‘‘Sounds like Texans,’’ Remorse said. His eyes met McBride’s. ‘‘Maybe your telegram arrived where it was intended after all.’’
Whipple said, ‘‘I got their wagon behind the barn and a dozen of their horses, two to a stall. Them boys ain’t exactly what you’d call big spenders. The brands ought to tell you something.’’
Remorse stepped into the shadows of the barn and returned a couple of minutes later. ‘‘Texas brands all right, most of them.’’
‘‘Then they’ve got to be Rangers,’’ McBride said. ‘‘Inspector Byrnes came through for me.’’
Whipple’s face fell. ‘‘You mean to tell me them strangers in town are Texas Rangers?’’
Remorse nodded. ‘‘McBride sent for them, or at least he asked Inspector Byrnes of the New York Police Department’s bureau of detectives to send for them. He figured the Rangers would more likely heed a telegram from a world-famous sleuth and dime novel hero like Thomas Byrnes.’’
Whipple, who had ridden outlaw trails in the past, took time to figure out the implications of the Ranger invasion for himself and the town. His unfocused eyes moved to the open barn door. Talking more to himself than Remorse and McBride, he said, ‘‘The Rangers have been helping the Army round up loco ol’ Nana an’ his Chiricahuas an’ runnin’ ’em back to the San Carlos. Must have been a passel of them Texas boys right close on the border.’’
The old man looked at McBride, his face brightening. ‘‘Hell, what am I worried about? There’s maybe a couple hunnerd outlaws in town right now and only twelve Rangers. Them big mustaches is bucking some mighty long odds.’’
‘‘Ever hear of Pat Dooling, Mr. Whipple?’’ Remorse asked. ‘‘A few years back, a bunch of outlaws decided to tree a town that looked just like this one. They shot up the place, killed a couple of citizens and generally terrified folks. So the mayor sent for the Rangers. When the afternoon train pulled in, Pat Dooling was the only passenger. The mayor was horrified. ‘They only sent one Ranger?’ he asked. Dooling said, ‘How many riots do you have?’ When the mayor said only one, Pat said, ‘Then you only need one Ranger.’
‘‘Right after that, Dooling buckled on his guns, cleaned up that town and took the next train home.’’
Remorse nodded toward the interior of the barn. ‘‘I saw a saddle back there with the initials PD on the skirt. If it is Pat Dooling, he and eleven other Rangers are all it’s going to take, Mr. Whipple.’’
And he smiled as he saw the old man’s face fall again. All at once Whipple’s voice was unsteady, his washed-out eyes haunted. ‘‘Reverend, in my day I’ve been a wicked, sinful man, killing, robbing and hoss stealing, to name just a few. And I’ve dallied long with loose women and drank ardent spirits to excess.’’ He took a couple of steps toward Remorse. ‘‘I don’t know what’s going to happen to this outlaw town with the Rangers here an’ all, and I don’t know what’s going to happen to me, so I need to ask you something.’’
‘‘If it’s a boon you seek, Mr. Whipple, ask away. You’ve always taken good care of my horse.’’
‘‘Give me your blessing, Reverend.’’
‘‘With the greatest of pleasure,’’ Remorse said. ‘‘I always favor a man who fervently wishes to return to the straight and narrow path of righteousness.’’
The reverend put on a great show of blessing Whipple. As he made a cross in the air, he was an incongruous sight in his clerical collar, flowing white hair, butt-forward Remingtons holstered on each side of his chest.
When the blessing was done, Whipple said, ‘‘Thankee, Reverend, it feels real good to be back in the fold.’’
‘‘Hallelujah, brother.’’ Remorse smiled benignly, resting his hand on the old man’s head. ‘‘And amen.’’
McBride gathered up the reins of the mustang. ‘‘I’m going after Josephine,’’ he said. ‘‘I’m concerned about Julieta being out there by herself.’’
‘‘An excellent thought, John, and I’ll ride with you. But first, some breakfast. I’m all used up after six days of nothing but salt pork and coffee.’’
‘‘I could eat a steak and maybe six eggs myself,’’ McBride said. He sounded uncertain. ‘‘I guess we can spare the time.’’
‘‘Of course we can. Now, let’s head for the nearest restaurant.’’
McBride noticed that the Kip and Kettle Hotel was still open, as though the death of Dora Ryan had not mattered in the least. He suspected that Jared Josephine had taken over the place and it was business as usual.
At Remorse’s insistence, since it was the nearest restaurant, they ate their steak and eggs in the hotel dining room, among a crowd of hungry, if sullen and hungover, fellow diners. There was no sign of the waitress, Mrs. Davis, whose husband had been killed by Lance Josephine. In her place was a young, pretty redhead who took their order efficiently and was quick with the coffeepot.
McBride and Remorse ate their steak and eggs in record time, then walked outside to the hitching rail. Remorse began to tighten his cinch but froze as a voice snarled behind him, ‘‘Step away, Reverend.’’
McBride walked from behind Remorse’s gray and saw a small, thin man standing in the street, flanked by two grinning hard cases. He recognized one of the men as Ed Beaudry, the kitten tormenter he’d tangled with when he first rode into town. Beaudry seemed none the worse for wear, though his gleeful grin was almost toothless.
The small man was dressed in black from boots to hat, the only color about him the ivory handle of his gun on his hip and the cold blue of his eyes. He was smiling thinly at McBride and looked confident and dangerous.
‘‘I’m calling you, McBride,’’ he said. ‘‘You claim to be the man who killed Hack Burns and I say you’re a damned Yankee liar.’’
A number of diners had left the restaurant and were lining the boardwalk, including a tall, slender man with a flowing dragoon mustache who was watching McBride with interest, a toothpick pinned between his teeth.
It was Remorse who spoke for McBride. ‘‘Shem, we’re in a hurry,’’ he said. ‘‘We don’t have time for this.’’
‘‘He’s not talking to you, preacher,’’ Beaudry said. ‘‘Now keep your trap shut.’’
Remorse ignored the gunman. ‘‘Shem Trine,’’ he said, ‘‘be about your business and give us the road. Gun reputations will not be made this day. Now, please, my son, go in peace.’’
Trine grinned. ‘‘I’ve always loved Holy Roller words like that, Reverend. Now step aside. My business is with the no-good liar beside you.’’
Up on the boardwalk, the slender man hitched his gun belt higher, but then let his hands drop to his sides. The morning sky was losing color, shading to fish-scale gray, and the silence was so profound McBride heard dishes rattle in the hotel kitchen.
He knew there was no talking his way out of this, and his hand inched toward the Colt in his waistband. Ten feet way, Trine was grinning, ready, eager, his fingers clawed over the handle of his revolver.
McBride never got a chance to draw.
Shem Trine’s hand blurred and his gun came up, but not high enough or fast enough. Remorse’s Remingtons hammered and the little man was hurled backward, four scarlet roses blossoming on his black shirt. He hit the mud hard, arched his back and his hands reached out to the threatening sky. Then he gasped and all the life that had been in him fled.