail. Might give me the wrong idea.”
“Seems to me a man with those kind of worries has enemies.” Billy kept his hands wide. “All my enemies are dead, which means you’re not one. I got no quarrel with you, Parmelee.”
The man stiffened. “How’d you know my name?”
“You told it to me across the table up at Fort Benton over breakfast.”
Parmelee seemed to deflate. “Yep. Reckon I did.” He snorted derisively. “Man can be a damn fool sometimes.”
Maybe he didn’t suspect. Still …
Billy lowered his hands slightly. “I’m fixing to leave Virginia City. You got a problem with that?”
“I do.” Parmelee raised the rifle slightly. “How about you wait a couple of hours and let me get a head start? That way I know for a fact you ain’t gonna ambush me.”
“How do I know you won’t be laying in ambush for me?”
“Thought you said you didn’t have any enemies.”
“A couple of hours? Sure. I’m a maudlin sort. Reckon I’ll go see what’s in the stores, maybe smoke me a cigar in the sun. But this is the only time I’ll play the tune for you.”
With that, Billy backed out, holding his war bag wide so that Parmelee could see his revolver.
Billy frowned, wondering what had Parmelee up in a snit. Nevertheless, as he walked back toward the street, he was instantly aware of the two men who leaned against a blacksmith’s wall. Something about their posture, the Henry rifles propped beside them, and the way they were dressed wasn’t right.
Billy gave them a slight nod as he passed, feeling their hard eyes, the threat in their expressions.
An hour later, figuring Parmelee had had enough time, and wouldn’t dawdle on the trail, Billy saddled Locomotive and tied his packs onto the packhorse.
He headed out on the Bozeman Road, climbing up over the divide to the Madison Valley. Locomotive was making good time, seeming to relish being on the road again. Last night’s rain had softened the tracks, and so far, only one rider was ahead of him.
This, he assumed to be Parmelee, having not stood around to watch the man leave. The blond man was making good time, apparently well mounted given his horse’s stride.
As the shadows lengthened, Billy followed the trail down toward the Madison River. Where the trace dipped through a draw, Billy was surprised to see tracks coming in from either side. Four of them. He could see where Parmelee’s horse had pulled up, sidestepped, and then stood for a moment before heading out at a walk, followed by the others.
Billy chewed his lip, glanced uneasily around, and backtracked two of the newcomers to the place where they’d been in wait. Boot tracks, piles of manure where the horses had been tied, told him they’d been there a while.
Reining Locomotive around, Billy resumed his way toward the Madison. He’d heard that, being a day’s ride, most folks camped down by the river where they could water their animals before or after the pull from Virginia City.
As he neared the trees, Billy slipped the Sharps from its scabbard and laid it across Locomotive’s saddle bows.
He saw them as soon as he rode under the first of the cottonwoods; the branches had barely sprouted green with the first leaves, the ground covered with fallen blossoms.
The rope was already over a limb, Parmelee’s hands tied behind his back.
Two of the men turned toward him, riding out, their Henry rifles at the ready. Nothing in their expressions had changed since Billy had seen them leaned against the shop.
“Hold up!” one called, leveling his rifle.
“Why, I do declare,” Billy cried. “Reckon you all are riding for that vigilance committee we hear so much about. Who you got there? Some road agent? Who’d he kill?”
“I said, hold up!” the man repeated.
“Aw, you’re not gonna shoot me,” Billy told him. “I ain’t a robber or a outlaw. You all only hangs bad men. And if that’s Win Parmelee you got yonder, he’s one of the worst. What the hell did he do?”
“Murder and rape,” the man barked.
“Son of a bitch,” Billy drawled. “Hell, mister, I’ll help y’all pull on the rope.”
Daring the devil, he rode right up to the men, his heart pounding, knowing he was beaming his excitement. By God, he was tired of sneaking. He could feel the thrill, missing for so long. The same as when he’d walked into the middle of Dewley’s camp.
Then he was in the middle of them, grinning, staring at Parmelee, seeing the man’s fright—the half-crazy look of a galoot facing his final extinction. Under the rope, the pulse was beating in Parmelee’s neck; he kept swallowing as if his throat had gone dry.
“Who are you?” one of the men asked, his old Colt Army leveled on Billy.
“Billy Hancock. You sure you want to hang him? Might be money for handing him over.”
“All it takes is his head,” another said. “We pack it in a nail keg filled with salt and ship it.”
“Damn, do declare?” Billy shook his head. “Well, come on, boys, let’s see the son of a bitch swing!”
Parmelee whispered, “I’ll see you all in hell!”
“Maybe so, you piece of shit,” one of the men replied, stepping off his horse and walking over where the loose end of rope lay. He was in the process of wrapping it around the tree to knot when Billy eared the hammer
