Gunner finished cinching the gun belt around his waist and glanced up. "The Steed."
"What about it?"
"Where is it?"
"Took it to a dealer on the other side of Town. Dusty Pete's. Made twenty thousand off the sale. Judge got forty percent of the deal."
"Forty percent? That's a helluva cut considering you did the work and took the risk."
Waingrow glowered. "That's how he runs things. A lot of folks complaining about it, but ain't no one gonna do nothing about it."
"And you? You happy about how he's running things?"
Waingrow's expression turned neutral. "What I am is too smart to complain about my situation. So look — I'll give you my cut of the sale. When I can scrounge up some more, I'll get that to you too. Or give me a couple of days to get the full amount, and I'll repurchase it for you. Will that square us up?"
"The only thing that squares us up is if I beat you within an inch of your life and leave you stranded in the desert. But since I don't feel like going through the trouble, getting the Steed back is good enough. I might even meet you halfway with the bulls. Since we're on the same side now."
Waingrow's eyes slid toward the manor doors. "The Judge hire you on?"
"That's right. Consider me as an independent contractor. I'll be working closely with him on a few projects."
"What kind of projects?"
"Guess you gotta ask him about that, since you're so close and all. Meantime, I got things to do. See you around, Waingrow."
Dusty Pete's was several sectioned acres of junk vehicles, old robots, and outdated contraptions. Gunner walked into the dimly lit, cramped confines of the shack that served as the storefront. The floors and counters looked as if no one swept or wiped down since the place opened, and a strong scent of urine hung in the air. Old tools and vehicle parts lined the walls and storage bins, all rusty and worn. A man sat in a ratty wicker chair with his oversized boots planted on the counter. He was shirtless, exposing his protruding belly and sunburned skin, red as a lobster. A battered hat lay slumped over most of his face.
Gunner rapped on the counter with his knuckles. "You Dusty Pete?"
The man stirred, pushing the brim up just enough to glare with one bleary eye. "What's the sign say?"
"I'm looking for a Steed that was brought in a couple of days ago."
Dusty Pete spat on the grimy floor. "Weren't no Steed brought in here."
"I got in on good account it was."
"Your good account is a liar. I don't recollect no Steed being brought in."
Gunner swatted Dusty Pete's boots off the counter. Leaning over, he seized a handful of bushy tobacco-spattered beard, slamming Dusty Pete's chin on the countertop so hard and sudden that his teeth clacked together.
Gunner leaned in close. "Maybe I can jog your memory."
Dusty Pete's eyes rolled in the sockets, wide with fear. "A Steed, you say? Now that I think about it, someone might have wheeled one in. Big black fella, works for the Judge."
"Waingrow. He sold it to you for the tune of twenty thousand. Where is it?"
"Ain't got it."
"You're lyin'."
Dusty Pete whimpered, squirming in Gunner's grip. "No lie. It was bought right quick. Sold it to another fella for fifty-five grand."
"Who?"
"Didn't get his name."
Gunner yanked harder. "Don't run that line on me."
"Don't ask fer names. Ain't no refunds here. No receipts. Cash and carry or goods exchanged."
"You see folks come and go all the time. You gotta know every name and face in town."
Dusty Pete winced, teeth gritted in pain. "Don't know every name. I can get you a face, though. Got cameras. Just let go of my beard, and I'll get you what you want."
Gunner released him, wiping his hand across his duster. "All right, pull it up."
Dusty Pete scrambled to the wall, where he brushed the dust off a plastic keyboard with one hand, typing frantically with the other. A console with a splintered screen fizzled to life on the wall, displaying video feed from the cameras inside and outside the building. Pete used an old joystick to manipulate the speeds, selecting video from the appropriate date.
"That's him. The one that bought the Steed. You deal with him if you got problems with it. The deal was fair and square far as I'm concerned. I don't ask no questions; I just buy and sell."
"Yeah, I bet," Gunner muttered, staring at the grainy feed capture. "That's the Marshal. Wylie Hubbard."
"I never said that."
"You're telling me you don't even recognize your own Marshal?"
"Sheriffs, Marshals, deputies — we go through 'em like bottles of cheap whiskey 'round here. How am I supposed to keep track? I'm just a man trying to run a business. He come up in here with a real mind to buy that Steed, so I sold it to 'im. You'd have done the same in my shoes, mister."
"Yeah, maybe so." Gunner dug in his pocket and pulled out a silver bullion card, placing it on the grimy countertop. "You know where he took it?"
Dusty Pete eyed the bull like a kid at a piece of candy. "Can't tell you that. Rolled it into a van and hauled it on out."
"Is that right? Guess I'll have to find out the rest myself. You go ahead and keep the silver for your trouble. Long as you don't tell anyone I been here."
Dusty Pete broke out in a snaggle-toothed grin. "Ain't seen yer face in my life."
Gunner turned and exited the shack, squinting as the sunlight struck him like a hot slap. The wind blew past, but it was hot and vicious, flinging coppery sand across the lot. Gunner paused in the act of lighting a cheroot, catching a flicker of movement from the shadows of a pile of junk vehicles. A tiny figure crouched in the shade, staring at Gunner with flashing yellow eyes. The wind pushed the hood back, revealing gray, speckled skin on a young female face.
Gunner took a step forward, raising a hand. "Hey."
The Feral girl took off, scampering like a cat between the piles of rusty parts and battered vehicles. Gunner tried to keep up, cursing as he stumbled over an upturned piece of steel.
"Hold on; I just wanna talk."
The girl ignored him, zigzagging across a mound of old tires, pausing when she reached the zenith to take one last look at Gunner before leaping down the other side.
By the time Gunner made it around the pile, the only sign of life was a half-starved dog, limping on a lame foot. It showed its teeth in a silent snarl before slinking off like a shadow. But there was no sign of the Feral girl.
It was a ten-minute walk back to his side of Town. Striding past the square, he glanced over at Pablo in his cage. A girl that looked to be in her early teens tried to give him water, pouring from a canvas waterbag into a long-handled dipper. A circle of children and teens surrounded her, laughing and jeering. Every time she raised the cup, one of the children would swat it, spilling the water everywhere. Red-faced, eyes downcast, she tried again to the same result. Every time the water splashed, the crowd of bullies erupted in peals of mocking laughter. Some shoved her around; others threw rocks at Pablo as he scolded them from his cage.
Gunner glanced at a woman sweeping clouds of dust from her front porch. "I'll need to borrow that broom."
She looked up at the children with narrowed eyes and nodded, handing over. Gunner advanced, swinging the handle left and right. Every swing connected to a child's limbs or head with loud cracking sounds, followed by squeals and cries of pain. They scattered, running down the street, leaping over balconies and fences, shouting profanities as they fled.
Townsfolk paused, watching with expressionless faces as Gunner walked back over and handed the broom to the woman. "Gracias, senora."