“I’m flattered.” Abigail stopped resisting, removed his wide-brimmed hat, and set it on the table. “But I still think you’re loco. It will never work. Not with the life you lead and the life I lead. We won’t get to see each other but for short spells.”
“Who says I aim to steal horses the rest of my life?” Kid Falon playfully ran a hand along her thigh. “And who says you’ll go on workin’ in saloons? As soon as we’re hitched, that’s all over. We’ll buy you a house, and you can cook and mend my clothes and do all the stuff other women do for their menfolk.”
“Oh, Kid.” Abigail chuckled. “I’m not the domestic type. Never have been, never will be.” She ran a finger through his fine hair. “I’ve always had a restless streak. It’s why I left home at fifteen and wound up workin’ at a St. Louis whorehouse—”
Kid Falon suddenly gripped her by the shoulders and shook her fiercely. “Don’t ever say that again. You ain’t no whore.”
“I’m not no preacher’s wife neither. Hell, Kid. You’re looking at me with blinders on. Don’t make me out to be more than I am. I’ve been around the racetrack enough times to curl your toes.”
The door opened, and in limped Sam Stowe. He was wearing his Union uniform and carrying a Spencer carbine. Two locals at a corner table saw him and blanched. “Hoodoos!” Sam cried and took another shuffling step. “Your days of thievin’ and murderin’ are over!”
Curly Means looked up from the game of solitaire he was playing and grinned. “Well, bless your Yankee soul! I could use some entertainment.”
Big Ben Brody lowered his whiskey bottle. “What rock did that snail crawl out from under?”
“Painted Rock, most likely,” Curly answered, and they laughed.
Not John Noonan. “If there’s anything I hate worse than a scum-suckin’ Yankee, I’ve yet to meet it.”
“Hoodoos!” Sam cried again, limping farther into the room. “I’m placin’ all of you under arrest!”
Tom Shadley looked fit to have a conniption. “Sam! What in God’s name do you think you’re doing? You don’t have the authority to arrest anyone. Take that rifle and get out of here before you bring trouble down on all our heads.”
Sam shook his. “I aim to lock these varmints in my root cellar and go for the army, and no one is stoppin’ me. Someone in this town has to show they have some sand.” He pointed the Spencer in the general direction of Big Ben Brody and John Noonan. “We’ll start with you two. Unbuckle your gunbelts and step away from that table.”
John Noonan swore. “This is plumb ridiculous. If you’re not careful, I’ll take that rifle from you and shove it up your ass.”
“I’d pay to see that!” Curly Means whooped and fished in his pocket. “Here you are! Ten dollars! But only if you do it with his pants on.”
Sam swiveled the Spencer toward the curly-mopped Hoodoo. “Quit your funnin’. None of you are takin’ this serious enough. I fought in the war. I killed my share. I’m not a man to be trifled with.”
“Oh, perish forbid,” Curly said and laughed louder than ever.
Brock Alvord turned from the bar. Pushing his hat back, he raised a half-full glass. “Listen, mister. We don’t want any trouble. Why don’t you lean that rifle against the wall and come have a drink with me?”
“All I want from you is your gunbelt.”
Tom Shadley came around the end of the counter. “Damn it, Sam. You’re being unreasonable. We told you not to do this.”
Sam Stowe trained the Spencer on him. “That’s far enough. I don’t trust you any more than I do these horse thieves. You’re nothin’ but a butt-peddler.”
“I am not!”
“Fart in my ear, why don’t you? How stupid do you reckon I am? You’ve been tail-tradin’ these two floozies to every man in Painted Rock except me. That’s what I get for lettin’ you folks settle here. There ain’t one of you with the morals of Old Scratch hisself.”
Kid Falon moved Abigail off his lap and stood. “I’ve listened to this coot long enough.”
Sam leveled the Spencer at him. “You’re the gunsman, ain’t you? The one who thinks he’s so slick. You with your silver-studded gunbelt and your hundred-dollar pistols and your whore on your—”
The Kid’s right hand was at his side one instant, holding a Colt the next. The revolver spat lead and smoke.
Sam Stowe was smashed against the wall, a ragged hole in his left shoulder. His finger involuntarily tightened on the Spencer’s trigger, and the rifle discharged.
Abigail Reece cried out, staggered, and gripped a chair to keep from falling. She stared at a scarlet smear spreading across her bosom and exclaimed, “I’ve been shot!”
“Abby!” Kid Falon swept her into his arms just as she collapsed. Her eyelids fluttered, and her full lips moved, but all that came out was a trickle of blood. “This can’t be happenin’!”
Susie Kline, Brock Alvord, and Curly Means rushed over. Susie grasped her friend’s hand and shook it. “Abby? Abby? Hang on! We’ll find someone to help!”
“Kid,” Abigail said, fixing her blue eyes on Falon. “For what it’s worth, I’d have said yes.” Then she gasped, stiffened, and died.
For a few moments, Kid Falon held her close. Then, his face as hard as granite, he gently laid her down. He drew his Colts with slow deliberation. With equal deliberation he advanced on Sam Stowe, who had slumped to the floor but was conscious. “And you called us murderers?”
Sam weakly raised a blood-drenched hand. “Didn’t mean—” he croaked.
“You son of a bitch.” The Kid sent a slug into Sam Stowe’s other shoulder. “You miserable rotten son of a bitch.” He shot Sam in the right leg, then the left. He shot Sam in both arms. He shot Sam in both knees. By then he was standing over the bullet-riddled veteran, and with the same slow deliberation, he placed the muzzles of his Colts against Sam Stowe’s eyes and squeezed both triggers.
The gunfire brought everyone in town. The men filed in, then stood back, aghast, as Kid Falon carried Abby to the bar and arranged her on her back with her hands cupped at her waist. “I should burn this whole place down!” he snarled. Instead, he drank himself into a stupor and the next morning had to be helped onto his horse by Brock Alvord.
Tom Shadley was at the hitch rail to see them off. “I hope you won’t hold last night against us, Mr. Alvord. Sam always was a contrary cuss.”
“See that the woman is buried. Have a headstone carved.” Brock flipped a gold piece to him. “We’d stick around for the funeral, but we have somewhere to be in a few days.” He gigged his horse, and all the Hoodoos but one trotted westward.
“The boss might be willin’ to forgive and forget, but I ain’t the type.” Kid Falon jabbed a finger at Shadley. “You’ll be seein’ me again, barkeep. You and the rest of these sheep. Count on it.”
Tom Shadley shivered.
Chapter Twelve
Southwest Nebraska Territory
Justice Department Agent William Shores and the Shoshone warrior Red Fox had been riding south for days with no sign of the outlaws Shores was after. Red Fox repeatedly reined up and climbed down to inspect the ground. When he was done, he always swung up, pointed, and declared, “Bad whites go that way, Brother John.”
Shores was no tracker, but he had two good eyes, and he never saw tracks of any kind. He never saw the charred remains of a campfire or anything else that would prove they were really following the Hoodoos and not just aimlessly scouring the prairie. By the fifth day, he couldn’t keep quiet any longer and turned to the old warrior in exasperation. “Are you sure we’re still on their trail?”