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"You don't really think I killed your brothers, do you?"

"That's it, Danner," Ears squealed with delight. "Try to talk me out of it—go on—beg some more."

Sweat popped out on Danner's shoulders, running down his back. He needed two more steps. Sam Dooley stood a little to Danner's left, maybe six feet away, while Ears was about nine feet away and straight back.

"You'll earn yourself a hangman's noose, Ears," he stalled, venturing another step closer to Sam.

"A medal, you mean!" The crazy giggle came again. "And who would arrest me, even if the people around here wanted me arrested? Old Man Brant?"

"Now look—" Danner began and suddenly leaped to his left at Sam Dooley, trying to put the chunky body between himself and the muzzle of the shotgun. Surprise washed across Sam's rotund face as the deafening blast of the shotgun shook the room. A single pellet grazed Danner's ribs, but the main force struck Sam Dooley in the back, driving him into Danner's arms. A grunt of anguish came from Sam, then his eyes glazed over and he began to slump. While he still had the protection of Sam's body, Danner reached for his Colts and brought his gun-sights up to the level of Ears Dooley's chest. But as he squeezed the trigger he seemed to see first Lona, then Melinda, standing behind Ears, censure plain on their faces. He moved the sights up and over. The heavy slug caught the last of the Dooley brothers in the right shoulder. Hurled backward and around, Ears crashed to the floor with a cry.

Danner whirled on Garr Green, but Green leaned against the barber chair for support, white with fear. Holstering his gun, Danner moved swiftly to the sobbing Ears Dooley, who sat up now, clutching his shoulder with his left hand.

He should have killed Ears, Danner thought, as a matter of self-protection. After Ears recovered he likely would lay out on the trail somewhere and shoot him in the back. A mass of people crowded around the front door of the barbershop, but none came in until Tom Wainright forced his way through. Wainright stared at Sam Dooley, then at Ears, his eyes plainly showing disbelief. Gradually the disbelief gave way to wrath and he moved closer to Danner.

"You murdered them," Wainright blazed. "I wouldn't prosecute, so you set yourself up as judge, jury and executioner."

"That's right," Green charged, regaining some of his bluster now. "He come in with a shotgun and cut down on us for no reason at all—got Sam in the back—and both of them were unarmed. They—" His face paled again under a fixed stare from Danner. His gaze wavered and fell away.

"What about it, Danner?" Wainright snapped. "What is your alibi this time?"

"Get yourself a badge and maybe I'll answer your questions," Danner retorted. "Meanwhile, you might listen to the barber there, not this scum." He flicked his hand at Garr Green. Then he started toward the crowd of people blocking the doorway, aiming directly at Wainright.

"You're not leaving here until we get this straightened out," Wainright shouted.

"Who is going to stop me, Wainright? This bunch of gutless wonders?" He gestured toward the crowd. "Or a one-armed fancy pants who wouldn't know the truth if it hit him in the head?"

Wainright flushed deeply. Immediately Danner regretted the remark. Despite his dislike for Wainright, he felt shame wash over him.

Blind fury showed in the eyes of Wainright, but he made no move to stop Danner. And the crowd of people split apart to permit Danner to walk through unmolested. But he felt somehow less of a man for the remark about Wainright's missing arm.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Fence repairing required muscles Danner hadn't used in years. Six days of setting posts and stapling barbed wire left him stiff and sore and in a savage mood. The seventh day began soon after dawn. He loaded the posthole digger in the back of the wagon, then added four spools of wire, while McDaniel harnessed the team. Danner heaved the fifth spool into the wagon and the barbs raked his belly. He cursed softly. McDaniel grinned at him, then chuckled.

"You'll live over it."

"I doubt it," Danner growled.

"We should be able to finish up that last stretch of fence today and start helping Lona with the house repairs tomorrow."

Danner attacked the job with a vengeance, setting the pace for both of them, and the last of the fence repairing was completed by noon. As usual, Lona had ridden over during the morning and had lunch ready when they returned to the house. McDaniel took the wagon on to the barn.

Danner brushed her cheek with a kiss, then bent over the washbasin that rested on a shelf nailed to the outside wall of the house. Lona handed him a towel and he rubbed his face and arms briskly.

"If you keep coming over here every day and leaving Olie a cold lunch, he's going to be coming after me with a shotgun." Danner smiled, rolling down his sleeves.

"A shotgun might not be such a bad idea," she answered, not without irony. "It might speed up our wedding date."

"Finding the fourth man in the Spaulding robbery would speed it up a lot quicker." Looking into the sliver of mirror tacked to the wall, he dampened his close-cropped black hair and smoothed it back.

"Is that really it, Jeff? Or is your interest in Melinda Richfield greater than you care to admit?"

Faint anger ruffled Danner, but he dried his hands before he turned to face her. She seemed defiant, even a little angry.

"We can go into town this afternoon and get married if you want to."

"Why?" Lona murmured. She tossed her head, sending long strands of yellow hair over her shoulder. "Why, all of a sudden? Because I've badgered you, or because you really want to get married right now?"

She's damned hard to please, Danner thought with exasperation. "I want whatever it takes to make you happy," he told her.

The look of defeat spreading across her face told Danner he had failed to give her the answer she wanted. But whatever that answer was would remain her secret now; he heard McDaniel approaching, whistling loudly.

The meal was a silent and uneasy affair. McDaniel made several futile attempts at conversation. He complimented Lona on the new lace curtains she had put up that morning. Her thanks were remote. She didn't speak to Danner again until she was in her buggy and ready to leave for home. He detected no trace of anger in her voice.

"Tomorrow is Saturday. Are you going to town?"

"Hadn't thought about it," Danner said.

"You should. Harvest will soon be here and there's to be a meeting of all the grangers at the hotel. They want to discuss ways of preventing Browder from cheating them on weigh-ins this year."

"Who invited me?" Danner couldn't hide the irony he felt.

A faint flush tinted Lona's cheeks. "I just did."

"Olie know you were going to?"

She hesitated before nodding, so Danner knew she must have had a devil of a row with Olie before he agreed—and Olie didn't lose an argument very often. Maybe that's why she is so touchy today, Danner thought. She bent over the side of the buggy and kissed him lightly, then snapped the reins to send the buggy northward toward home.

"Hey," McDaniel shouted from the south end of the house. "I'm ready to start painting. Want to help me?"

"Not particularly," Danner returned dryly. "But I will."

"Good enough," McDaniel grinned.

Good enough for you maybe, Danner thought, but not half good enough for a man who ought to be out trying to find a pin-fire pistol—and the man who owns it. Reluctantly, he picked up a brush and began painting.

They finished the south end of the house by mid-afternoon, and McDaniel moved around to the back. Danner carried the five gallon can around to the front, filled his gallon bucket and resumed the drudgery. Fumes from the paint started an itching in his nose, soon followed by fits of sneezing. Then he spilled the nearly-full gallon can and cursed softly while he tried to wipe the paint from his boots. He was still wiping when he heard a horse trot into the yard. He looked up at Melinda Richfield sitting silently in her side-saddle, a hint of amusement touching her lips.