Predictably enough, the man with the black hair drew a pistol and pointed it at Sowers’s head. “You want to die, don’t you? Well, you’re about to get your wish.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Locke said coolly.
The man looked up, saw the Winchester that was leveled at him, and frowned. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m the guy who’s going to blow your head off unless you put that pistol away.”
“Oh, really? What about them?” the man demanded, as his companions drew weapons and pointed them at Locke.
“It looks like they’re going to die too,” Capelli said, as he stepped forward. At that range the Rossmore could blow two or three men away with a single blast, and all of them knew it. Rowdy, who was standing at Capelli’s side, growled menacingly.
The result was a Mexican standoff. People who were in the line of fire hurried to clear the area as time seemed to stretch. Then it snapped as Locke fired, the man with the black hair was thrown off his feet, and all hell broke loose. A bandit shot Sowers in the left leg; Capelli blew him away with the Rossmore, and was pleased to see the man standing next to him fall as well.
The Winchester made steady bang, bang, bang sounds as Locke worked the lever and brass casings arced through the air. A second BOOM from the shotgun was like the period at the end of a sentence as a load of double-ought buck nearly cut the last bandit in two.
That was followed by a moment of silence while the crowd absorbed what had occurred. Then it was as if someone dropped a needle onto a record. A baby cried, Sowers groaned as he clutched his thigh, and hawkers went back to haranguing the crowd. Time was short; scores had been settled the only way they could be, and life went on.
Locke fished a first-aid kit out of his pack and went to work. Having cut Sowers’s pant leg away, he checked to see if there was an exit wound. When he found one, he announced the good news. “The bullet went through—and it looks like it missed the bone. I’ll pour some gin in there, slap pressure dressings on both of the holes, and wrap everything with gauze. That should hold you for awhile.”
“Thanks for backing me up,” Sowers said, as Locke opened a bottle of gin. “I know what I did was stupid. But I was pissed!”
“Yeah,” Capelli said, as he eyed the crowd. “We noticed. Of course, Locke is just as stupid as you are. Although I do give him credit for shooting first.”
Sowers swore as the gin trickled into the entry wound. Locke wiped some blood-tinged alcohol away and placed a gauze pad over the wound. “I didn’t have a choice,” the businessman said. “It was either that or allow something bad to happen.”
Capelli thought about Hale. The gun, the look in the officer’s golden eyes, and the explosion of gore. “Yeah, it’s like that sometimes.”
A sturdy-looking woman appeared. She was wearing a broad-brimmed hat, a buckskin jacket, and faded jeans. A pair of scuffed cowboy boots completed the outfit. There was a frown on her homely face and her voice was gruff. “Sowers? Is that you? God damn it, son, you’re supposed to sell salt, not lay around on your ass.”
Sowers’s face lit up and he grinned. “Capelli, Locke, I’d like you to meet Meg Bowers. Meg’s a salesman, just like me, only pushier.”
“I’m a saleswoman,” Bowers put in combatively, “and that ain’t all. I’m pushier, meaner, and better-lookin’ than Sowers is. But, worthless or not, the sonofabitch is ours! So we’ll take him off your hands.”
A trio of rugged-looking men had appeared by then. They were armed to the teeth and leading horses. Once Locke’s rough-and-ready first-aid efforts were complete, they loaded Sowers onto a horse and placed his boots in the stirrups. “Two of those horses over there are mine,” the salt vendor said, “plus the bags of salt. But I reckon the other mounts are yours.”
Capelli looked across the scattering of dead bodies to where the horses stood. There were seven of them. “We’ll take three of them. Two to ride and one to sell. You keep the others.”
Sowers shrugged. “It’s a deal. Take the ones you want.”
Capelli looked at the string of horses but stayed where he was.
Bowers laughed. “You don’t know the first thing about horses, do you, son?” Capelli shook his head.
“Hanson,” Bowers said, “go over there and cut out some mounts for our friends! And I’ll be watching you. So give them something decent.”
One of the riders obeyed, and five minutes later Capelli and Locke had three horses, complete with saddles and related gear. Sowers waved as he followed Bowers down the crowded street and was soon lost to sight.
Then it was time to carry out the gruesome task of stripping the dead bodies of valuables as members of the crowd looked on. The take included a small arsenal of weapons, a quantity of ammo, and some food. As soon as the process was complete, Capelli insisted that they move a block away before trying to figure out what to do with the extra horse and nine guns.
“Stay here,” Locke said. “If I can sell cars, I can sell a horse! I’ll be back.” And with that, both he and the extra mount disappeared into the crowd.
Capelli wasn’t so sure about his client’s claim, but Bowers had been correct. He didn’t know the first thing about horses. So maybe Locke could pull it off.
The ex-soldier was an expert where weapons were concerned, however, and having laid his wares out for potential customers to look at, was soon haggling away. He had attracted plenty of possible buyers. But Capelli had a limited amount of time to work with—and didn’t want to haul the weapons around. So he set the prices low but refused to accept anything less than quality ammo.
Twice, Capelli had the funny feeling he had come to associate with danger. Back during his days as a Sentinel, a SRPA psychologist named Cassie Aklin had told him that such sensations were thought to originate in something called the “reptilian complex,” meaning the part of the brain that higher mammals share with reptiles and is responsible for basic fight-or-flight responses.
Whatever it was, Capelli had come to trust such warnings. So on both occasions he interrupted what he was doing to take a quick look around. But there were dozens of people in the area, and when Capelli scanned their faces, none of them looked especially suspicious. So all he could do was continue to sell the weapons, stash his profits, and hope for the best. He was down to a beat-up Luger and a .303 Enfield when Locke returned with a stranger in tow.
The man was tall, with a ruddy complexion and a well-tended mustache. He was wearing a tweed cap, a shooting jacket, and knee-high riding boots. His armament consisted of a riding crop, a double-barreled pistol in a cross-draw holster, and a knife that could be seen sticking up out of a boot. There was a pleasant smile on his face.
“Capelli, this is Mr. Patrick Murphy! He’s a packer and the new owner of what was our horse. Patrick, this is Joe Capelli.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Joe,” Murphy said genially. “You’ll be glad to know that Al got a fair price for your animal.”
“I’m pleased to hear it,” Capelli replied, as he stood to shake hands.
“Patrick and his men are packers,” Locke explained as Rowdy arrived to check the newcomer out. “And they’re headed for Hoxie. That’s our next stop, right? So I asked Patrick if we could tag along and he said yes!”
“That’s right,” Murphy agreed. “The word is that there are plenty of stinks over that way, and the more guns the better.”
Capelli was anything but pleased. What Murphy said was true. But a large group of people could attract trouble too. And the arrangement Locke had in mind was a clear violation of rule eight, which was “Never trust anyone.”