“Ten thousand, hell,” said Ben. “There’s gotta be at least fifteen here!”
Clinch ran a dusty finger over the bars. “We’ll kindly relieve the Wells Fargo company of this heavy burden.”
The guard quietly pulled the pistol from his boot. The outlaws were still focused greedily on the contents of the lockbox. The lead rider’s head was bent low over the gold, which meant as clear a head shot as there would ever be without risk of killing the boy.
The guard pulled the trigger. CRACK!
And suddenly his gun was on the ground, as one of his fingers sailed away behind him. The barrel of the lead rider’s pistol was smoking. The guard screamed in pain as he clutched his crippled hand.
“That,” said Clinch, “was a mistake.”
Clinch dismounted, leaving the boy sitting alone atop the disproportionately large horse. He approached the stricken guard and shoved him roughly against the side of the carriage. “Listen to me closely,” said Clinch with a deadly soft tone as he pressed the cold steel of his pistol against the other man’s throat. “You’re very lucky. Do you know that? Because I’ve recently come into possession of fifteen thousand dollars in gold bullion. Which means I’m in a good mood today. Now, are you gonna try that again?”
“N-no. No, sir,” squeaked the petrified guard.
“You know that’d be stupid. Yes, you know that, don’t you?”
“Y-yes.”
“Good, good. Because I’m gonna give you just one warning: You reach for that rifle again, and this will happen.”
Clinch fired, destroying the man’s throat. The guard slumped to the ground, leaving a trail of blood smeared down the side of the carriage.
“Like I said—one warning.”
The members of Clinch’s gang were still busy ogling the shiny gold bars, so no one noticed until Michael was already off the horse and sprinting toward his mother’s open arms. One of the outlaws turned, spotted the boy halfway, and raised his gun to shoot.
“Jordy, put your gun down!” Clinch snapped. “He’s just a little boy.” Clinch causally strode back over to the gang, where he promptly backhanded Jordy across the mouth. The man collapsed into the dirt, wiping his bleeding face. “Now, let’s get one thing good and clear before you all start feeling too much of the gold fever,” Clinch continued with a commanding tone. “Nobody’s doing a goddamn thing with this haul until it cools down. We’ll head back to Old Stump, pick up Lewis and Anna, and then lay low for at least a month. Understood?”
The boys grunted a chorus of affirmatives.
And so Clinch’s gang rode away, leaving behind a wrecked carriage, its helpless driver, a traumatized family, and a bloody corpse.
The barn was far and away the largest in Old Stump—too large, in fact, for the farm it belonged to. Chester Cooksey had once owned vast amounts of adjacent farmland, until a particularly bad harvest season had forced him to sell off a large chunk of it in order to make ends meet. As a result, he was left with a lot of unused barn space. So, partly to help out a local citizen but mostly because it was the perfect location, the town of Old Stump tossed Chester a modest amount of compensation each year to allow the use of the barn for the annual dance. It was, Albert had noted many times, a great opportunity to once a year put on uncomfortable clothes and cram yourself into an enclosed space with all the people you see every single day.
And he and Anna were uncomfortably dressed indeed on that hot-as-hell, dry-as-fuck Friday evening as they strode through the entryway into the festively decorated barn. Colorful streamers hung from the rafters, lanterns were strewn here and there along the ceiling framework, and… well, that was about it. Great job, decorating committee. Way to reach for the stars, he thought as he shifted awkwardly in his itchy wool three-piece Sunday best. But, as miserable as he was, Anna appeared even more so. The dress she wore was the fashion of the day and looked as if it had been created by an apparel designer with an advanced brain tumor. It was hard to tell which layer was which, there were more bows than a rich kid’s wrapped Christmas gift, and the bustle on the rear stuck out almost four and a half feet.
“Well, this’ll be fun,” she deadpanned. “It’s nice to put on some loose, comfortable clothes and just relax, y’know?”
“Yeah, I love formal frontier dress,” muttered Albert. “How many foot undergarments are you wearing?”
“Let’s see, I’ve got two pairs of wool calf pantaloons, three pairs of Dutch socks, a set of bear-hide foot mittens, and a brace of wood-button overshoes. You?”
“Uh, I’ve got four pairs of Dutch socks, one set of sealskin ankle moccasins, two layers of Klondike heel officers, and a blanket-lined oilcloth foot coat.”
“I’m really comfortable,” she said, adjusting layer number 47.
“Me too. I’m glad I remembered the six items I somehow require to hold up my pants.”
He turned his attention to her rear end. “I like your bustle, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Anna said. “Yeah, I love that the most alluring fashion statement a woman can make today is to simulate a fat ass.”
“If I was a black guy, that’s the meanest trick you could play on me.”
“Especially ’cause, when you lift it up, it’s just a big metal cage.” She raised the back of her dress to reveal the bustle’s support system: a complex curved iron framework that resembled a warship under construction.
“Look at that,” said Albert. “You are ready to relieve the stress of the day.”
“Completely.”
Albert sighed and surveyed the crowded room. Despite the heat, everyone was dancing gaily, and looking as though they had no cares or concerns in the world. Albert himself was not so fortunate. His dreaded confrontation with Foy loomed roughly twelve hours away, and although he had made significant strides in his marksmanship under Anna’s adept tutelage, the outcome was still far from a lock. Over the past few days, he had even begun to wonder whether the potentially mortal price of the risk offset the gain. A week ago, such a thought would not even have occurred to him. He loved Louise with all his heart, but he was noticing tiny cracks in his resolve, and he did not understand why. His stomach still corkscrewed whenever he laid eyes on her, but it was now almost like a reflex: a whack on the funny bone. It was also a bit more fleeting in duration. There were even points during the day when his mind was elsewhere. There was no question that the thought of being without her was still abhorrent, but that feeling now presented itself in a slightly more… habitual way.
He shook off his thoughts. They were irrelevant. The gunfight was tomorrow, and there was no backing out now, lest he be branded even more of a coward. And why should he want to back out anyway? Louise was worth risking his life. She was his soul mate.
Wasn’t she?
“Well, this’ll be a fun way to spend my last night alive,” he said wryly.
“Hey,” she said, “you’re gonna be okay tomorrow. You’ve come a long way since the fair.”
He wiped a sheen of sweat off his brow. “Why the hell does everything in the West always have to be settled with violence anyway? This is the ’80s, for Christ’s sake. Let’s be civilized.”
Anna turned to face him and took both his hands in hers. They were surprisingly cool against the extreme heat of the room, and they felt good. “Do you trust me?” she said.
Again he had the nagging awareness that he knew very little about this woman, but when he stared into those confident hazel eyes, he felt that somehow it didn’t matter. He could trust her. “Yeah. I do.”
Anna pushed away a strand of hair that was hanging over her left eye.