“My guess is these two, one to my left, one to my right. But I also know you don’t pay well, so they won’t be very good.”
“Good enough to get you before you get me,” Beck said, “or to keep you busy while I get you.”
“No,” Lancaster said. “I think I’ll have to get you first, and then them. Only once you’re dead, they may not be so anxious to skin their irons, will they?”
Beck stared at Lancaster, trying to make up his mind. But Lancaster had already made up his.
“Sorry,” he said, drawing his gun and standing up.
Beck tried to react, but he was too slow. Lancaster shot him in the chest, then overturned the table and dropped down behind it.
The other two men stood, drawing their guns, while everyone else in the saloon hit the floor.
They fired, the bullets taking chunks out of the overturned table.
Lancaster rolled the table one way; then he rolled the other. Not being the smartest men Beck could have hired, they kept firing at the table. Lancaster fired two well-placed shots and suddenly it was quiet.
He walked over to where Beck lay dead and said, “Should have hired better help, Gerry.”
Sixty-five
Laughlin, Nevada, two months later
Crow Bait was dying.
Lancaster could feel it beneath him.
Whatever energy had been driving the gallant animal since they’d met was waning away.
Mal came out of the stable and watched as they rode toward him.
“Now he really is on his last legs, isn’t he?” Mal asked as horse and rider reached him.
Lancaster dismounted and walked the horse over to Mal. “You can see it?”
“Oh yes.”
Lancaster rubbed the animal’s neck.
“Did you get done everything you had to get done?” Mal asked.
“Almost.”
He handed the reins to Mal.
“I wish I was smart enough to study him,” Mal said, patting the animal on his flank, “find out what made him go.”
“Do what you can for him,” Lancaster said.
“I’ll keep him alive and comfortable as long as I can,” Mal said. “Well, at least he got you back here, where it started.”
“What good does that do me?”
“Well, he’s here,” Mal said. “I’ve actually been waitin’ for you.”
“What? Who’s here?”
“Sweet.”
“What?”
“Yeah,” Mal said. “Came back here. Guess he figured this is the last place you’d look. Now you can finish him.”
Lancaster hesitated; then he said, “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I made a deal with him,” he said. “Promised I wouldn’t hunt for him anymore.”
“But you didn’t hunt for him,” Mal said. “You just came back here, and here he was. Or is.”
Lancaster thought a moment. “Good point. But I also promised I’d never kill him.”
Mal smiled. “You’ll figure somethin’ out.”
Hours later Lancaster reined in the two horses he’d borrowed from Mal.
“This ain’t right,” Sweet said. “You promised.”
Lancaster looked at Sweet. He’d hauled the man out of a saloon and tied him to a horse. Now they were out in the Mojave, farther out than they’d been when Sweet left him to die.
“You said you wouldn’t hunt me,” Sweet reminded him.
“I didn’t. I came back to Laughlin, and you were there.”
“I never believed you,” Sweet said. “Thought you’d come lookin’ for me.”
“And figured Laughlin would be the last place I would look,” Lancaster said. “And you were right. Imagine my surprise.”
Lancaster dismounted and started to untie Sweet’s hands.
“B-but you promised you’d never kill me.”
“I’m not going to kill you,” Lancaster said.
When one of Sweet’s hands was free, he couldn’t wait. He swung at Lancaster, who blocked it and yanked the man from the saddle. Sweet hit the ground hard, all the air going out of him. Lancaster thought about kicking him a few times, but decided against it. Instead, he got back on his horse.
Sweet rolled onto his ass and looked up at Lancaster. “You ain’t gonna leave me here with no water.”
“Sure I am.”
“I’ll never make it.”
“Maybe you’ll find a miracle in the desert,” Lancaster said. “I did.”
“I don’t believe in miracles,” Sweet said.
“Too bad. Oh, one more thing.”
“Wh-what?”
“Toss your boots up here.”
Lancaster came out of the telegraph office and found Mal waiting for him.
“Get your message off?” Mal asked.
“Yes,” Lancaster said. “Roger Simon will soon know that the man who killed his wife is gone.”
“Any chance he can walk out?” Mal asked.
“None,” Lancaster said. “That’s the advantage I had of having been through it before. How’s Crow Bait?”
“Resting comfortably,” Mal said. “I figured out he’s old—real old.”
“But you’ll take care of him.”
“Oh yeah.”
Lancaster had had a good night’s sleep since returning from the Mojave. Now, with the telegram sent, he was finally free of everything that had begun that day in the desert.
Now he had only one thought.
“Buy you breakfast?” he asked Mal. “I’ve got a lot of Wells Fargo money left.”
“Sounds good to me.”
High Praise For Robert J. Randisi!
“Randisi always turns out a traditional Western with plenty of gunplay and interesting characters.”
—Roundup
“Each of Randisi’s novels is better than its entertaining predecessor.”
—Booklist
“Everybody seems to be looking for the next Louis L’Amour. To me, they need look no further than Randisi.”
—Jake Foster, Author of Three Rode South
“Randisi knows his stuff and brings it to life.”
—Preview Magazine
“Randisi has a definite ability to construct a believable plot around his characters.”
—Booklist