By the time he reached town, Doolin was acutely aware that these nightly walks were crippling him. He felt another round-trip might well reduce him to using a crutch. On the outskirts, he crossed the end of the street and limped toward the uptown area. He stayed on the boardwalks where shadows were the deepest in an effort to avoid being seen. Still, there were streetlamps at every corner, and no way to elude the light when he crossed an intersection. Tonight, with sparks shooting through his foot, he was unable to move through the lampglow as fast as usual.
A block from the hotel Doolin slowly scanned the street ahead. He normally turned right at the intersection and walked to the alley behind the hotel. But as he approached the streetlight, he saw a man step out of the saloon and pause on the boardwalk. Some visceral instinct set off a warning, and he moved into the shadows. He watched as the man stood at the edge of the boardwalk, staring up at the second story of the hotel. After a time, the man turned, and for an instant his features were framed in the spill of light from the saloon window. He slipped into the darkened doorway of a store next to the saloon.
Doolin’s blood went cold. The face he’d seen in that instant was one he remembered from newspaper photographs in Oklahoma Territory. He recalled pictures of federal marshals, and suddenly he put a name to the face: Bill Tilghman. One of the much-ballyhooed Three Guardsmen. The marshals who had hounded the Wild Bunch and killed four of his men. Then, so abruptly that he took a sharp breath, he realized the full meaning of what he’d just seen. Tilghman was watching the window of his wife’s hotel room.
For a moment Doolin was paralyzed with shock. His mind roared with sudden comprehension. Tilghman had somehow tracked him to Kansas. With startling clarity, he saw that all his slippery plans and clever maneuvering had been for nothing. The Osage farmer, the exchange of wagons, even the Osage woman’s masquerade to throw off pursuit, had been an exercise in folly. Tilghman hadn’t tracked him anywhere, let alone to Kansas. Instead, in a neat switch, Tilghman had turned the tables on him. His wife was being used as bait.
Doolin turned back downstreet. He moved from doorway to doorway, hugging the shadows, fearful that he might be spotted at any moment. Halfway along the block, he ducked into a narrow passageway between two buildings. A short distance ahead he emerged into the alley and reversed directions, again heading north. At the end of the alley, his hand on his pistol, he paused and inspected the corner on Main Street. There was no one in sight.
Wincing with every step, his foot on fire, Doolin scuttled across the street. He disappeared into the alley and moved through the dark, halting behind the hotel. At the back door, he pulled a jackknife from his pocket, and jimmied the blade between the door and the doorframe. There was a muted click as the tip of the blade sprung the bolt. He stepped into the hallway.
A rear stairway led to the second floor. Doolin paused at the top of the landing to check the hall. There was no one about and he moved to the end of the corridor. He rapped gently on the door.
From inside, he heard the creak of floorboards under quick footsteps. Edith Doolin opened the door, a welcoming smile across her face. He shushed her, a finger to his lips, warning silence as he moved into the room. He closed and locked the door.
Her eyes were now wide with fright. Doolin quickly scanned the room, saw the baby asleep on the bed. A lamp glowed on the dresser, which was positioned near the window. He nodded to his wife.
“Don’t ask questions. Put out the light.”
She moved to obey. At the dresser, she cupped a hand behind the lamptop and expelled a sharp breath. The flame was extinguished, casting the room into darkness. A dim ray of light seeped through the window from distant streetlamps.
“Stay away from the window,” Doolin ordered. “We’re being watched.”
Her mouth sagged. “Who is it?”
“A federal marshal from the territory. I spotted him on the street.”
“Do you think he knows you’re here?”
“Has to,” Doolin said. “He wouldn’t be watching your room otherwise.”
“Oh, my God.” Her voice trembled. “How did he find us?”
“Only one way that makes any sense. He must’ve trailed you from the time you left home.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I dunno just yet.”
Doolin crossed the room. He removed his hat, tossing it on the dresser, and edged into position beside the window. Slowly, careful not to disturb the curtains, he eased his head past the drape of the cloth. He stared across the street.
The doorway of the store next to the saloon was framed in darkness. For several moments, his eyes squinted, Doolin saw nothing. Then, as his vision adjusted to the dim light, he uttered a low grunt. He saw the faint outline of a man in the doorway.
“Bastard’s still there,” he said, turning from the window. “Wouldn’t know it unless you were looking for him.”
“Just one?” she asked softly. “Maybe he hasn’t called in the town marshal.”
“You might be right about that. He probably figures to take me himself.”
She moved to a chair near the washstand. As though drained of energy, she sat down heavily. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Even if he followed me, how would he know you’re here? How could he
