HANGMAN'S DROP
by
B. J. Lanagan


                                Jove Books
                                 New York
                           Copyright (C) 2000 by
                            Penguin Putnam Inc.
                           All rights reserved.


This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any
other means, without permission.  For information address: The Berkley
Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New
York, New York 10014.

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRiNTING HISTORY
Jove edition / January 2000

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com

ISBN: 0-515-12731-0

A Jove Book

Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of
Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

Jove and the "J" design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this
book is stolen property.  It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the
publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any
payment for this "stripped book."

This is a work of fiction.  names, characters, places, and incidents are
either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously,
and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.


                             DON'T MISS THESE
                         ALL-ACTION WESTERN SERIES
                     FROM THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP


THE GUNSMITH by J. R. Roberts
     Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies.  They
called him ... the Gunsmith.

LONGARM by Tabor Evans
     The popular long-running series about U.S. Deputy Marshal Long--his
life, his loves, his fight for justice.

SLOCUM by Jake Logan
     Today's longest-running action Western.  John Slocum rides a deadly
trail of hot blood and cold steel.

BUSHWHACKERS by B. J. Lanagan
     An action-packed series by the creators of Longarm!  The rousing
adventures of the most brutal gang of cutthroats ever
assembled--Quantrill's Raiders.


                                 Chapter 1


     The shock waves of the explosion moved across the field and hit Win
Coulter, making his stomach shake.  The blasts were set off by long fuses,
but were timed to go together, starting as bursts of white-hot flame,
causing black smoke to erupt from under the points where the charges were
laid.  The underpinnings of the trestle were carried away by the torpedoes,
but the superstructure remained intact for several more seconds, stretching
across the creek with no visible means of support, as if defying the laws
of gravity.  Then, slowly, the tracks began to sag and the ties started
snapping, popping with a series of loud reports like pistol shots, until
finally, with a resounding crash and a splash of water, the whole bridge
collapsed into the creek.

     "Now, that's the way to do it, boys," Quantrill said exultantly.  "We
dropped her into the water just as neat as a pin!"

     "The Yankees won't be movin' troops over this railroad for a while,"
Joe Coulter said.

     "I suppose not," Win replied.

     "What's wrong, Big Brother?" Joe asked.  "You don't sound very pleased
about it.  It was a good job, and it'll deny the Yankees the use of this
road."

     "Joe, don't you remember when they built this trestle?  We watched
them build it, and we were glad because it would cut two hours off a trip
to Kansas City.  Do you remember how long it took them to build it?"

     "No."

     "It took six weeks," Win said.  "Six weeks to build, and we just
destroyed it in six seconds.  We did it to stop the Yankees, but it was our
bridge in the first place.  The tracks, the bridges, the roads, all these
things we are destroying belong to the people of Missouri ... to us.  What
kind of war is it when we strike at the enemy by destroying the property of
our own people?"

     "It's a terrible war, Win, but that's the kind of war we've got, "Joe
said.  "And it's better to destroy one of our own bridges than to give the
Yankees one of our towns."

     "I understand that," Win said.  "But, just because I understand
something, doesn't mean I have to agree with it."

     "Reveille," Joe said.

     "What?"

     "Reveille."

     "What are you talking about?  Since when do Quantrill's Raiders hold
Reveille?"

     "Reveille!" the conductor called, coming through the car.

     Win, who had been sleeping, opened his eyes.

     "Reveille!" the conductor shouted again.  "Next stop is Reveille,
Nevada.  Anybody gettin' off in Reveille, this is your stop!"

     Win laughed.  So, that was how Reveille worked its way into his dream.
He stretched, trying to get the kinks and soreness out.  He had been riding
a train for three days now, having boarded back in Kansas City, Missouri.
It was the first time since the war that he had visited Missouri.  And he
had made this trip alone, his brother Joe opting not to go with him.

     "There's nothing left there for us, Win," Joe had said.

     As it turned out, it was a most unsatisfying trip.  Joe was right.

     "A funny dream?"  The voice was soft and melodic, a woman's voice.

     "Beg your pardon?" Win replied.

     "You were laughing as you awoke," the woman said.  The woman was
petite, with green eyes, and red curls framing an oval face.  Her nose was
straight and thin, and her mouth rather full, with ruby lips that were wet
and slightly puckered.  She was wearing a watch, pinned to her dress as if
it were a broach.

     "I suppose it was," Win said, not willing to share the real dream with
anyone, "but, I've already forgotten it."

     He wished he could forget his dreams, but he was cursed to remember,
to relive the lingering horrors of a war fought long ago.

     "Dreams are sometimes fleeting," the woman said.  Smiling, she
extended her hand.  "My name is Karen McKenzie."

     "I'm Win Coulter.  That's an interesting watch, Miss McKenzie."

     Karen put her fingers on it.  "Thank you.  It was a gift from my uncle
when I came west.  I call it my schoolmarm watch.  Will you be getting off
at Reveille, Win Coulter?"

     "Yes."

     "How long will you be staying?"

     "I don't know," Win replied.  "I'm supposed to meet my brother there.
I guess it all depends on when he shows up."

     "I hope he doesn't show up too soon."

     "Why is that?"

     Karen smiled.  "Let's just say I am a woman of opportunity.  If you
have to wait around for a few days, perhaps you will come visit me at The
Mother Lode Saloon."

     "The Mother Lode Saloon?  Isn't it a little unusual for a schoolmarm
to spend time in a saloon?"

     Karen smiled, but she didn't answer Win's question.  Instead, she
pulled something from her handbag and handed it to him.  "Be sure to bring
this with you when you come," she said.

     When Win examined the brass coin she handed him, he knew immediately
what it was.  Called a chit, it was stamped, Good for one visit.  Such
chits were used by prostitutes as a means of payment for their services.
The chits were then redeemable for money at the bar.  In some towns Win
knew the chits were treated as legal local tender and could be exchanged
for face value at the bank.

     Karen was a whore!  He would never have guessed that, and he looked at
her in surprise.

     Karen chuckled at the expression on his face.  "I know, I don't look
like a soiled dove, do I?" she asked.  "At least, I certainly hope I don't.
Not now, anyway.  That's because I'm just returning from a visit with my
aunt and uncle back in Memphis.  They think I'm teaching school out here."

     "So, that's what you mean by the schoolmarm watch?"

     Karen nodded.  "Actually, there is some truth to it.  I did start out
as a schoolteacher," she explained.  "But when the school superintendent's
daughter decided she wanted the job, I was fired."

     "I'm sorry."

     Karen smiled prettily.  "Don't be sorry.  I'm making a lot more money
now and, believe me, I'm having a hell of a lot more fun!"

     "You can't make money by giving these things away," Win said, holding
up the chit.

     "Honey, I don't give them to everyone," she said.  "But I was watching
you while you were sleeping.  You can tell a lot about a man by watching
him when he sleeps.  I think you would be the kind of customer I like to
have.  Your first time with me will be free.  But all other times ... and
I'm counting on there being other times ... you will have to pay for the
privilege.  Call this an advertisement."

     "All right," Win said.  "I'll take you up on your offer.  This may be
just the thing to get rid of three days of train weariness."

     "For you and me both, honey," Karen said throatily.

     The train slowed, brakes squealing, then jerked to a stop.  Only three
people from the car got up to leave: Win, Karen, and a drummer.  The
drummer, with cases in both hands, blocked the exit way for a moment, but
neither Karen nor Win hurried him.  The remaining passengers stayed in
their seats, their minds and bodies too travel-weary to pay any attention
to the exodus.

     Win's first priority, after seeing to his baggage, was to go down to
the livery stable to check on his horse.  He had left the animal there six
weeks earlier when he took the train to Missouri.

     "Yes, sir, Mr. Coulter, your horse is doin' fine," the stableman said.
"I've fed him every day, let him out for exercise, and rubbed him down."

     "Thanks, Charley," Win said.  "I appreciate it."

     "You were a good customer, payin' in advance like you done," Charley
said.  "Your saddle and tack are here, too.  Will you be leaving now?"

     "Not yet," Win said.  "I'm going to meet my brother here, so I'm
afraid you'll have to put my horse up for a few more days.  Do you have the
space for him?"

     "Sure do, Mr. Coulter.  Be glad to have you for as long as you want to
stay."

     When Win checked in at the Trojan hotel, he unpacked, then took a
bottle of whiskey from his grip, and poured himself a generous water-glass
full.  He drank it without water, except for the last swallow, which he
used to brush his teeth.

     After he was settled in his room, Win went next door to The Mother
Lode.  Karen was just coming down the stairs when he arrived, and the
transformation in the young woman was amazing.

     She had been pretty on the train--mousy--but pretty.  Then, she had
exhibited the innocence of that breed of woman that Win often saw but never
touched.  She looked as if she belonged to what Win referred to as, "the
other life."  The other life consisted of hardworking, honest men who
ranched or farmed, who drove wagons or stagecoaches, who clerked in stores
and worked in offices.  It also consisted of the women and children who
were there in support of those same hardworking, honest men.

     Though Win referred to them as the other life it wasn't a derisive
sobriquet.  On the contrary, they were people he admired, respected, and
envied.  Win and his brother lived in a world that was parallel to, but not
a part of, the other life.  Had there not been a war, had things not been
so drastically changed by events over which he had no control ... he might
have been one of those people, and a woman, such as the woman he had
mistaken Karen for, might be his.

     The world in which Win and his brother now lived was one of transience
and a surprising amount of violence.  And the women in this life were like
the woman who was now standing at the bottom of the stairs smiling
seductively at him.  There was very little resemblance between this woman
and the woman he had met on the train.  Karen's shoulders were bare and she
was showing a generous cleavage through the top of a low-cut, green dress.
Her red hair was upswept and jewelry sparkled at the lobes of her ears.
Win walked over to her.  "I believe this is yours," he said, handing her
the brass chit.


                                 Chapter 2


     Joe Coulter rode into Tybo, Nevada, leading a pack mule.  He was a big
man, who right now was wearing a bushy beard and uncustomarily long hair.
Almost two months before, Joe had said good-bye to his brother at the depot
in Reveille, Nevada.  Not since then had he seen civilization, having spent
the two months in the mountains prospecting for gold.  The adventure had
produced some results, though how successful he had been, he didn't yet
know.  He was bringing back two saddlebags full of color-showing ore.  Just
how well he had done would depend upon the assayer's report.

     Tybo was a mining town, with both gold and silver being dug from the
hills.  Because of that, Joe's arrival, complete with pack mule and
prospecting equipment, elicited absolutely no curiosity from any of the
citizens.  It was a typical western town, fly-blown, with a single street,
lined on both sides by unpainted, rip-sawed, false-fronted buildings.  It
could have been any of several hundred towns in a dozen western states.

     As he rode by, a couple of half-naked whores, their breasts spilling
over the top of the chemises they were wearing, stood on a balcony and
called down to him.  "Hey, darlin'!" one of them greeted.  "Just get into
town?" the other asked.

     Joe smiled, nodded, and touched the brim of his hat by way of
returning their greeting.

     "Come on up and keep us company.  We'll give you a good welcome," one
of the whores said.

     "Miss, until I get a bath, I'm not even fit company for my horse," Joe
said as he rode under her.

     The other whore pinched her nose and, exaggerating, made a waving
motion with her hand.  "Oh, honey, you've got that right," she teased.

     Laughing, Joe rode on down the street until he reached a small
building at the far end.  A sign in front of the building read, "Ronald
Dempsey, Assayer."

     Joe looked up at the sign, then swung down from his saddle and tied
his horse and mule off at the hitching rail.  Hefting the saddlebags over
one shoulder, he stepped inside.  A bell hanging on the front door dinged
as he walked in.

     "Be right with you," a disembodied voice called from the back of the
building.  A moment later a small, thin man came into the room.  He had
evidently been eating his supper, because he was dabbing at his lips with a
table napkin.  "What can I do for you?" he asked.

     "Are you the assayer?"

     "Yes, sir, I'm Ronald Dempsey," the little man replied.

     Joe lay the saddlebags down on the counter, then opened the flap of
one.  Several thumb-sized rocks rolled out.  "I need you to take a look at
this," Joe said.

     Dempsey picked up a couple of rocks, looked at them casually, then put
them down.  He started to pick up another rock, but then put it down rather
quickly and moved his hand to another instead.  This rock drew considerably
more interest than did the first two he had inspected.  For this
examination, he resorted to a magnifying glass.  "What do you think?" Joe
asked.  "Do I have anything here?"

     "You might," Dempsey said, cautiously.  He took a small pick from the
drawer and began working on the rock, chipping off a piece of the color.
Then he studied the color under the magnifying glass.

     "Well?" Joe asked.

     "It's going to take two, maybe three days before I have a final answer
for you," Dempsey finally said.

     "Why will it take that long?"

     "I need to be sure," Dempsey replied.  "Will you be staying in Tybo
for long?"

     Joe scratched his beard.  "I had only intended to stay until I had a
bath, a change of clothes, a meal, and a good night's sleep," he said.
"I'm supposed to meet my brother over in Reveille."

     "You could send him a telegram," the assayer suggested.

     "Yes, I could do that, I suppose," Joe replied.  "But, why should I?"

     "Trust me, Mr. Coulter, it might well be worth your while," Dempsey
said.

     Joe thought of the welcome the two whores who had called down to him
gave him as he rode into town.  "I might not mind staying here a couple of
days at that," he said.

     The assayer took out a tablet and picked up a pencil.  "Now, what is
your name, sir?"

     "Coulter.  Joe Coulter."

     "Have you filed your claim?"

     "I did a quick claim while I was up there," Joe said.  "I made a pile
of rocks, put my name and the date on a piece of paper, stuck the paper in
an empty bean can, then buried it.  I was told that was all I had to do.
Was I told wrong?"

     "No sir, you did all that is necessary for a temporary claim," Dempsey
said.  "But for something more permanent, you will have to get your file on
record.  I can do that for you, if you will just fill out this form."

     "You think all this is really necessary?  I hadn't actually planned to
do anything more permanent than scratch around a little and see if I could
come up with a couple hundred dollars or so.  I figured I would cash that
in, then move on."

     "Mr. Coulter, you are joking, aren't you?" Dempsey asked.

     Joe cocked his head and looked at Dempsey with inquisitive eyes.
"What are you trying to tell me, Mr. Dempsey?"

     Dempsey took in the handful of rocks that had, thus far spilled from
Joe's saddlebags.  "Unless I am very, very wrong, I'd say you have at least
a thousand dollars' worth of gold just in what you have brought in, in
these saddlebags."  He reached for the rock that had caught his particular
interest a few minutes earlier, then put three or four more with it.  "And
if there are many more up there like these, you've got yourself a bonanza.
Take my advice, Mr. Coulter.  Fill out this form and get your claim
registered."

     "All right," Joe said, filling out the form Dempsey gave him.  "You've
talked me into it."

     "Wait," Dempsey said, scribbling out a note.  "If you are going to
leave your ore here for me to look at more closely, you'll be needing a
receipt."  He handed the note to Joe.

     "All this says is, received of Joe Coulter, fifteen pounds of
mineral-bearing ore," Joe said.  "What would keep you from giving me a sack
of worthless rocks when I return, ?"

     "I'm an honest business man, Mr. Coulter, and I would treat you
fairly.  However, under the circumstances, I don't resent your suggestion.
It is good to be cautious."  At the bottom of the receipt Dempsey wrote,
"Estimated value of ore is one thousand dollars."  He signed it, then
handed it to Joe.  "That's as good as money in the bank," he said.

     "Money in the bank, huh?  Do you think I could get anything for this
note over at the bank?" Joe asked.

     "I'm sure you could, but why would you give them any interest?  In two
or three days the assay will be complete and you can cash this out."

     "You are too much the gentlemen to mention it, Mr. Dempsey, but I need
a bath and some clean clothes.  I'd also like a decent meal and a place to
sleep.  Right now I don't have two coins to rub together."

     Dempsey chuckled.  "I understand," he said.  "But I'm afraid the bank
has already closed for the evening.  However, if you don't mind giving me
the interest, I'll lend you some money on this ore.  How much do you need?"

     "Can you go one hundred dollars?" Joe asked.

     "I can do that," Dempsey said.  On another piece of paper he wrote,
"Received on ore, one hundred dollars cash," then he handed it to Joe to
sign.

     "That little piece you chipped off there," Joe said, pointing to the
nugget.  "How much is it worth?"

     "Gold is forty dollars an ounce ... this chip weighs six ounces, at
least four ounces of which is gold ... so, this would be one hundred sixty
dollars."

     "I'd like to keep that too, if you don't mind."

     "Be my guest," Dempsey said, handing the small, peanut-shaped nugget
to him.

     "Guess I'd better tell my brother to join me here.  Where is the
telegraph office?" Joe asked.

     "You'll find it down on the corner," Dempsey said.  "Right next to the
apothecary.  I think he's closed for the night as well, unless it's an
emergency."

     "No, no emergency," Joe replied.  "I'm just going to tell my brother
to meet me here, is all.  I can send it in the morning."


                                 Chapter 3


     Under the soft, golden light of three gleaming chandeliers, the
atmosphere in The Mother Lode Saloon was quite congenial.  Half a dozen men
stood at one end of the bar, engaged in friendly conversation, while at the
other end, the barkeep stayed busy cleaning glasses.  Most of the tables
were filled with cowboys, miners, and storekeepers laughing over exchanged
stories or flirting with one of the several bar girls whose presence added
to the agreeable atmosphere.

     Because it was mid June, the two heating stoves were now cold, though
there continued to hang around these appliances the distinctive aroma of
wood smoke from their winter's activity.  Mixed with that scent were the
smells of liquor, tobacco, women's perfume, and the occasional odor of men
too long at work with too few baths.

     Win Coulter had been in Reveille for nearly a week now, waiting for
Joe to join him.  Win's recent trip to Missouri was the longest the two
brothers had been separated since the war.  With only each other to provide
some sense of belonging, Win and Joe Coulter were nomads, moving through
the West with no specific purpose and without any particular destination.

     During the war, Win and Joe had ridden with Quantrill's Raiders,
fighting in the bloody, Kansas-Missouri border campaigns.  Though they had
also participated in the battles of Wilson's Creek and Shiloh as members of
the regular Confederate Cavalry, their guerrilla activity with Quantrill
was never forgiven.  As a result, in some places of the country, they were
still wanted men.

     Unlike Frank and Jesse James, and the Younger brothers--colleagues
during the war who had turned to the outlaw trail--Win and Joe had managed,
for the most part, to avoid any direct conflicts with the law.  However,
though Win and Joe never looked for a fight, neither did they back away
from one, be it with an outlaw or an overbearing peace officer.  The very
ferociousness with which they settled accounts had brought them a degree of
notoriety.  Because of that notoriety, as well as their history as riders
with Quantrill's Raiders, they were often referred to as the Bushwhackers.

     At the moment, however, Win was enjoying the ambience of The Mother
Lode Saloon.  He was engaged in a game of stud poker with five players he
had befriended, including the deputy sheriff, the doctor, and three of the
more affluent merchants of the community.

     To the casual observer it might appear that Win was so relaxed as to
be off guard.  A closer examination, however, would show that his eyes were
constantly flicking about, monitoring the room, tone and tint, for any
danger.  And, though Win was engaged in convivial conversation with the
others at the table, thanks to his keen sense of hearing, he was listening
in on snatches of dozens of other conversations.  Additionally, he
possessed a sense that could not be described ... a kinesthesis developed
by years of exposure to danger.

     "I believe it is your bet, Mr. Coulter," Harley Peters said.  Harley
was wearing the badge of a deputy sheriff.

     Win looked at the pot, then down at his hand.  He was showing one jack
and two sixes.  His down-card was another jack.  He had hoped to fill a
full house with his last card, but pulled a three instead.  "Well?" Harley
asked.

     It was easy to see why Harley was anxious.  The deputy had three
queens showing.  "I fold," Win said, closing his cards.

     Two of the other players folded and two stayed, but the three queens
won the pot.

     "Thank you, gentlemen, thank you," Harley said, chuckling as he raked
in his winnings.

     "Harley, you have been uncommonly lucky tonight," Doc McGuire said,
good-naturedly.

     "I'll say I have," Harley agreed.  "I've won almost a month's pay."

     "We'd better watch out, gentlemen, or Harley will give up the deputy
sheriffin' business and go into gambling, full-time," Doc said.

     "Ho, wouldn't I do that in a minute if I wasn't married?" Harley
replied.  "Another hand, boys?"

     "Not for me," Win said, pushing away from the table and standing up.
"I appreciate the game, gentlemen, but the cards haven't been that kind to
me tonight.  I think I'll just have a couple of drinks, then turn in."

     "What's your hurry?" one of the businessmen asked.  "Karen's too busy
for you right now."

     Karen was, at that moment, engaged in deep conversation with someone
at the bar.  Part of her job was to work the men for drinks, and she was
very good at it because she had a good sense of humor.  She had a way of
making a man feel important around her, and she seemed to actually enjoy
her time with the men ... with any man.

     "Well, she's a working girl," Win said easily.  "She has to earn a
living like everyone else."

     Though Karen had been Win's particular favorite ever since arriving in
Reveille, he wasn't in the least possessive of her, nor did he ever exhibit
any sign of jealousy when she was otherwise engaged.  Win's easy attitude
about his relationship with Karen had won friends among all the men.  And,
though Karen appreciated the fact that he held no animus toward her because
of her job, somewhere, deep inside her, a tiny flame of regret flickered.
She would never admit it, even to herself ... but she sometimes wished he
would show just a little jealousy.

     "I hope you hear from your brother soon, Mr. Coulter," Doc said as Win
left the table.

     "Oh, I expect he'll be along in another few days," Win replied.

     "Not too soon, I hope," Harley teased.  "I've enjoyed taking your
money."

     "I'm sure you have, Mr. Peters, I'm sure you have," Win said with a
chuckle.

     After a couple of drinks at the bar and a few flirtatious exchanges
with one of the bar girls, Win went next door to the hotel, then upstairs
to his room.  He lit the lantern and walked over to the window to adjust it
to catch the night breeze.  That was when he saw a sudden flash of light in
the hayloft over the livery across the street.  He knew he was seeing a
muzzle flash even before he heard the gun report, and he was already
pulling away from the window at the precise instant a bullet crashed
through the glass of the window and slammed into the wall on the opposite
side of the room.

     He cursed himself for the foolish way he had exposed himself at the
window.  He knew better.

     There was another shot on the heels of the first, so close to the
first that Win was pretty sure there had to be two men shooting at him.
But he had no idea who they were or why they were trying to kill him.  He
reached up to extinguish the lantern.

     "What was that?" someone shouted from down on the street.

     "Gunshots.  Sounded like they came from the ..."

     That was as far as the disembodied voice got before two more shots
crashed through the window.  If Win thought the first two shots had cleaned
out all the glass he was mistaken, for there was another shattering,
tinkling sound of bullets crashing through glass.

     "Get off the street!"  Win heard a voice, loud and authoritative,
floating up from below.  "Everyone, get inside!"

     Win recognized the voice.  It belonged to Deputy Peters, the man with
whom he had been playing cards only a few minutes earlier.  On his hands
and knees so as not to present a target, Win crept up to the open window.

     "Harley, stay away!"  Win shouted down.  He raised up just far enough
to look through the window and saw Harley heading for the livery stable
with his pistol in his hand.  "Harley, no!  Get back!"

     Win's warning was too late.  A third volley was fired from the livery
hayloft, and Harley fell facedown in the street.

     With his pistol in his hand, Win climbed out the window, scrambled to
the edge of the porch, and dropped down onto the street.  He ran to
Harley's still form, then bent down to check the deputy.  Harley had been
hit hard, and through the open wound in his chest, Win could hear the
gurgling sound of his lungs sucking air and filling with blood.

     "Damnit, Harley, I told you to get down," Win scolded softly.

     "It was my job," Harley replied in a pained voice.  "Coulter ... the
money.  See that Claire gets my winnin's."

     "I promise," Win said.

     At that moment, two more rifle shots were fired from the livery.  The
bullets hit the ground close by, then ricocheted away with a loud whine.
Win fired back, shooting once into the dark maw of the hayloft.  Then,
leaving Harley, he ran to the water trough nearest the livery, and dived
behind it as the assailants fired again.  Both bullets hit the trough with
a loud thocking sound.

     Win could hear the water bubbling through the bullet holes in the
water trough, even as he got up and ran toward the door of the livery.  He
shot two more times to keep the assailants back.  When he reached the big,
open, double doors of the livery, he ran on through so that he was inside.

     "Where'd he go?  Critchlow, do you see him?" one of the men in the
hayloft called.

     "I think he come inside here," Critchlow answered.

     Win moved quietly through the barn itself, looking up at the hayloft
just overhead.  Suddenly he felt little pieces of hay falling on him and he
stopped, because he realized that someone had to be right over him.  Then
he heard it, a quiet shuffling of feet.  Win fired twice, straight up, then
he heard a groan and a loud thump.

     "That's six shots.  You're out of bullets, you son of a bitch," a calm
voice said.  Win looked over to his left to see a man standing openly, on
the edge of the loft.  The man was holding a rifle and, inexplicably, he
laughed.  "I ought to thank you for killin' Critchlow like you done.  That
just leaves more money for me."  He raised his rifle to his shoulder, and
Win fired.

     "What?" the outlaw gasped in shock, dropping his rifle and clutching
the wound in his stomach.

     "You should have stayed in school," Win said flatly.  "Maybe you would
have learned to count."  He watched as the man fell from the loft, flipping
over so as to land on his back in the dirt below.  Win walked over to look
down at him.  "Coulter!  Coulter, are you all right?" It was Sheriff
Blaine's voice.

     "I'm in here, Sheriff," he said.

     Blaine came running in then, puffing from the exertion.  He was
holding his pistol and he looked down at the body.  "Poor Harley's dead,"
Blaine said.

     "Yeah, I was afraid of that," Win replied.  He looked around.  "What
about the liveryman, Charley?"

     "Charley's all right," Sheriff Blaine said.  "He was down at The Iron
Skillet havin' his supper when all this started.  Lucky for him, the way
bullets were flying all over the place."

     "Yeah," Win replied.  He nodded toward the body of the man he had just
shot.  "Do you know this fella?"

     The sheriff rolled the body over with his foot and looked down at it.
"I reckon I do.  This is Jerry Tombs," he said.  "He's a saddle tramp who
will do anything for money as long as it's illegal.  He normally runs with
a man named Critchlow."

     Win looked up.  "That's the name I heard this one call out.  You'll
find Critchlow up there."

     "What were they after, do you know?"

     "They were after me."

     "You?"

     Win sighed.  "This one said that by killing Critchlow, I had fixed it
so he would get more money."

     "Who's after you?"

     "I have no idea, Sheriff.  But I guess it could be about anyone.
Truth to tell, my brother and I have put burrs under the saddles of more
than a few hard hombres over the last several years."


                                 Chapter 4


     Joe Coulter wasn't sure what awakened him.  It was not a Slow return
to consciousness, for that was a luxury he couldn't afford.  Too slow an
awakening might mean he would never wake at all.  Instinctively, he wrapped
his hand around the butt of his pistol.  It made no sound as he slipped it
from its well-oiled holster.

     Moonlight beamed in through the front window, casting indistinct
shadows about the room.  Joe stared through the shadows, toward where he
knew the door to be.  The blackness turned to gray as the door opened to
reveal a woman.  She was carrying a candle, and soft, golden light danced
in the silk of her dress.

     "Joe?" she whispered quietly.

     "Yeah, I'm here," Joe replied.  As he slid his pistol back into the
holster, it glistened darkly in the ambient light.  "It's me, Lucy.  You
said come on up at midnight."  Joe sighed and rubbed his eyes.  "You
haven't changed your mind, have you?"

     "No, I haven't changed my mind," Joe said.  Lucy was the friendlier of
the two whores who had welcomed him into town when he arrived.  After his
bath and supper, he was more tired than he thought, and he asked her to
give him a couple of hours of rest before she joined him.  As he saw her
standing there, her features softened by the light, he felt a stirring of
interest, indicating that he was rested enough.  "Come on in, close the
door."

     Lucy stepped into the room, then closed the door behind her.  The
candle cast a little bubble of golden light, bronzing Joe's naked body.
Lucy's eyes burned into his flesh.

     "Do you always sleep like that?" she asked, as she came over to the
bed.

     "Whenever I can," Joe replied.  "Does it bother you?"

     Lucy sat on the side of the bed, then smiling at him, began unlacing
the bodice to her dress.  "Bother me?  No, not at all.  In fact, I think
it's good.  It makes things a lot more convenient."

     Lucy, now naked, slid her hand down across the flesh of his belly and
into the mat of wiry hair that tangled around the stalk of his manhood.
She wrapped her fingers around it, and he remembered then that he hadn't
chosen her, she had chosen him.  That is, she had been one of the two who
had extended a personal invitation to him.

     Normally, Joe liked to do his own hunting, but in all the time he had
been prospecting, he hadn't so much as gotten one glimpse of a woman.  So
if, on his first night back in civilization, a good-looking woman threw
herself at him, he wasn't going to play hard to get.

     Lucy leaned over him, the nipples of her breasts rubbing against his
chest as she did so.  Smiling, she kissed him, sliding her tongue into his
mouth.  A fire blazed up in his loins and, putting his hands on her
shoulders, he rolled over until she was on the bottom, looking up at him.

     He drove into her then, lost to the heat and the passion of the
moment.

     "Ohhh!" Lucy said through clenched teeth.  "Oh, yes!"

     Lucy's body bucked beneath his, her eagerness matching his own.  Her
willing flesh was pliant, and she squirmed as he skewered her to the bed.
He reached beneath her and pulled at her buttocks, raising them up as he
drove deeper and deeper inside her.  Her juices flooded over him, and her
thatched nest tugged at him, drawing him into its bubbling secret depths.

     Joe went to the pinnacle with her, exploding inside her, spilling hot
fluids to gush deep into her as she clutched him desperately in the final
spasms of release.

     Lucy was still asleep when Joe awoke the next morning.  Leaving her in
bed, he dressed, then went downstairs.  "Sir," the desk clerk called to
him.  "My night clerk reported that he saw a young woman go upstairs last
night.  He believes she went to your room."

     "That's right," Joe replied.

     The clerk cleared his throat.  "Ladies and gents are not allowed in
the same room if they aren't married," the clerk said sanctimoniously.
"I'm afraid she'll have to leave now."

     "We aren't in the same room, because I'm not there," Joe said.  "So,
leave her alone."

     Joe's resolute stare frightened the clerk.

     The clerk swallowed a couple of times, realizing then that his throat
had suddenly become very dry.  "Uh, ve-very good, sir," the clerk finally
stammered.  "I will allow her to awaken naturally."

     "Good man," Joe said.  "Now, who serves the best breakfast in town?"

     "I believe that would be Little Man Lambert's Cafe, sir, just down the
street."

     "Little Man Lambert's," Joe said.  "Thanks."

     "You are quite welcome, sir," the clerk said, looking up nervously
toward the upstairs room where he knew a woman was being illegally
domiciled.

     Before going to breakfast, Joe stopped by the telegraph office to send
a message to his brother.  A sign on the counter said, "Western Union,
Arnold Stone, telegrapher."

     "Good morning," Stone greeted Joe as he came in.

     "Good morning, Mr. Stone," Joe replied, reading the sign.  "I need to
send a telegram."

     "Well, you came to the right place," Stone joked.  "If you had a
toothache now, why, you would have to go next door to get a nostrum.  On
the other hand, anyone going next door to send a telegram would be out of
luck."  Stone laughed.  "Do you want me to write it for you?  Or can you
write?"

     "I can handle it," Joe said, taking the pad.

     "Didn't mean any offense.  There's lots of folks come in here who
can't write," Stone said.

     "No offense taken," Joe said easily.  Finishing his message, he slid
the pad back to Stone.  "How long before my brother will get this?"

     "Why, no time at all, sir," Stone said.  "They have a delivery boy in
Reveille, so, like as not, your brother will receive this at his
breakfast."

     "Thanks," Joe said, paying the rate.

     From the telegraph office, Joe went directly to Little Man Lambert's
Cafe.  The place was crowded with morning customers, but Joe found a table
near the back.  As he contemplated his order, he wondered how Win's trip to
Missouri had been, though he didn't regret not going.  There was nothing
back there for them.  Their parents were lying in graves, dug on land that
was now being farmed by Yankees.  The house in which Win and Joe had grown
up was nothing but burnt timber and blackened chimneys.  Relatives and
friends were, for the most part, dead or scattered.  There was little
chance that anyone was still there.  Still, Win wanted to go.

     "Not me.  I'm going prospecting," Joe said.

     "Prospecting?  Prospecting for what?" Win asked.

     "I don't know.  Gold or silver, I guess," Joe answered.  "It's just
somethin' I gotta do, Win.  I mean, if I don't, I'll spend the rest of my
life wondering if there was some big vein out there that I could've found,
if I'd just made the effort to look for it.  What do you say?"

     Win laughed.  "I tell you what, Little Brother.  You go right ahead,"
Win said.  Win called Joe "Little Brother," because Joe was the youngest,
certainly not because of the relative size of the two men.  For in fact,
Joe was forty pounds heavier and four inches taller than Win.

     "And you don't mind going to Missouri by yourself?"

     "I don't mind."

     The owner of Little Man Lambert's, who, by his size, was appropriately
named, approached Joe's table with pad in hand.  Though not quite a dwarf,
Little Man was less than five feet tall.

     "Yes, sir, what'll it be?" Little Man asked.

     "You got 'ny flapjacks?"

     "Best in Nevada."

     "I'll take a dozen flapjacks," Joe said.

     "A dozen?" Little Man asked in surprise.  "That's a pretty big order.
You sure you want that many?"

     "Yes," Joe answered.

     Little Man chuckled.  "All right, friend, if you've got appetite
enough to hold 'em, I'll sure cook 'em up for you."

     Little Man started to turn, but Joe continued with his order.

     "And a rasher of bacon, half-a-dozen sausage patties, and a big piece
of fried ham," he added.

     "Yes, sir," Little Man said, even more incredulous than before.
Again, he started to turn, but Joe still wasn't finished.

     "Better bring me half-a-dozen eggs, over easy, a mess of grits ..."

     "I'm sorry, sir, we don't have any grits," Little Man said,
interrupting Joe's soliloquy.

     "No grits?  All right then, bring me some fried potatoes, and, uh ...
you got 'ny gravy?"

     By now Joe's rather prodigious order had attracted the attention of
others near his table, and nearly all conversation stopped as they listened
in on his order.

     "Yes, sir, I've got gravy," Little Man said, astonished.

     "Good, bring me a pan of biscuits and a side of gravy," Joe continued.

     "Excuse me, sir.  Where is all this food going?"

     "Why, right here," Joe replied, rubbing his stomach, as if surprised
by the question.

     "You're expecting company?"

     Joe shook his head.  "Not that I know of.  But if someone joins me, be
ready to increase the order, would you?"

     "Increase the order, yes, sir," Little Man said, now in total
disbelief.  Little Man stood at Joe's table for several more seconds before
he left.

     "What is it?" Joe asked.  "What are you waiting on?"

     "I wasn't sure you were through with your order," Little Man said.

     "That's it," Joe said, not picking up on Little Man's subtle sarcasm.
"But you might check with me from time to time to see if I need anything
else."

     As Little Man headed for the kitchen, "to put on another shift," he
teased, Joe thought about his brother.  It would be good to see Win again,
and to find out if there really was anyone left back in Missouri.

     If everything went as it should, Win would be in Tybo that evening.
Joe imagined that Win would be getting his message, just about now.


                                 Chapter 5


     Back in Reveille at that very moment, a pan of phosphorous powder
flashed as a photographer took a picture of Jerry Tombs and Clyde
Critchlow.  The bodies of the two dead outlaws, their skin now a pale,
blue-white, had been tied into their coffins and propped up against the
front of the hardware store.  Lucius Pym, the photographer, was doing a
booming business by charging citizens twenty-five cents apiece to be
photographed standing next to the bodies.  For an extra dime he would let
them hold a pistol and pose as if they were the ones who had shot the
outlaws.

     The body of Deputy Harley Peters was being treated with a little more
respect.  His last mortal remains now lay in repose in the parlor of his
own house.  His grieving widow was receiving visitors, some of whom had
just come from the hardware store where they had gawked at the two men who
had killed Harley.

     Earlier that morning, Win had given his own condolences to the widow,
along with the ninety-four dollars in poker winnings Harley had on him when
he was killed.  Now Win was in The Iron Skillet restaurant having
breakfast.

     Cautiously, a young boy came to his table.  He wore a pair of gray
striped trousers, along with a cap bearing the word "messenger."

     "Mr. Coulter?" the boy said.

     "Yes?"

     "Telegram for you, Mr. Coulter."

     "Thanks," Win said.  He opened the telegram, then read it as he took a
bite of his buttered biscuit.


"WIN.  CAN'T COME TO REVEILLE NOW.  YOU COME TO TYBO.  JOE."


     "Will there be an answer, Mr. Coulter?" the messenger boy asked.

     "Yes," Win answered.  "Send this message.  'ON MY WAY.'"

     "'On my way,' yes, sir."

     "Let's see, at ten cents a word, that'll be thirty cents," Win said.
He started to hand the boy four dimes, three to pay for the message and one
as a tip.  Then he drew the fourth dime back and took out a quarter
instead.  "Would you stop by the stable and tell Charley to get my horse
ready?"

     "Yes, sir," the boy said, smiling broadly over his good fortune.

     Win had a leisurely breakfast with Karen, then checked out of the
hotel.  Nothing in the telegram indicated he should hurry ... just that he
should come.

     Karen waved good-bye to him, then returned to the Double Eagle.
Although the saloon was open, there were only two customers in the place
and they were the hard drinkers who cared nothing about ambience, girls, or
even the quality of their liquor.  They came there only to drink.

     "Did you tell your friend good-bye?" the bartender asked as Karen
passed by.

     "Yes, unfortunately."

     The bartender chuckled.  "I thought you ladies were never supposed to
get too interested in one customer."

     "This one was different," Karen said.

     Upstairs, Karen looked at herself in the mirror.  She was wearing the
same dress she had worn on the train, when she first met Win.  She put her
fingers on her schoolmarm watch and looked at it for a moment.  She felt
depressed, not only because Win was gone, but because she realized that the
life this watch and dress represented were gone too, and could never be
reclaimed.  With a sigh, she reached for the red satin dress with the
daringly low-cut neckline and put it on her bed.  This was who she was now.

     When she heard the knock, she felt a sudden elation.  Win had come
back!  Smiling, she hurried to the door.

     It wasn't Win.

     "I don't receive visitors until after six in the evening," she said.
Turning away from him, she tried to close the door, but couldn't because he
put his foot in the way.  "Who do you think you-"

     That was as far as Karen got.  She suddenly felt strong hands around
her neck.  She tried to scream, but the crushed larynx prevented that.  It
also stopped her from breathing.

     Win had been riding for eight hours.  Behind him, like a line drawn
across the desert floor, the darker color of hoof-churned earth stood out
against the lighter, sun-baked ground.  Before him, the desert stretched
out in motionless waves, one right after another.  As each wave was
crested, another was exposed, and beyond that another still.

     The ride was a symphony of sound: the jangle of the horse's bit and
harness, the squeaking leather as he shifted his weight upon the saddle,
and the dull thud of hoofbeats.

     He had filled the canteen before leaving Reveille that morning.  The
distance between the two points was sixty miles, all of it through rugged,
Nevada desert.

     The canteen was already down by a third, and he had been told that
there were no dependable water holes between Reveille and Tybo.  Already,
his tongue was swollen with thirst, but he allowed himself no more than one
swallow of water per hour.

     Squinting at the sun, he guessed that an hour had passed.  He stopped
his horse, mopped his brow, then reached for the canteen.  He had just
pulled the cork when the shot rang out.

     The bullet hit his horse in the neck and blood gushed from the wound.
Without a sound the animal went down.  Win jumped clear to avoid being
pinned beneath it.  As he did so, however, he dropped the canteen and water
began running out onto the hot sand.

     Win grabbed the canteen with one hand, while pulling his pistol with
the other.  He crawled over to his horse and, using it as a shield, looked
around to see if he could spot his assailant.

     He saw no one.

     A moment later he' heard the sound of a horse leaving at a gallop.
Jumping up, he ran to a nearby rock outcropping then climbed to the top.
He saw a lone rider moving fast toward the west.  Win aimed at him, then
held his fire because the rider was already too far from him for a pistol
shot.

     Win hurried to his dead horse to get his rifle.  The horse had fallen
on the rifle and it took Win some time to get it free.  By the time he was
able to pull the Winchester from his saddle holster, the rider was too far
away, even for a rifle.  Despite that, Win took a shot at him, more out of
frustration than any real hope of hitting him.

     "Shit!" Win said, lowering the rifle when, as expected, he missed.
"Who the hell is trying to kill me?  And why?"

     He sat down, puzzled by the sudden interest in having him killed.
First, there was that incident back in Reveille.  And now, here.  Even more
puzzling was why the shooter didn't hang around and finish the job?  He
certainly had the advantage.  Win was trapped there, without a horse and
with only the water that was in his canteen.

     At the thought of his canteen, Win hopped up from the rock and hurried
over to check it.  There was no sign of the spilled water, as it had
already evaporated.  He picked the canteen up and shook it, then groaned.
It was down to one-half.

     Win had a decision to make.  He knew he had come at least twenty-five
miles since he left Reveille, which meant he had thirty-five miles to go to
Tybo.  Reveille was south, Tybo was north.  The man who had shot at him,
however, had gone west.  Why did he go west?  Win tried to recall the last
time he had checked a map.  He was certain he had seen no settlement west
of the line between Tybo and Reveille.  However, if one did exist, it would
more than likely be on this side of the mountains, and they were only about
fifteen miles away.

     If he went west and there was another town, a town he knew nothing
about, he would reach it in half the time it would take him to go to either
Tybo or Reveille.  On the other hand, if he went west and there was no
settlement, he would have lost his gamble, and, more than likely, he would
die.  Win didn't waste time deciding.  He took a drink of water--not a
swallow, a drink--then he corked his canteen and started west.

     It was hard going.  An hour or so into his walk, his feet began to
swell inside his boots.  He picked up needles from prickly pear and once he
stumbled over a hedgehog cactus.  As the day wore on, he began tiring, and
he started breathing through his mouth.  The hot, dry air created a
tremendous thirst, and the more he thought about it, the thirstier he got.
His throat grew more and more parched and his tongue swelled.

     He tried to keep up the schedule of one swallow of water per hour, but
he was working much harder now than he had been when he was riding, and it
was nearly impossible to wait for an hour between swallows.  In addition,
there wasn't much water left.

     Win had heard that a person could get water out of some types of
cactus.  He wasn't sure what kind of cactus would produce water.  He
thought saguaro would, but there was no saguaro cactus in Nevada.  A couple
of times he fired a bullet into the barrel of a cactus, then stuck his
finger into the bullet hole to see if he could find any moisture.  He did
find a little moisture in one of them, and he started digging at the pulp,
trying to pull the white, pasty substance through the bullet hole.  As a
result, he pierced his hands badly with the needles, but he did get a
mouthful of wet pulp which he chewed.  He also sucked his own blood.

     He drank the last of his water at about five in the afternoon.  He
started to throw the canteen away, but decided to keep it in case he did
stumble across a water hole somewhere.

     Then, just before dark, a scattering of adobe buildings rose from the
desert floor, wavering in the shimmering heat waves.  The buildings so
matched the desert in color and texture that at first Win wasn't even sure
the town was there.  Gathering what strength he had remaining, he started
toward it.  He had no choice, now.  If it was real, he would live, if it
was a mirage, he would die.

     It took him another excruciatingly painful hour to reach the town.  At
the edge of town he stopped to catch his breath and read the sign:


                                 HORSESHOE

                                 Pop. 256

                   "OBEY OUR LAWS, OR PAY THE PENALTY."


     Gathering his strength, Win staggered into the little town.  Seeing a
pump in the middle of town, he hurried toward it.  He moved the handle a
couple of times and was rewarded by seeing a wide, cool stream of water
pour from the pump's mouth.  Putting his left hand in front of the spout,
he caused the water to pool and, continuing to pump, drank deeply.  Never
in his life had anything tasted better to him.

     With the killing thirst satisfied, Win raised up from the pump and
looked around the town.  Just down the street a door slammed, and an
isinglass shade came down on the upstairs window.  A sign creaked in the
wind and flies buzzed loudly around a nearby pile of horse manure.

     These sounds were magnified because the street was silent.  No one
moved, and Win heard no human voice, yet he knew there were people around.
There were horses tied here and there, three of them in front of a building
identified by a sign as The Double Eagle saloon.

     The thought of a cool beer seemed even more inviting to Win than
water, so he started toward it.  Just before he got there, though, a man
came out of the saloon and stood on the boardwalk.

     "Where's your horse, Mister?" the man asked in a voice that sounded a
little like a locomotive letting off steam.

     "I left him dead in the desert," Win replied.  He started forward
again, but the man was blocking his way.

     "You walked into town?"

     "Yes."  Win was getting a little irritated.  He was hot, tired,
hungry, and badly in need of a beer.  He didn't feel like explaining
everything to this galoot.

     The man who was blocking Win's way was a tall man, half a foot taller
than Win, taller even than Joe.  He was thin and muscular, with a mustache
that curved up at each end, like the horns on a Texas steer.  He was
wearing a yellow duster, pulled back on one side to expose a long-barreled
Colt sheathed in a holster that was tied halfway down the big man's leg.
He had an angry, evil countenance, and looking directly at him was like
staring into the eyes of an angry bull.  "Mister, you're in my way," Win
said dryly.

     "Would your name be Win Coulter?"

     "It is.  Why?  Do you have a particular interest in me?"

     "Yeah, I've got an interest in you."  The big man pulled his yellow
duster to one side and Win saw a peace officer's badge pinned to his shirt.
"I'm arresting you for horse stealing."

     "Horse stealing?  What are you talking about?  I don't even have a
horse!"

     "You come in here without a horse, that's true," the peace officer
said.  "But I figure you're plannin' on leavin' with one.  So, let's just
say I'm stoppin' a horse-stealin' before it takes place."

     "Look, I've got no quarrel with the law," Win protested.  "But I'm not
going back out into that desert.  I aim to get myself some supper and a
couple of beers then find someplace to spend the night.  Tomorrow I'll buy
a horse, then be on my way."

     "I'll tell you where you can spend the night.  In my jail.  You aren't
comin' in here."

     Win curled his fingers.  His hand was so painful and swollen from the
frequent encounters with cactus needles that, if it came to a fight, he
wasn't certain he could even make a fist.  But he wasn't about to let this
son of a bitch bully him out of town.

     "Time's runnin' short," the lawman said.  "What are you goin' to do?"

     "I'm going to do just what I told you I was going to do," Win said,
speaking slowly and dangerously.  He pointed toward the saloon.  "I'm going
to go in there and get myself some supper and a couple of beers.  Now, you
can either step aside and let me by, or stay where you are while I come
through you."

     The lawman made his move then.  Win had expected the lawman to use his
larger size to try and enforce his order.  To Win's surprise, however, the
big man went for his gun.

     The lawman was exceptionally quick for his size, and his hand moved
toward his long-barreled Colt as quickly as a striking rattlesnake.

     Win was caught by surprise.  As a result, he didn't even start for his
gun until the lawman's gun was coming out.  But if Win had been surprised
by the sheriff's sudden draw, the sheriff was undoubtedly surprised by
Win's speed.  Win's draw was smooth and his practiced thumb came back on
the hammer in one fluid motion.

     In the final analysis, Win may have been given a slight edge by the
fact that the Sheriff's gun had an extra long barrel.  He had not even
cleared leather when Win's finger put the slightest pressure on the hair
trigger of his Colt.  There was a blossom of white, followed by a booming
thunderclap as the gun jumped in his hand.

     The sheriff tried to continue his draw but the .44 slug from Win's
pistol caught him in the heart.  When the bullet came out through the back,
it brought half the sheriff's shoulder blade with it, leaving an exit wound
the size of a twenty-dollar gold piece.

     The sheriff's hand came away from his gun and it slipped back down
into his holster as he staggered backward, crashing through the bat-wing
doors, and back-pedaling into a table before coming down on it with a
crunch that turned the table into firewood.  He landed flat on his back, on
the floor, his mouth open and a little sliver of blood oozing down his
chin.  His body was still jerking a bit, but his eyes were open and
unseeing.  He was already dead, only the muscles continued to respond, as
if waiting for signals that could no longer be sent.

     Win bounded up onto the boardwalk, then pushed through the bat-wing
doors, following the sheriff's body inside.  A wisp of smoke curled up from
the barrel of the pistol he still held in his hand.

     There were a dozen people inside the saloon, caught by surprise at the
sudden turn of events.  They stood there, staring awestruck at the
twitching giant of their lawman, lying in the V of the broken table.

     Not perceiving any immediate danger from anyone else in the room, Win
put his pistol back in his holster.

     "Mister, do you know who you just shot?" one of the men in the saloon
asked.

     "Afraid not," Win said.  "We never got around to getting acquainted."

     "His name is Luke Taggert.  Sheriff Luke Taggert.  Never figured
anyone would be good enough to beat him."

     "He didn't beat him," one of the others said.  "Look there.  The
sheriff's gun is still holstered."

     It had all happened so fast, that Win didn't realize Taggert's pistol
had fallen back into the holster.

     "He started his draw," Win said.

     "Uh, huh.  And you were so fast you killed him before he could even
get his hand to his gun.  Is that what you want us to believe?"

     "Believe it or not, it is the truth."

     "You might be faster'n Taggert, but you ain't that much faster.  No
one is."

     Win didn't like the way this was going, and he started to back out of
the saloon.  He had taken no more than two steps backward when he felt
something cold and hard jam into his back.

     "Mister, this here is a double-barreled Greener I'm holdin'," a voice
said.  "You make one move and I'm goin' to open you up like guttin' a hog."

     "You men are making a mistake," Win said.  "All I came here for is
supper and a couple of beers."  He nodded toward the sheriff's body.  "This
fella threw down on me.  I didn't have any choice."

     "Let's hang the son of a bitch!" someone called.

     "Yeah, somebody get a rope!"

     "Hold on, hold on!" the man with the shotgun said.  "Bein' as I was
Luke Taggert's deputy, I reckon I'm the sheriff now ... leastwise, till we
can get around to another election.  And as the sheriff, I say they're
ain't goin to be no lynchin'."

     "This son of a bitch shot Luke.  You aim to just let him walk?"

     "It just so happens that the judge is due here tomorrow.  I aim to try
'im, then hang 'im legal," the deputy said.  He jabbed his shotgun into
Win's back, poking him so hard that it nearly knocked the breath from him.
"Come along, mister.  We ain't that big a town, but we got us a fine jail,
thanks to the man you just killed."

     Joe was surprised when Win did not arrive that evening.  He knew Win
had received his message, because Win had answered him, and it wasn't like
him to be late.  After breakfast the next morning Joe waited anxiously for
Win to show.  A couple of times he checked the telegraph office to see if
there were any messages for him, but nothing was there.  When Win hadn't
shown by noon, Joe began to worry.

     Several scenarios passed through Joe's mind, and none of them were
good.  He knew Win wasn't lost.  And he knew that Win wasn't still in
Reveille, for if he had been, he would have sent Joe another message
explaining the delay.  The most likely thing was that Win's horse had gone
down on him.  If so, Win would be facing a long walk, maybe with no water.

     By one o'clock Joe had made up his mind.  With two extra canteens of
water hanging from his saddle pommel, he rode out of Tybo, headed for
Reveille.

     One hour out of town, Joe saw something dark and ominous on the
horizon.  "Damn," he said aloud.  "Get ready, horse.  We're about to go
through a sandstorm."  The sandstorm hit a few minutes later, and when it
did, it hit with a terrible force.  The wind howled like a thousand
banshees and sand blew against him with such force that he felt as if it
were going to tear his skin off.  Tying his handkerchief around his horse's
eyes, he led the terrified animal over to a small ridge.  There, on the lee
side, they waited for two hours until finally, the storm spent its
violence.

     The storm over, Joe resumed his journey.  But, whereas before the
desert had texture, now there was none.  The desert floor was covered with
smoothly rippled sand, much like an open field after a new snowfall.

     It was nearly dark by the time Joe discovered the horse.  Because of
the drifting piles of sand, the animal was nearly buried and Joe almost
didn't see it at all.  There was no doubt about it being Win's horse.  Joe
recognized the saddle and tack.

     A quick examination of the horse found the bullet wound that killed
him.  But he saw no other blood on the horse or saddle, so it gave him
cause to hope that whoever shot the horse didn't shoot Win.

     Joe looked through the saddlebags.  He found a small packet of letters
that Win was bringing back from Missouri.  He read them and for a moment
wished that he had gone back to Missouri with his brother.  Though their
parents had been killed during the war, their mother's sister was still
alive and hers was one of the letters.

     Also, Joe couldn't help but believe that if he had been with Win, none
of this would have happened.  Someone might have taken a shot at them, but
together the Coulter brothers were so formidable as to be almost
invulnerable.

     Joe looked around for any sign of a trail.  Normally he was a good
tracker, better even than Win.  But the sandstorm that just passed had
completely obliterated any possible trail.

     As far as Joe knew, there were two towns in this entire
valley--Reveille at the south end, and Tybo at the northern end.  Since Win
had not been in Tybo when he left, and Joe didn't meet him on the trail,
there was only one place he could be.  When his horse went down, Win
returned to Reveille.

     Putting the packet of letters in his own saddlebag, Joe remounted and
started riding south.


                                 Chapter 6


     "Breakfast," the deputy said.

     Win sat up on the bunk and rubbed his eyes.  The average man might
have found it impossible to sleep while contemplating the thought of a
murder trial and hanging, but Win wasn't the average man.  He lived a life
of such danger that the prospect of sudden death was always in his future.
Also, he had arrived in Horseshoe on the edge of exhaustion, so it had been
difficult for him to sleep that night.

     "Thanks," Win said.  He looked toward the tin plate the deputy slid
through the door.  It contained two biscuits.  "That's it?  That's
breakfast?"

     "That and a cup of water," the deputy said.

     Using a tin cup, the deputy scooped some water from a bucket, then
passed it through the bars as well.

     "Thanks."

     There was a pot of coffee brewing on the stove and the deputy poured
himself a cup, then looked back at Win.

     After his long, dry day the day before, the water wasn't unwelcome.
But the coffee smelled exceptionally good and he would have liked some.  He
would be damned before he asked for any though.

     "Damn, this coffee is good this morning," the deputy said, smacking
his lips in appreciation.

     Win knew that the deputy was riding him, but he said nothing.
Instead, he just returned to his bunk and began eating his biscuits and
drinking his water.

     The deputy tried a couple more times to get a rise from Win, but had
no more success than he did with the coffee.  Finally he got up from his
chair and walked over to look through the bars.

     "What's it feel like to know you're goin' to die?" he asked.

     "We're all going to die," Win replied.  "It's just a matter of when.
A hundred years from now, the worms will be finished with both of us."

     The front door to the jail opened then, and a rather robust, bearded
man wearing a suit came in.  The deputy turned toward him, then smiled
broadly.

     "Good mornin', Judge," he said.  He pointed to the cell.  "We got you
a prisoner to be hung."

     "We are going to try him first," the judge said.  He looked pointedly
at Win.  "Then we'll hang him."

     "Yes, sir, that's what I meant to say," the deputy replied, his voice
reflecting his toady deference.

     The judge walked over to the cell and looked through the bars at Win.
"I am Judge Preston Coit," he said to Win.  Then, over his shoulder, he
called back to the deputy.  "Mr. Elam, do you know who we have here?"

     "Who?" Elam asked.

     "We have Win Coulter of the Coulter brothers."

     Win was surprised, not only that Coit knew he was a Coulter, but that
he knew which one he was.

     "They are called The Bushwhackers, and no worse pair of murdering
scoundrels have ever terrorized society," Coit said.

     "Is that a fact?  Is there a reward out for them?" Elam asked
excitedly.  "'Cause, if there is, I caught 'im."  The deputy hurried over
to the desk, then started looking through all the reward posters.

     "You won't find anything," Win said.

     "He's right," Judge Coit said, turning away from the cell.  "There are
no dodgers out for the Coulters.  At least, none that I know of."

     "I thought you said they was murderers," Elam said.  "They are," Judge
Coit insisted.

     "How do you know that, if there ain't no posters out on them?"

     "I know, because I know," Coit said.  "What is today?"

     "Today is Wednesday, June nineteenth," Elam answered.

     "All right, we'll hold the trial on Friday, the twenty-first.  Foster
will prosecute.  Davenport will defend."

     "Davenport?  You mean Dexter Davenport?  Judge, you're kiddin' ain't
you?"

     "I never 'kid,' Mr. Elam.  I assure you, I am quite serious.  Where
would Mr. Davenport be right now?"

     "More'n likely, he's sleepin' off last night's drunk some'eres," Elam
replied.  "Prob'ly over in the livery.  Gordon lets him stay there."

     "Get him.  Tell him I will expect him in court this afternoon,
prepared to defend this prisoner."

     "Judge, ole Davenport ain't drawed a sober breath in two years, let
alone made an appearance in court.  Ever since ..."

     "I'm well aware of Dexter Davenport's travail," Coit said,
interrupting Elam in mid-sentence.  "I realize things have not gone well
for him of late.  But as a qualified attorney, he has no choice but to
accept this assignment, or I will jail him for contempt of court and disbar
him for life."

     "You're goin' pretty harsh on him, ain't you, Judge?"

     "Just find him," Judge Coit ordered.

     Dexter Davenport awakened to the smell of horse manure.  He was used
to the smell, sleeping in the livery as often as he did, but this morning
it seemed much stronger than usual.  When he opened his eyes, he saw why.
Too drunk last night to realize what he was doing, he had gone to bed in a
pile of the stuff.  It was all over him, and he began scraping it off.

     "Davenport?  Davenport, you in here?"

     "I'm back here," Davenport replied.

     Deputy Elam came back to him, then stopped several feet away.  "Son of
a bitch!" Elam gasped.  "Damn, you stink."  He waved his hands in front of
him.

     "Yes, well, I wasn't all that particular about where I slept last
night," Davenport answered.  "What is it, Deputy?  What do you want?"

     "I don't want nothin'.  It's the judge that wants you."

     "Judge Coit?"

     "Yeah, he's over to the sheriff's office now, He wants you to defend a
prisoner."

     Davenport shook his head.  "I don't practice law anymore.  Judge Coit
knows that."

     "That may be, but he asked me to find you."

     "Very well, Mr. Elam, you have found me.  Now, go back and tell the
judge that I have no intention of trying a case in my present condition."

     "You got to," Elam said.  "The judge said if you don't, he'll throw
you in jail for contempt, then have you dis ... dis ... something or the
other."

     "Disbarred?"

     "Yeah, I think that's what he said."

     "Yes, that sounds like something Judge Coit would do."  Davenport
looked down at himself.  "I can't see the judge looking like this."

     "He didn't say nothin' 'bout how you was s'posed to look.  He just
said fetch you back to him, and that's what I aim to do."  Davenport
scraped off as much of the greenish-brown goop as he could, then nodded at
the deputy.  "All right," he said.  "Let's go see the distinguished
jurist."

     "The what?"

     "Judge Coit," Davenport said.  "Yeah, let's go.  Only, stay upwind of
me."

     Coit took one look at and one whiff of Dexter Davenport then ordered
him to take a bath and get on clean clothes before presenting himself.

     "It costs a quarter to take a bath," Davenport said.  "And three
dollars to get my clothes out of the boardinghouse.  Missus Johnson is
holding them in lieu of my bill."

     "I'm authorizing payment of twenty dollars to serve as public
defender," Judge Coit said.  "Here's five dollars in advance.  Come back
when the smell of you doesn't sicken a pig."

     "Yes, sir," Davenport mumbled.

     Elam chuckled as Davenport left.  "Hey, Coulter, did you see that
man?" he called.

     "See him?  For a moment, I was afraid he would be sharing a cell with
me," Win answered.

     "Sharing your cell?  No, it's better than that," Elam said.
"Davenport is a lawyer.  Fact is, he's your lawyer."  Elam whooped with
laughter.

     When a well-dressed and rather dignified man stepped into the
sheriff's office an hour later, Elam didn't recognize him.

     "Yes, sir, something I can do for you?" Elam asked.

     "Don't you recognize me, Deputy?  It is 1, Dexter Davenport."

     Elam's eyes grew wide.  "Well, I'll be damned.  It is you," he said.

     Davenport nodded toward the cell.  "I would like to speak with my
client."

     "Sure, go right ahead."

     "Alone," Davenport said.

     "Alone?  What do you need to see him alone for?  Hell, just go over
there and talk to the son of a bitch."

     "Article fifteen, paragraph six, slash, b of the Nevada law code says
that defense council will be given a room to have private consultations
with their clients.  Since you have no such place, that means you must step
outside," Davenport said.

     "To hell with that.  There ain't no drunk goin' to tell me what I got
to do."

     "I can get a court order from Judge Coit to order you to do so,"
Davenport said.

     Elam glared at Davenport for a moment, then, with a sigh, took his hat
down from the peg and jammed it onto his head.

     "All right," he said.  "I'll give you your time."  He nodded toward
the street.  "I'll just be out there if you need me."

     "Thank you, Deputy.  I won't be needing you," Davenport said.

     Elam nodded once, then looked back toward the cell and Win.

     "All right, Coulter.  Here's your lawyer.  Better talk fast, while
he's still sober."  Elam laughed at his own joke as he stepped outside.

     Davenport went over to the stove and with shaking hands poured himself
a cup of coffee.  Then, without being asked, he poured a second cup and
carried it over to the cell to pass between the bars.  His hand was shaking
so that some of the coffee was splashing out.

     "Better get it while there's some left in the cup," Davenport said,
making a bitter joke at his own expense.

     "Thanks," Win replied.

     Davenport pulled a chair over and sat down, just outside the cell.  He
studied Win over the rim of his cup as he took another swallow.  "They
didn't tell me your name," he finally said.

     "Coulter.  Win Coulter."

     "Mr. Coulter, I'm Dexter Davenport ... and I am your court-appointed
attorney."

     "My court-appointed attorney?"

     "That's right, sir.  Of course, you don't have to accept me.  You can
hire your own."

     "Are there any other attorneys in this town?"

     "Only one, and he will be prosecuting," Davenport replied.

     "Are you really an attorney?"

     "Yes, sir, I am, duly qualified before the bar."

     "You'll forgive me for asking, but when I saw you earlier, you didn't
exactly look like a lawyer," Win said.

     "That is very true.  I have been besieged by demons, as it were, for
some two years now.  But I assure you, I am a qualified lawyer, and I will
do all I can for you.  Now, if I may ask, with what crime are you charged?"

     Win looked at Davenport in surprise.  "You are my lawyer and you don't
even know that?"

     "I know nothing about you or the charge, Mr. Coulter," Davenport
replied.  "My introduction to this case occurred approximately an hour and
a half ago, when deputy Elam pulled me from a pile of horse shit where I
had spent the night."  Davenport looked around the office.  "By the way,
where is Sheriff Taggert?  I haven't seen him yet."

     "Well, you've asked two questions," Win said.  "But I can answer both
of them at the same time.  The reason Taggert isn't here is because he is
dead.  And the reason I am here, is because I am the one who killed him."

     Davenport had been slouching in the chair.  He sat up quickly when Win
said he had killed Taggert.  The expression on his face was one of shock.
"You killed Taggert?  How?"

     "He braced me as I was going into the saloon last night," Win said.
"We had a few words and the next thing I knew, he was going for his gun.  I
had no choice but to kill him."

     "You say he was going for his gun, but you still managed to shoot
him?"

     "Yes."

     Davenport shook his head.  "Mister, you are either incredibly fast or
a bold-faced liar.  And it doesn't make any difference which one you are
because the jury is never going to believe anyone was able to beat Sheriff
Taggert on the up and up."

     "What about you?  Do you believe me?  I mean, if you are going to be
my lawyer, you have to believe me, don't you?"

     "No, sir, I don't have to believe you to represent you," Davenport
said.  "But I understand now, why Judge Coit chose me to defend you."

     "Why?"

     "It is Coit's penchant for irony, Mr. Coulter," Davenport said as he
got up and walked back over to the coffeepot to refill his cup.  Using both
hands to steady his cup, he took another drink.  "Yes, sir, I imagine he is
having quite a laugh over this ... as is Taggert ... if there is such a
thing as laughter in hell," he added.


                                 Chapter 7


     Joe's first stop when he reached Reveille was the telegraph office.

     "Yes, sir, you want to send a telegram?" the telegrapher asked,
stepping up to the counter.  He was a small, bald man who kept his thick
glasses on by way of a black ribbon which stretched from earpiece to
earpiece around the back of his head.

     "No, thanks," Joe answered.  "But I'm looking for someone who has
recently sent a telegram from this office.  His name is Win, and he stands
about this high."  Joe held his hand out four inches below the top of his
own head.  "Weight wise, I'd say he dresses out around a hundred and eighty
pounds or so.  His hair is light and his eyes are blue."

     "Mister, you don't have to describe Win Coulter to me, or to anyone
else in this town," the telegrapher replied.  "Not after what happened
Saturday night."

     "What happened?"

     For his answer, the telegrapher slid a copy of the local newspaper
across the counter.


GUNFIGHT HURLS THREE MEN TO ETERNITY

Deputy Harley Peters Killed, His Widow Mourns.  Jerry Tombs and Clyde
Critchlow Also Slain.  World Is Better Off for Their Demise.  Saturday
night, at fifteen minutes of eleven o'clock, the streets of Reveille became
a battlefield when four desperate men threw themselves at each other in
deadly struggle.  At last, when the smoke had cleared, only one, Win
Coulter, remained alive.  By his courage, and the accuracy of his shooting,
the murder of Deputy Harley Peters was avenged, and two of the most
pernicious desperadoes ever to walk the streets of Reveille were dispatched
to their Maker, whose mercy they can only hope for, as no one who remains
on this mortal coil would deign to lift a prayer on their behalf.


     Joe read the article, then looked up from the paper.

     "Yes," he said.  "That would be Win.  Do you know where I can find
him?"

     "You won't find him in Reveille.  He has gone up to Tybo to meet his
brother," the telegrapher said.

     "I am his brother, Joe.  And I did send a telegram asking him to come.
He answered that he was on his way, but he never got there."

     The telegrapher clucked his tongue and shook his head.  "Oh, dear," he
said.  "The country between here and Tybo is most inhospitable.  I do hope
nothing bad has happened to him."

     "I thought perhaps he might have come back to Reveille," Joe said.  He
didn't tell the telegrapher about finding Win's horse.

     "Well, if he did, you might ask Mr. Bascom.  He's the clerk at the
Trojan Hotel.  That's where he was staying."

     "Thanks," Joe said.

     The Trojan hotel was bracketed by two saloons, O'Toole's on the right
and The Mother Lode on the left.  If he found out nothing at the hotel, he
would ask in the saloons.

     There was a small lobby just inside the door of the hotel.  The lobby
was furnished with one, well-worn, horse-hair sofa and a scarred rocking
chair.  A brass spittoon occupied the space between the chair and the sofa.
A threadbare carpet covered the floor.  In the corner was a cast-iron
stove, cold now, in the summer months.  The smokestack was removed and the
flue cover on the chimney was decorated with a painting of bright red
flowers.

     To the right of the door as he came in was a counter that divided the
lobby from the office area.  On the left wall just beside the counter was a
cabinet of cubbyholes, each hole containing the room key.  One or two of
the cubbyholes had envelopes in them.  The back wall was dominated by a
large clock, its face divided by Roman numerals.  The pendulum swung in a
measured arc, each movement entitling a loud tick-tock.

     The hotel clerk was not wearing a jacket.  The long sleeves of his
striped shirt were gathered with garters, just above the elbows.  Wearing a
bolo tie and bright orange suspenders, he was eating an apple as he stepped
up to the desk.

     "You would be Bascom?"

     "I am, sir.  What can I do for you?"

     "I need to see your guest book," Joe said.  "I'm looking for Win
Coulter."

     "Mr. Coulter stayed with us for nearly a week, but he checked out
Sunday morning."

     "And you're sure he didn't come back?"

     "I'm positive he didn't come back.  I would have known."

     "Is there another hotel in town?"

     "We are the only hotel of any consequence," Bascom said smugly.

     "Thanks," Joe said, disappointed.  His hope was that somehow Win had
made it back to Reveille.  It appeared that Win hadn't come back at all.
Or if he had, he had not returned to the hotel.

     "Will you be wanting a room, sir?" the clerk asked.

     Joe hadn't come to the hotel with the intention of taking a room, but
it was too late to do any more traveling that night, so the idea suddenly
sounded good to him.  "Yes," he said.  "Yes, I believe I will take a room."

     "Very good sir.  And your name?"

     "Coulter.  Joe Coulter."

     "You are related to Mr. Win Coulter?"

     "He's my brother," Joe explained.  "We were supposed to meet in Tybo,
but he never showed."

     "I can understand now, your interest in him," the clerk said.  He
nodded toward one of the saloons.  "If it is of any help to you, Mr.
Coulter, he spent a good deal of time in one of the saloons.  As I recall,
he seemed to prefer The Mother Lode."

     "Thanks," Joe said.  He paid for the room, but didn't go up right
away.  Instead, he went next door to The Mother Lode to follow up on the
lead.

     As far as small town saloons went, Joe thought The Mother Lode was
fairly nice-looking.  It sported a real mahogany bar.  A mirror behind the
bar was bracketed by a shelf that was filled with scores of bottles of
various kinds of liquor and spirits.  A sign on the wall read: "Gentlemen,
kindly use the spittoons."

     "What'll it be, gent?" the bartender asked, sliding down the bar with
a towel tossed across his shoulder.

     The fact that the towel was relatively clean spoke volumes about the
class of the establishment.  "Beer," Joe replied.  "Do you serve eats?"

     "Bacon, beans, biscuits," the bartender replied.

     "I'll take it," Joe said.  Scooping a couple of boiled eggs from the
large jar that sat on the end of the bar, Joe took them and his beer over
to a nearby table.  It didn't take long for one of the bar girls to
approach him.

     "Hello," she said, smiling her greeting at him.  "My name is Alice."

     Alice was tall, raw-boned, and full-breasted.  She had wide set,
blue-gray eyes, high cheekbones, and a mouth that was almost too full.  She
was the kind of woman that Joe found most desirable, and of all the bar
girls present, she was the one who left the pack to greet him.  It was as
if such women had a sixth sense and knew intuitively they were the kind of
girl he was attracted to.

     "I don't think I've seen you in here before," Alice said.

     "Just got into town," Joe answered.  He kicked a chair out by way of
invitation, then nodded at the bartender.  The bartender brought Joe a
second beer, as well as a drink for the girl, even though the girl hadn't
ordered.

     "He must know your brand," Joe said.

     "One glass of tea is pretty much like any other glass of tea," Alice
said with unaccustomed candidness.  She picked it up and held it toward Joe
in a toast.  He laughed, then touched his beer to her glass.

     "Well, at least you're honest about me paying whiskey prices for your
tea."

     "Honey, if everything we drank really was whiskey, we'd all be soused
by seven every night," Alice explained.  "And what good is a soiled dove,
if she's passed out drunk?"

     Joe laughed.  "I can see your point," he said.

     "So, what brings you to Reveille?" Alice asked.

     "I'm looking for someone."

     "Seems like everybody is looking for someone or something," Alice
said.  "Who are you looking for?"

     "I'm looking for my brother, Win Coulter."

     "You're Win's brother?  Then you must be Joe."

     "You know him then?  I see that I came to the right place."

     "You came to the right place, all right.  I'm glad to see that the two
of you came back.  Especially after what happened.  Are you supposed to
meet him in here?"

     Joe shook his head.  "We didn't come back."

     Alice looked confused.  "What do you mean?  You're here, aren't you?"

     "I am, but Win isn't.  He never showed over in Tybo.  When I came back
along the trail looking for him, I found his horse, dead.  But there was no
sign of my brother.  He didn't go on to Tybo, and now it looks like he
didn't come back this way, either."

     "Couldn't you track him?"

     Joe shook his head.  "'Fraid not.  A big sandstorm came up and blew
away all the tracks.  By the way, what do you mean after what happened?"

     "With Karen."

     "Karen?"

     "Karen took a particular shine to your brother, and I think he liked
her."

     "Where is she?  I would like to talk to her."

     "Just a minute," Alice said.  She walked over to the bar and said
something to the bartender.  The bartender nodded, then reached under the
bar and came up with a newspaper, which he handed to Alice.  Alice brought
the paper back to the table.

     "Maybe you should read this," she said, handing the paper to Joe.

     "Yes, the telegrapher showed me the story about the shooting that Win
was in.  I've read it."

     "No," Alice said.  "Not that story.  This story."  She pointed to
another story at the bottom of the page.


WOMAN FOUND STRANGLED

Karen McKenzie Killed in Her Room.  Sheriff Blaine Has No Suspects.  Karen
McKenzie, a popular soiled dove who plied her avocation at The Mother Lode
Saloon, was found strangled in her room on Saturday last.  She was last
seen alive at about eight-thirty that morning by Bill Bean, the bartender
at The Mother Lode and by two customers.  Though Sheriff Blaine has no
suspects, he believes robbery may have been the motive.  A broach watch,
which belonged to Miss McKenzie, has not been found.  It is thought that
the killer may have strangled her, then took the watch as payment for his
grizzly deed.


     "It says here that there are no suspects," Joe said as he finished the
article.  "Has the sheriff come up with anyone since the article was
written?"

     Alice shook her head.  "You know, when someone goes into 'the life,'
real people forget all about us.  In many cases, even our families turn
their backs on us.  So, when something happens to one of us, like what
happened to Karen, it doesn't mean much.  Nobody cares about a dead whore."

     "That's not true," Joe replied.  "If Win knew about this, he would
care.  I care, and I never even met her."

     "You and your brother are exceptions then," Alice said.  "I hope you
find your brother, but his chances aren't very good, are they?  I mean, if
you found his horse dead, that means he's on foot, wandering around out in
the desert."

     "The chances aren't good for an ordinary man.  But Win's not an
ordinary man, so I'm not ready to count him out, yet."

     As he ate his supper, Alice told Joe all she knew about Win.  She
pointed out some of the men with whom Win had played cards and, after his
supper, Joe talked to them as well.

     All wanted to share the story of Win's participation in the shoot-out
that some insisted would make Reveille famous.  But no one was able to shed
any light on anything that may have happened to Win.  They did express some
concern over the fact that Win had lost his horse during the trip.

     "The desert between here an' Tybo ain't where a man on foot needs to
be," one of them said.

     None of the men even mentioned Karen McKenzie, giving some credence to
Alice's comment that nobody cares about a dead whore.

     Joe left The Mother Lode at about nine-thirty, then went over to
O'Toole's to check it out.  O'Toole's was a saloon that catered to the
rougher trade.  It had none of the niceties of The Mother Lode, no tables,
no mirror behind the bar, and no girls.  The bar itself was made of
rip-sawed, unpainted pine.  The drinks were cheaper, and the whiskey raw.
Joe didn't have to hang around there.  He knew this wouldn't be one of
Win's regular haunts.

     When Joe stepped back out into the street, he felt their presence
before he heard or saw them.  Two men with knives jumped from the dark
shadows between the buildings, and only that innate sense which allowed him
to perceive danger when there was no other sign saved his life.  Because of
that, Joe moved out of the way of the attack at the exact moment the two
men started it, so that their knives, swinging in low, vicious arcs, did
not immediately disembowel him.

     Despite the quickness of his reaction, one of the knives struck him,
and as Joe went down to the street, rolling to get away from them, the
flashing blade opened a wound in his side.  The knife was so sharp and so
adroitly wielded that Joe barely felt it.  He knew, however, that the
attack had drawn blood.

     For all their skill with the blades, the assailants had made a big
mistake.  Both of them were wearing light-colored shirts and trousers, so
that notwithstanding the darkness of the street, they were easy to see.
One of the would-be assassins moved quickly to finish Joe off before he
could recover, and that was the attacker's mistake.  Joe twisted around on
the ground, then thrust his feet out, catching the assailant in the chest,
driving him back several feet.  The other one moved in, keeping Joe off his
feet, keeping him away from his gun.

     The assailants were good: skilled and agile.  But they were small,
giving Joe a little advantage, though his size was nearly overcome by their
quickness.  Joe sent a booted foot whistling toward one of them, catching
the man in the groin.  Then Joe came up off the ground, ramming stiff
fingers into one of the men's eyes as he did so.

     The man screamed, dropped his knife and reached up to his face.

     The other one, the one who had been sent back by a kick in the chest,
grabbed his partner, and pulling on him, broke off the fight.

     Joe felt the nausea rise up in him.  Bile surged in his throat.
Dizzy, he staggered over to The Mother Lode, then went back inside.  All
conversation stopped at his entrance, and the silence lingered like a
leaden weight over Joe's head.  Everyone stared at him with curiosity.
This time, their mouths opened in shock.

     Joe didn't realize it, but he was quite an apparition to behold.  He
stood there, just inside the swinging bat-wing doors, ashen-faced, holding
his hand over a wound which spilled bright red blood between his fingers.
He surveyed the room for just a moment, then, with great effort, walked to
the bar.  "Whiskey," he ordered.

     The solemn-faced bartender poured him a glass and Joe took it, then
turned around to face the silent patrons.  By now his side was drenched
with blood from his wound, and the blood was beginning to soak into the
wide planks of the floor.

     "Joe!" Alice said, moving to him quickly.  Joe held his hand out to
keep her away.

     "If any of you had anything to do with me getting knifed, I'm going to
give you fair warning.  The next man who even looks at me cross-eyed, I'm
going to pull him apart with my bare hands."  Joe looked at them, tossed
down the drink, then set the empty glass on the bar.  After that, he walked
calmly from the bar.  With each passing moment, he was growing more dizzy
and more light-headed from the loss of blood.  When he reached the entrance
to the saloon, he stuck out one hand to grab the door frame.  He struggled
to steady himself as he walked out of the saloon.

     Joe started toward the hotel, only this time he moved far enough away
from the buildings so that there was no chance of anyone else jumping him
from the shadows.  He moved out into the middle of the street and lurched
along with a stumbling, staggering gait, trying to stay on his feet, though
his head was now spinning so badly he could barely stand.

     When he finally reached the front of the hotel he fell against the
door, managing to keep on his feet, then stumbled through.  He knew he had
to get off his feet quickly, so he lurched toward the stairs to keep from
falling on the floor.

     "Mr. Coulter!" Bascom called, startled by Joe's unusual entry.  "Mr.
Coulter, are you all right?"

     "I'm fine," Joe said.  "I'm just fine."

     Joe leaned against the wall beside the stairs for a moment to get his
breath, and when he did so, he left a stain of his blood.  Then, holding
his side, he climbed the stairs to his room.  Once inside he ripped the
bed-sheet in two and wrapped it around his side, pressing it tightly
against his wound.  When the crude bandage was in place, he fell across the
bed, closed his eyes and passed out cold.


                                 Chapter 8


     Dexter Davenport was just finishing his meeting with Win, when the man
Judge Coit had chosen as prosecutor arrived.  Foster swept into the
sheriff's office, dressed in tails and a stove-pipe hat, while carrying a
silver-headed cane.  He wore a diamond stickpin in his cravat and silver
links at his cuffs.  A gold watch chain stretched across the silk vest,
accenting his rather considerable girth.  His hair was neatly trimmed, as
was his Van Dyke beard.

     "Good morning, Mr. Davenport," Foster said.

     "Good morning, Mr. Foster."

     "May I interview the prisoner?  Or do you require a little more time?"

     "He's all yours," Davenport said, starting toward the door.

     "You are welcome to stay while I talk to him," Foster said.  He put
his cane and stove-pipe hat on the sheriff's desk.

     "Thank you, no, I ... uh ... have some business to attend to."

     "To be sure.  Well, you go right ahead, Mr. Davenport," Foster said.

     "Davenport," Win called as Davenport started through the front door.
Davenport turned back toward him.  "Will you be sober when I see you next?"

     "A good question," Davenport replied.  "And under the circumstances
you are entitled to an honest reply.  Well, here it is, Mr. Coulter.  It is
certainly my intention to be sober when you see me next, and I am going to
try.  But I can't promise you."

     Win nodded.  "If I can't have sobriety, Mr. Davenport, then I will
settle for honesty," he said.

     Foster chuckled as Davenport left the office.  "You may just have
given him permission to get drunk again."

     "Mr. Davenport is an adult," Win replied.  "If he wants to get drunk,
he certainly doesn't need my permission."

     "To be sure, to be sure," Foster said.  He cleared his throat.  "Mr.
Coulter, my name is Brigham Foster, and I am here to prosecute you.  I
don't suppose there is any need in telling you that you are in a great deal
of trouble."

     "I sort of figured that out," Win said.

     "You can save yourself some trouble by confessing."

     "Confessing what?  That I killed Taggert?  Hell, I did kill him."

     "I mean confessing that you drew first, that there was no gunfight as
you claimed, and that you killed him with malice and aforethought.  Come
clean with that, Mr. Coulter, and you could save us all a lot of trouble."

     Win chuckled.  "What about the hangman?  Would I save him trouble as
well?"

     Foster shook his head.  "Since you prize honesty so, I'll be honest
with you.  The only trouble you will save, is the trouble of a trial.
There is no plea bargain being offered.  I'm afraid Judge Coit plans to
hang you no matter what."

     "Then I may as well stick to my story."

     "Let me get this straight.  Your story is that Taggert started to draw
on you ... whereas you, seeing the sheriff start his draw, commenced your
own draw, and beat him.  And, you not only beat him, you were so fast that
when he came crashing backwards through the door into the saloon his pistol
was still in its holster.  Is that about it?"

     "That's it," Win said.

     Foster clucked his tongue and shook his head.  "Mr. Coulter, do you
have any idea how ridiculous that claim is?  Taggert was, by all accounts,
incredibly fast with a gun.  Now ... while it is possible that someone may
have been faster--perhaps even you--it is highly unlikely that anyone would
be so much faster that Taggert's gun would still be sheathed."

     "It doesn't look good, does it?" Win asked.

     "No, sir, it doesn't look good at all.  As a matter of fact, it is the
most far-fetched thing I could possibly imagine."

     "Nevertheless, that is what happened," Win insisted.

     "So, you are sticking by your story?"

     "I reckon I don't have any choice, since what I'm saying is true," Win
said.

     Foster walked back over to the sheriff's desk and picked up his hat
and cane.  He put his hat on his head, then squared it, before he turned to
look back toward Win in the jail cell.

     "Have it your way, Mr. Coulter," Foster said.  "It was my intention to
spare you the indignity and humiliation of a public trial, but you spurned
my offer."

     Win laughed.  "The indignity and humiliation of a public trial?  You
just told me the judge plans to hang me no matter what.  What could be more
undignified and humiliating than a public execution?"

     "I'll see you in court," Foster said.  "Good day, Mr. Coulter."

     After Foster departed, Win stood at the bars of his cell for a moment
looking over the empty room, studying every aspect of it.  Directly across
from him, and running parallel with the cell, was the front wall.  The door
was in the center of the wall, with a window on either side.  The windows
were dirty, with half their openings masked by window shades of dark green.
The wall to his right had another window and a large board to which were
posted dozens and dozens of Wanted Posters.

     The poster board was obviously not kept up-to-date, for Win recognized
one of the wanted men as someone he had killed more than two years earlier.
As he studied the other posters, he realized that he had run across several
of the others as well, for both Win and his brother lived the kind of lives
that brought them in frequent contact with such men.

     There was also a calendar on the wall.  The picture on the calendar
was of a passenger train, roaring through the night with sparks spewing
from the smokestack and steam streaming from the cylinder.  Every window of
every car was glowing with light.

     On the calendar page, every day had been X'd out until the current
day, which was Wednesday, June nineteenth.  Win heard the Judge say he
wanted the trial to be held on the twenty-first.  He couldn't help but
wonder if he would still be alive by the twenty-second.

     Where was Joe?  Was he still waiting for him in Tybo?  Knowing Joe,
Win doubted very much if he was.  Joe had probably come looking for him
and, if so, would have found, not only his horse, but his tracks leading
here.  Joe would find him, Win was certain of that.  Joe could track a fish
through water.

     As Win stood at the bars of his cell, musing over his situation, the
front door opened again.  Hesitantly, a young woman stuck her head through
the door.

     "Deputy Elam?" she called.

     "He isn't here," Win said.

     "Are you Win Coulter?" the girl asked.

     "Yes."

     Nervously, the girl brushed a fall of hair back from her forehead and
walked over to the cell.  Although she was a blonde, her eyes were deep
brown.  It was an unusual and very attractive combination.  "Would you come
closer please?" she asked.

     Win, who was already standing next to the bars, wondered just how much
closer he could get.  She answered his question for him when she stuck her
arm through the bar, put her hand on the back of his neck, and pulled his
face toward her.  Through the bars, she kissed him full on the mouth.

     Win was startled by the young woman's unexpected move but it wasn't at
all an unpleasant surprise.

     When she pulled away from him she looked up at him with her large dark
eyes.

     "Thank you," she said.

     "One little kiss isn't much to thank a man for," Win replied.  "If I
ever get out of here, maybe I can do something that really earns your
thanks."

     For just a moment the girl looked baffled, then suddenly she laughed.

     "I wasn't thanking you for the kiss," she said.  "The kiss was my way
of thanking you."

     Now it was Win's time to be confused.  "Thanking me for what?" he
asked.

     Win had never seen anyone's face transformed as quickly as did the
young woman's.  The smile left her lips and her eyes narrowed with
loathing.

     "For killing Luke Taggert," she said.

     "Yes, well, I'm glad it earned your approval," Win said.  "But I have
to tell you, it wasn't anything I planned.  It just happened."

     "I don't care how it happened.  As long as he is dead."

     "Even if I hang for killing him?"

     Before the girl could answer, the front door to the jail opened and
Dexter Davenport came in.  He was carrying a couple of books with him, and
when he saw the girl, he looked surprised.

     "Sue, what are you doing here?"

     "I came to thank Mr. Coulter for doing what nobody else in this town
had the courage to do."

     "He needs more than thanks," Davenport said.

     "Put me on the stand," Sue said.  "Let me tell my story."

     Davenport shook his head.  "That would only complicate things," he
said.  "Mr. Coulter claims that Taggert drew first.  If you tell your
story, it might suggest to the jurors that Coulter planned to kill Taggert.
It could even plant the idea that you paid him to kill Taggert."

     "I would have paid him to kill Taggert.  I would have paid anyone to
kill him if I had thought I could find such a person."

     Davenport nodded.  "Uh, huh.  Do you see what I mean?  Believe me,
having you take the stand would only make matters worse.  Let the court
handle it."

     "That's what you told me two years ago."

     Davenport nodded.  "It wasn't the court who failed you then, darlin'.
It was me."

     "If that's true, you can make it up to me now," Sue said.

     "How?"

     Sue looked back toward Win.  "Get this man off," she said.

     Davenport held up one of the two books he was carrying.  "I've been
working on that," he said.  "I may have found a way to keep him from
hanging."

     Sue shook her head.  "I don't mean just keep him from hanging," she
said.  "I mean, get him off.  I want him to go free."

     "You're asking for a miracle," Davenport said.  "You owe me a
miracle," Sue replied coldly.


                                 Chapter 9


     Shortly after Joe staggered out of the Mother Lode, Alice went into
the kitchen of the saloon where a medical kit was kept.  She got a roll of
bandages, some salve and crushed aloe leaves, then sneaked out the back
door, and down the alley, to the back of the hotel.  Slipping in through
the back door of the hotel, she walked quickly through the hallway until
she reached the lobby.  Bascom was reading a Police Gazette.  He looked up
when Alice came in.

     "Hello, Alice.  Do you have business over here tonight?" Bascom asked.
He looked at her lustfully.  He had once offered her a deal.  He would make
a room available for her for any business she might want to conduct "off
the books" of the saloon.  In return, she would provide him with her
services.

     Alice declined the offer, but Bascom never stopped thinking about the
possibilities.

     "No.  I just stepped out for some fresh air and I thought I would come
in and say hello to you.  It's been a while since you stopped by for a
drink."

     "Yes, well, uh, Mrs. Bascom doesn't really approve," Bascom said.

     Alice leaned over the counter, affording him a magnificent view of her
cleavage.  When his eyes went there, as she knew they would, she managed to
reach around the corner and take the skeleton key from its hook.  With that
key she could open any door in the hotel.

     "Oh, that's such a shame," Alice said.  "The girls all enjoy your
company so.  One of them asked me just the other day if I thought you would
ever come back."

     "Really?  Which girl?" Bascom asked, his voice dripping with lust.

     "I think it was Linda," Alice said.  There was no girl named Linda,
but Bascom didn't know that.

     "Linda, yes!  Tell her ... tell her I'll be by to see her soon,"
Bascom said excitedly.

     "I'll do that.  Well, I must go back to work.  Good-bye."

     "Good-bye, Alice," Bascom said.

     Alice had accomplished two things by her conversation with Bascom.
Out of the corner of her eye, she had checked the register to see that Joe
Coulter was in room 201.  And, she had managed to secure the pass key.

     Alice walked back to the front door.  She opened it, then looked back
at Bascom, who had already returned to the Police Gazette.  She closed the
door, then stepped behind a large, potted plant.  Studying Bascom through
the leaves, she waited until he got up and walked to the back of his office
to pour himself a cup of coffee.  That gave her the opportunity she was
looking for, and she slipped quickly and quietly up the stairs to the
landing on the second floor.

     A moment later, she slowly and quietly let herself into Coulter's
room.  With her heart pounding fiercely for the risk she was taking, she
closed the door behind her, then stood for a moment in the dark shadows,
letting her eyes adjust to the darkness.

     The room was hot and sticky, and she could smell the blood from Joe's
wound.  She felt around in the dark until she found the bedside table and
lantern.  Finding a box of lucifers, she struck one, then held the flame to
the wick as she turned up the fuel.  A golden bubble of light pushed away
the darkness.

     Because of the wound, Joe was in a much deeper sleep than normal.  He
neither heard Alice when she came into his room nor did he awaken when she
lit the lantern.  It was only when she sat on the bed beside him that his
eyes snapped open.  Even then, he awoke more from curiosity than from a
sense of danger.

     "What?" Joe asked.  "What are you doing?"

     "Shh," Alice whispered, holding her finger across her lips.  She began
unwinding the sheet from around his side.  "I'm going to treat your wound,"
she said.  "It'll be all right."

     "No.  It must be cleaned and treated," Alice insisted.  "I have
bandages and medicines."

     "All right," Joe said with a sigh.  "I never argue with a beautiful
woman who is treating me well."  He lay back on the bed.

     Alice had the sheet completely unwound now, and she sucked in her
breath as she looked at the blood which had coagulated around the wound.

     "You've lost a great deal of blood," she said.  "You're lucky you
aren't dead.  Who did you make mad?"

     Joe chuckled.  "I don't have the slightest idea.  Oh, it hurts when I
laugh."  He laughed again.

     "Be still now," Alice said as she poured water from the porcelain
pitcher into the basin.  "I'll clean your wound, then dress it."

     Joe lay back down and folded his hands behind his head.  The muscles
in his arms, shoulders, and chest rippled as he did so, and he looked up at
the beautiful young woman who brought the water to the small table and sat
again on the bed beside him.  "All right, I'll be still," he promised.
Gently, Alice began cleaning the blood from Joe's side.  The cut started
just above the belt line and disappeared below the waistband of his pants.
Alice unbuttoned his trousers, then slipped them down.  The hair which
began as a tiny dark line at his navel broadened into a dark, curling bush.
She stopped there before any more was revealed.

     "Thank heaven the cut didn't go deep enough to damage any of your
innards.  But you have bled a lot."

     Joe looked directly into her eyes and saw a latent smoke of lust in
their depths.

     For reasons she couldn't explain, Alice felt a tremendous heat
suffusing her body as she cleaned him.  She was a prostitute, a woman who
had seen many men.  And yet there, in the innocence of that room, the
situation seemed different.  As if mesmerized, she slowly pulled Joe's
trousers a little farther down, though not all the way.  It was almost as
if she were a young virgin girl, seeing a man for the first time, and she
sucked air audibly through her teeth.

     "You ... you are a handsome man," she said quietly.

     Alice felt Joe's abdomen.  It was incredibly hot, perhaps fevered by
the wound, and yet she could feel the pulsing of his blood just beneath the
skin.  Though it wasn't necessary for her to pull his trousers the rest of
the way down, she did.  As she bathed him, she bent over and the top of her
blouse fell forward, exposing the curve of her breasts.  She felt a heat
there, then looked up to see that Joe was looking at the view she had
presented him.  She smiled, almost shyly, and continued to work.

     When his wound was completely clean she applied a salve to it, then
rubbed on the crushed medicinal herbs.  "Does it feel good?" she asked.

     "Yeah," Joe croaked.

     Alice finished applying the medication but she let her hand continue
to rub his skin.  Her hand moved in ever-widening circles until finally she
reached his penis.  She squeezed it, feeling it grow in her hands.  She
smiled down at him.

     "I think maybe I should take care of this, too," she said.

     "Lady, you'll get no argument from me," Joe said huskily.

     Alice peeled out of her blouse, then stepped out of her skirt.  She
stood in the candlelight beside the bed, displaying her full, beautiful
body to him.  The taut nipples glowed in the light, while shadows kept
mysterious the promise of her thighs.  She sat back on the bed and looked
at him.

     "But you are wounded," she said.  "Perhaps you can't make love while
you are wounded."

     "We'll find a way," Joe said.

     "Yes, we'll find a way," Alice agreed.  She leaned down and kissed his
neck, then started working her way down his chest.  Joe could feel the
soft, velvet heat of her darting tongue as she licked his skin, trailing
back and forth until she stopped at his nipple and flicked her tongue over
it several times.

     Joe tried to move over her, but the pain stabbed at him.  When Alice
saw that, she smiled gently, put her cool fingers on his shoulders to
indicate that he should stay where he was, then moved over him, straddling
him and taking him into her, orchestrating the moment for both of them.

     Joe felt Alice over him, pressing down against his thrusts, making
love to him.  He felt her jerk in wild spasms as the jolts of rapture
racked her body.  With a groan, she fell across him, even as he was
spending himself in her in his final convulsive shudders.

     They lay that way for several moments with Alice on top, allowing the
pleasure to slowly drain from her body.  Finally she got up and looked down
at him.  She licked her lips and they glowed in the gleam of lantern's
light.

     "I am a prostitute," she said.  "I have done this many times, with
many men.  But never before have I done it because I wanted to."

     "And you wanted to with me?"

     "Yes.  "Why?"

     "I ...  I don't know why," Alice said.  She reached down and touched
his penis.  It was slack now, spent of the energy which had lifted it
moments earlier.  "Never before have I felt what I felt with you, Joe
Coulter."  She looked at the cut, noticing that their lovemaking had opened
it up a little.  "Oh," she said.  "I'm sorry.  I have made it worse."

     Joe chuckled.  "Believe me, it was worth it."

     "I will clean the wound again, and this time I will bandage it."

     Joe put his hand on Alice's naked thigh.  "Don't bandage everything,"
he teased.  "I might have use for it again."

     Alice smiled.  "You are quite a man, Joe Coulter," she said.

     She didn't leave Joe's room until just before dawn.


                                Chapter 10


     On Thursday morning, June twentieth, a tall, skinny, Scarecrow of a
man came into the jailhouse.  He was carrying two coils of rope and a can
of beeswax.  He put the rope and can on the corner of what had been Sheriff
Taggert's desk, then looked back toward the jail cell.

     "Is that fella there my customer?" he asked Elam.

     "Yes, sir, Mr. Tatum, that's him, all right," Elam replied.  "His name
is Win Coulter."

     Tatum walked up to the jail cell and looked over at Win, who was lying
on the bunk with his hands folded behind his head.

     "Mr. Coulter, my name is Amos Tatum.  It's going to be my privilege to
be your hangman, Yes, sir, I'll be tellin' my grandchildren that I was the
one that hung Win Coulter.  Now, get up, boy.  Get up an' let me take a
look at you."

     Win did no more than glance over at him.  He made no effort to get out
of his bunk.  "I said, get up," Tatum repeated.  Win remained motionless.
"Well, you can suit yourself," Tatum said.  He took out a small pad and a
pencil.  "It ain't really goin' to change nothin', 'cause I can get quite a
bit of information just by lookin' at you there.  'Course, it's to your
advantage that I get it all right.  If I make a mistake you could either
wind up chokin', real slow ... or else havin' your head pinched right off
whenever you drop through the trap."

     "Aren't you jumping the gun a little there, Mr. Tatum?" Dexter
Davenport asked, coming into the office just as Tatum was making his last
comment.

     "What do you mean?" Tatum asked.

     "You're talking about hanging a man who hasn't been found guilty.  In
fact, my client hasn't even been tried."

     Tatum laughed.  "He's your client?  And you're telling me he hasn't
been found guilty yet?" he asked.  "That's a good one."  Tatum chewed on
the end of the pencil with his teeth, exposing a little more of the pencil
lead.  "Now, let's see ...  I'd make you about five feet ten, maybe
five-eleven."

     Win offered no response as Tatum wrote the numbers in his book.

     "And, I'd say, a hundred seventy, maybe a hundred seventy-five pounds.
Of course, that's before you're served your last meal," he added.  "Some
folks eat so much at their last meal they mess up all my cipherin'."  He
laughed at his joke.

     "You don't have to be worryin' none about this fella eatin' too much,"
Elam called over from his desk.  "All I've give him to eat so far, is
biscuits and water."

     Davenport looked back toward Elam with a frown on his face.  "Is that
right?  You've given this man nothing but biscuits and water?"

     "Yeah.  The way I look at it, why waste money on him?  I mean, if
we're only goin' to hang him, anyway."

     "Is that what the judge ordered?"

     "Judge don't have nothin' to do with feedin' my prisoners.  I do,"
Elam said.

     Davenport looked at Win.  "Why didn't you tell me about this?" he
asked.

     "I didn't figure I was going to starve in three days," Win said.  "And
I figured you had enough on your mind without worrying about whether or not
I was getting anything to eat."

     "Get this man a meal," Davenport ordered.

     Elam bristled.  "Look here, you ain't nothin' but a lawyer ... and a
drunken one at that.  You got no say-so whatever on how I treat my
prisoners."

     "I said get this man a meal," Davenport demanded.  "Or I will take
this to the judge and you'll be looking for another job ... that is you'll
be looking for another job as soon as you get out of jail."

     "Jail?  What do you mean, jail?  Why would I be goin' to jail?"

     "Mistreatment of your prisoners is a jailable offense," Davenport
said.  He smiled.  "In fact, I might even be able to arrange for you and
Mr. Coulter to share the same cell."

     "All right, all right, I'll go down to Ma Putnams' place an' get 'im
some bacon and beans," Elam said, grumbling.  He slammed the door behind
him as he left the office.

     "What are you trying to do, Dexter?" Tatum asked as he continued to
make entries in his small notepad.  "Cheat me out of my hangin' fee?  If
you get this fella off, I don't get paid."

     "I intend to get him off if I can," Davenport said.

     "I thought you gave up the lawyering business."

     "No, I, uh, turned my back on it for a while.  But I didn't give it
up."

     "Is that a fact?  Well, tell me, Dexter, how long have you been
sober?"

     "Twenty-six hours and," Davenport looked up at the clock, "fourteen
minutes," he concluded.

     "That long?  Well, I'm just real proud of you, Dexter.  Are you having
a hard time with it?  I'll bet you'd like a drink now, wouldn't you?"
Tatum started yanking open the drawers on Elam's desk until he found what
he was looking for.  He held up a bottle of whiskey and read the label.
"Old Overholt," he said.  "Well, now, that's not exactly the brand they
serve in the finest establishments, is it?"  He looked over at Davenport.
"But then, you haven't been all that choosy of late, have you?"

     Davenport rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth.  "I ...  I
don't want that," he said.

     "oh, sure you do," Tatum replied in an oily-smooth voice.  He found a
glass that was half full of water, tossed the water out on the floor, then
poured in about two fingers of whiskey.  He looked at it, then shook his
head.  "Nah ... that's not enough.  Not for someone who has been dry for as
long as you have."  He poured the glass nearly full, then held it out
toward Davenport.  "Here you go," he said.

     Davenport stood absolutely motionless for a long moment, staring at
the glass.  Win, who had not yet risen from the bunk, watched the drama
being played out before him, but he offered no comment.

     "I ...  I said I don't want it," Davenport stammered.

     "Yes, I heard what you said.  Tell you what I'm going to do.  I'm just
going to set this glass over here, on the corner of the desk.  That way, if
you really don't want it, why, it's over here out of harm's way, so to
speak.  On the other hand, if you need just a small drink to get you
through all this ... and, believe me, that is perfectly understandable ...
well, it'll be right here for you."

     Chuckling, Tatum picked up one coil of rope, then uncoiled it.  He sat
down in the empty chair behind what had been Taggert's desk, and started
applying beeswax to the rope.  "Yes, sir," Tatum said.  "I'll just leave
that glass over there while I grease up the rope, make it slide real easy.
We want the knot to break his neck.  Like this."  He made a circle with his
thumb and forefinger, then slipped it down the rope as if it were the knot
sliding.  When he reached the end, he made a clucking sound, then tilted
his head abruptly as if the neck had just been broken.  "Otherwise, ole
Coulter there would just sort of dangle at the end of the rope, chokin' to
death, real slow."

     "One drink," Davenport suddenly said, starting toward the glass.  He
had been staring at it ever since Tatum put it on the desk.  "One drink
won't hurt me.  I need it.  I can't think without it."

     Fifteen minutes later, Elam returned with Win's food.  He took it over
to him.

     "Here," he said.  "And I recommend that you enjoy it.  This time
tomorrow, you'll be eating supper in hell.  What do you think about that?"

     "I think the company in hell will be an improvement over what I've
seen in Horseshoe," Win replied.  He took the tin plate, then returned to
his bunk.  Sitting on the edge of his bunk, he ate the food ravenously.

     Elam looked around the office, surprised to see that no one was there.

     "What happened to Dexter and the hangman?"

     "They had business elsewhere," Win replied, not looking up from his
plate of beans.

     A short time later the front door was pushed open and the woman Win
knew only as Sue, came in.  "He's been drinking again," she wailed.

     "Who?  You mean Davenport?" Elam replied.

     "You know full well who I mean," Sue said.  "You gave him whiskey.
Why?  Why did you do that?  Were you afraid he'd prove himself in court
tomorrow?"

     "Wait a Minute now.  You just hold on there, Missy," Elam said,
holding his hands out in front of him.  "I didn't do no such thing.  Last
time I seen him, he was sober as a judge.  Fact is, he made me go get
somethin' for the prisoner to eat.  Where's he at, anyhow?"

     "I took him up to his room, half-drunk," Sue said.  "He says he
started drinking over here."

     "The hell he did.  I told you, last time I seen him, he was sober."

     "Is that true, Mr. Coulter?" Sue asked.

     "What the hell?  You goin' to take a murderer's word over mine?" Elam
asked.

     "The deputy is right," Win said.

     Surprised at being vindicated by Win, the deputy looked toward his
cell.  " 'Course, on the other hand, I reckon it's all right to take his
word for it when he's tellin' the truth."

     "Are you telling me he wasn't drinking over here?"

     "No, I'm not telling you that," Win said.  "I'm just saying that the
deputy had nothing to do with it.  The hangman searched around until he
found a bottle.  That was all it took."

     "Ohh," Sue groaned.  She went over and sat in the chair behind
Taggert's empty desk, then hung her head.  "I thought ... that is, I hoped
... things would be better now.


                                Chapter 11


     Joe heard a drum pounding and he wondered who would have a drum and
why they would be beating it.  Then he awakened and realized that it wasn't
a drum, it was someone banging on the door to his room.

     "Coulter!  Coulter, are you in there?"

     Slowly, wincing at the pain in his side, Joe sat up.  The room was
redolent with Alice's musky perfume, even though she was gone.

     "Coulter!"

     Joe slipped his pistol from the holster then moved painfully over to
the door.

     On the other side of the door the pounding grew more desperate.

     "Coulter, this is Sheriff Blaine.  If you are in there, answer me!"
the voice called from the other side of the door.

     Without saying a word, Joe jerked the door open.  That left him
standing there with the drop on the sheriff, who had just raised his hand
to knock again.  "What do you want?" Joe asked.

     The sheriff smiled, self-consciously.  "Well, I reckon you just
answered that for me," he said.

     "What do you mean?"

     "I understand you were jumped by a couple of men last night.  I just
wanted to see if you was still alive."

     "I'm still alive," Joe said.  "Are you disappointed?"

     "Disappointed?  No, not at all.  I hate it when someone in my town
causes more work for me," Blaine said.

     "Yeah, well, I'm glad I didn't cause you any more work," Joe said.

     "Do you need tendin' to?"

     "I've been tended to."

     The sheriff looked at the clean, neat bandage on Joe's side.

     "I see," he said.  "Looks like whoever did it did a pretty good job."

     "I've got no complaints," Joe said.  "And I particularly liked the
bedside manner."

     Sheriff Blaine looked at Joe with a confused expression on his face,
then he shook his head.  "I'm not even going to ask about that," he said.
"Seems to me like you and your brother have made some pretty powerful
eneMies."

     Joe perked up.  "Have you heard from my brother?  Do you know where he
is?"

     Sheriff Blaine shook his head.  "Sorry, I don't have any idea where
he's at.  Last thing he told me was he was goin' over to Tybo to meet YOU."

     "Yes, that's the last thing he told me, too.  Wait a minute, what do
you mean, my brother and I have made some pretty powerful enemies?"

     "The two men your brother killed?  They started the fracas by trying
to kill Win.  Now, you come to town, you're here less than one day, and
from what I hear you didn't rile anyone in particular.  Yet, last night two
men tried to kill you.  Why?"

     "I don't know."

     "They are after you and your brother, but you don't know why?"

     "No."

     "Too bad.  I was hoping you might be able to shed a little light on
what's going on around here.  What are your plans now?"

     "Now?" Joe replied.  "I plan to eat breakfast."  Fifteen minutes
later, Joe and Sheriff Blaine were having breakfast together.

     "Did you know my brother?  Did you meet him before he had the run-in
with Tombs and Critchlow?" Joe asked.

     "Oh, yes, I met him.  He came in on the train about a week ago.  He
hung out over at The Mother Lode Saloon ... mostly playing cards, sometimes
keeping company with that woman who got herself killed."

     "You are talking about Karen McKenzie."

     "Yes," Blaine said.

     "Do you think there could be any connection between Karen getting
killed and people who are trying to kill my brother and me?"

     Blaine stroked his chin for a moment as he pondered the question.
Finally, he shook his head.  "No, I don't see how there could be," he said.
"I'm pretty sure whoever killed that girl, killed her for that watch she
was always wearin', 'Course, that means her killer has long since left
these parts.  He couldn't very well sell that watch to anyone around here,
since ever'one knows that it belonged to the McKenzie woman."

     "Maybe one of Karen's customers was jealous of Win," Joe suggested.
"Maybe the same person who tried to kill Win is the one who killed Karen."

     Sheriff Blaine shook his head.  "No, I don't think so.  From what your
brother said, someone hired Critchlow and Tombs to try and kill him.
Normally, people who kill out of jealousy do it themselves."

     "Yeah, I guess that's right.  I'm just trying to find a reason for all
this, that's all.  You said Win played a lot of cards.  Did he win big?"

     "You mean did a sore loser hire Tombs and Critchlow to kill him?"
Blaine asked.

     Joe nodded.

     "It doesn't seem likely.  Your brother had one pretty good night at
cards, but from what I've heard, the other nights were pretty even.  And
the last night he was here, he even lost a few dollars.  At any rate, there
wasn't enough money changed hands in any given game to cause anyone to be
all that upset.  Besides which, the fellas he played cards with are all
upstanding citizens.  I'm sure none of them had anything to do with it."

     "Then what is it?  Why did someone try to kill him?"

     "You tell me, Mr. Coulter.  Whatever it is, it's pretty obvious the
trouble didn't start here."

     "You say that, Sheriff, but Win was attacked here, and so was I.
Nothing happened to me while I was in Tybo."

     "Listen, are you sure your brother didn't make it to Tybo?  Maybe he
did and you just missed him over there."

     "I know he didn't make it.  Because when he didn't show up, I started
backtracking, and I found his horse out on the trail."

     "What happened to the horse?"

     "Someone shot it."

     "Maybe Win shot it his ownself.  Maybe his horse stepped in a hole or
something and Win-"

     "No," Joe interrupted.  "There was nothing wrong with the horse except
for the bullet hole in his neck.  It was a rifle bullet.  A 44-40."

     "Did you look around?"

     "I looked, but I couldn't track him because a sandstorm took out all
the tracks.  I figured he either had to go on through to Tybo or come back
here to Reveille."

     "Well, I'm absolutely positive he didn't come back here," Blaine said.
"We're a small enough town, and Win made himself well enough known in that
shoot-out that, if he had come back, I would know it."

     "He didn't go to Tybo, either," Joe said.  "And I'm sure he didn't
wander off into the desert.  He's much too smart for something like that.
And I know he didn't disappear into thin air."

     "Maybe he went to Horseshoe," Sheriff Blaine suggested.

     Joe looked up from his breakfast in surprise.  "Horseshoe?  Where is
Horseshoe?  I've never heard of it."

     "It's about halfway on a line between here and Tybo, though maybe
twenty miles to the west.  The three towns make a triangle in Hot Creek
Valley."

     "Are you sure there is such a place?" Joe asked.  "I didn't see it on
the map."

     "Of course it's on the map.  It's ... wait a minute, what map are you
talking about?  Let me see it.  Do you have it with you?"

     "No.  But there was a map on the wall of the bank over in Tybo.  I
checked it over pretty good before I came here."

     Sheriff Blaine grinned.  "The McGruder map.  I should've thought of
that."

     "The McGruder map?"

     "McGruder is an engraver from San Francisco.  He does maps for such
places as banks, saloons, railroad depots and the like.  They are for show.
They aren't meant to be used for anything more than that.  Didn't you
notice the artwork?  The mountain lions, the lizards, a cactus, the old,
abandoned mines, and the like?  He even draws little trains on the tracks
between the towns.  Only, sometimes, if something gets in the way of one of
his pictures--a town for instance--why he'll just leave it out.  On the
latest map he drew, he left out the town of Horseshoe.  Instead, he drew a
picture of a cloud, complete with a face and pursed lips blowing wind.  The
thing is, those maps are everywhere, and lots of people take them for
real."

     "Yeah, like I did," Joe said disgustedly.  "Horseshoe, huh?  Thanks,
Sheriff, you've been a big help."  He left a coin on the table beside his
plate, then he stood up.

     "Where are you going?" Blaine asked.

     "I'm going to Horseshoe.  Win has to be there."

     "That's a pretty long ride," Blaine said.  "There's an easier way to
find out than by going there."

     "How's that?"

     "Simple.  I'll wire the sheriff and ask him if he's seen Win."

     "You know the sheriff over there?"

     "Yeah," Blaine said.  "I know him.  I don't like the son of a bitch,
but I know him.  He's always been a particular favorite of the district
judge, Judge Coit.  With any other judge, Taggert would have probably been
jailed a long time ago for being too quick with his gun."

     "Can you trust him?"

     "I wouldn't trust him any farther than I could throw him if he had any
personal stake in the matter," Blaine admitted.  "But as far as just
providing information on whether or not your brother might be in Horseshoe,
well, I can't think of any reason why Taggert would lie about it.  Come on,
we'll send a telegram over there and see if they've heard anything."

     Joe walked down to the Western Union office with Sheriff Blaine, then
stood by as Blaine wrote out the message.  He handed the message across the
open counter to the telegrapher.

     "Get this over to Sheriff Taggert in Horseshoe," Blaine said.  "And
ask for an immediate reply.  We'll wait right here for it."

     Oh, my, you still haven't found your brother, Mr. Coulter?" the
telegrapher asked.  "Well, I'll get this right out and see if we can get
some word for you."

     "Thanks," Joe said.

     Joe leaned up against the wall with his arms folded across his chest
as he watched the telegrapher's fingers operate the key.  There were
several clacks going out, then, a moment later, the key began clacking on
its own.  Joe realized that it was an incoming message from the other end,
and he walked over to be there when the message ended.  It wasn't a very
long message.  "Odd," the telegrapher said.

     "What's odd?"

     "The message just says, 'unable to deliver.'"

     "They don't tell you why?"

     "No, sir."

     "Raise 'em again.  Find out why."

     Again the key cracked with both the outgoing message, and the
incoming.  With a face devoid of all expression, the telegrapher wrote out
the message as it came in, then he handed it to Blaine.  He glanced, once
at Joe, as Blaine read the message.

     "What is it, Sheriff?" Joe asked.  "What does the message say?"

     "Sheriff Taggert's dead," Blaine said.  "He's been murdered."

     "Murdered?"

     "That's what it says here."

     "Damn.  So we still don't know if Win is there."

     "Oh, he's there, all right," Blaine said.

     "What?  He's there?  How do you know?"

     Without a word, Blaine handed the telegram to Joe.


"SHERIFF TAGGERT MURDERED BY ITINERANT NAMED WIN COULTER.  TRIAL AND
EXECUTION SET FOR TOMORROW."


                                Chapter 12


     "Oyez, oyez, oyez, this court is now in session, draw near all who
have business with this court, the honorable Judge Preston Coit presiding.
All rise."

     Coit, wearing a robe, came into the courtroom and took his seat.
Amidst the sound of scraping chairs and the rustle of pants and dress
fabric, the gallery also sat.  A spittoon rang with the quid of a
well-aimed expectoration.

     Court was being held in the town's all-purpose community room, which
was utilized for everything from town meetings, to dances, to church
revivals, to its current use as a courtroom.  Though not designed
specifically as a courtroom, it was far superior to some of the other
places that were put to that use in small, western communities, such as
schoolrooms or even saloons.

     Coit stared out over his desk at the two tables that had been placed
in front of the room, one for the prosecutor and one for the defense.  At
the prosecutor's table he saw Brigham Foster busily arranging his notes.
At the defense table Win Coulter was sitting alone.

     "Did you dismiss Your counsel, Mr. Coulter?" Judge Coit asked.

     "No."

     "Where is he?"

     "I don't know.  I haven't seen him this morning," Win replied.

     Coit glared at Elam.  "Mr. Elam, I deem it your responsibility to have
counsel present when trial begins.  Counsel is not present, therefore I am
fining you five dollars."

     "Judge, that ain't fair," Elam protested.  "Like as not, the son of a
bitch is off drunk some'eres.  I don't know why I should be held to blame."

     "Make that fine ten dollars, Mr. Elam," Judge Coit said.  "Do you care
to go on?"

     "No, Your Honor," Elam said contritely.

     "I didn't think so.  Now, please go find him, and bring him here."

     "Yes, Your Honor," Elam said.

     Coit turned toward the prosecutor's table.  "Mr. Foster, you may
present your opening comments."

     "Wait!" a female voice called, rushing in through the back door, just
as Elam was leaving.  There was a buzz of surprise from this unexpected
interruption, and Coit looked up with an obvious expression of irritation
on his face.

     "Who called out?" Coit asked.

     "I did, Your Honor."

     When Win turned to see who it was, he saw that it was Sue, the same
young woman he had met the day before.

     "And you are?"

     "You know who I am, Your Honor."

     "Yes, Miss Davenport, I know who you are.  But I want you to state it
for the court record," Coit said, patronizingly.

     "I am Sue Davenport, daughter of the defense counsel."

     That was a surprise to Win, but what came next was an even bigger
surprise.

     "And co-counsel for the defense," she added.

     "You are co-counsel?"

     "Yes, Your Honor."

     Judge Davenport stroked his chin.  "I knew that you had been reading
the law with your father," he said.  "But I wasn't aware that you had
passed the bar."

     "I haven't passed the bar, Your Honor.  But according to the Nevada
Code, if I have the defendant's acquiescence, and your permission, I can
act as co-counsel."

     "I see," Coit said.  He looked over at Win.  "Tell me, Mr. Coulter.
Do you give this girl permission to act as your co-counsel?"

     "Why not?" Win replied.  "At least she is sober."

     The courtroom erupted into laughter, but Coit's gavel quieted them.

     "I'll have none of that in my court," he said.  He addressed Sue.
"Girl, where is your father?"

     "He'll be here shortly," Sue replied.  "He was un avoidably detained."

     "Unavoidably detained," Coit repeated.  "Yes, Your Honor."

     Coit looked at Sue for a long time then, finally, nodded his head.
"Very well, Miss Davenport, you may act as co-counsel."

     "Thank you, Your Honor.  And I have an immediate objection."

     "You have an objection?  What could you possibly be objecting?  The
trial hasn't even started."

     "Yes, sir, it has," Sue insisted, speaking, even as she was walking up
to take her position at the defendant's table.  "As I was entering the
courtroom, I heard you invite Mr. Foster to present his opening comments.
But there has been no voir dire."

     "Mr. Foster and I have already taken care of that," Coit said.  "We
questioned the jurors quite thoroughly this morning, and found them
acceptable.  I acted on your father's behalf, since he wasn't present."

     "But surely you can't-"

     "Your objection is overruled, Miss Davenport.  If defense counsel had
wanted to be present for voir dire, one of you had every opportunity to do
so.  Since neither of you showed up, I took the responsibility of
conducting voir dire for you.  Now, Mr. Foster, you may present your
opening remarks," Coit said.

     "Thank you, Your Honor," Foster said.  He stood up and looked over
toward the jury.  "Gentlemen of the jury, today you are going to be asked
to undertake an awesome responsibility.  You are going to be asked, not
only to pass judgment on a fellow human being, but to sanction the taking
of that man's life on this very day, by way of hanging.

     "However, when I present all the facts in this case, the defendant's
callous disregard for the code by which we all live, as well as the
eyewitnesses to this cold-blooded murder, then you will have no personal
difficulty in bringing forth a verdict of guilty and assessing the
punishment as death."  Foster paused for a moment, then looked over toward
Win before his dramatic conclusion.  "Death by hanging," he said.

     "Defense?"

     "What?" Sue asked, looking up as if distracted.

     "Do you have any opening comments, Miss Davenport?" Coit asked.

     "Uh, no, Your Honor.  Defense has no opening comments."

     "Very well.  Prosecution, you may proceed with your case."

     "Are you just going to sit there and say nothing?" Win whispered.

     "I've never tried a case before," Sue replied.  "But I know that
sometimes it's better to say nothing, than to say the wrong thing.  I'd
rather leave all that to my father."

     "Yes, your father.  Where is he?"

     "He, uh, had a difficult time last night.  It is taking him a while to
pull himself together this morning."

     "You mean he is hung over," Win said.

     "He is making an effort, Mr. Coulter.  If only you knew what an effort
he is making.  He will be here.  He promised me he would, and I believe
him."

     "I admire your loyalty, Miss Davenport, but the truth is, I'm probably
better off with him absent."

     "No, you're not.  My father is a good lawyer.  I will admit that he
has fallen on some bad times, but he is a good lawyer."

     Foster stood then, to call his first witness.

     "Your Honor, although I have depositions from half a dozen who were
present when Sheriff Taggert was shot, I am only going to call Jed Murphy.
I do that because all of their testimony is virtually the same.  Should
defense counsel wish to question any of the others, prosecution has no
objections."

     "Call your witness, Counselor," Coit said.

     "Prosecution calls Mr. Jed Murphy."

     Jed Murphy was a man of average height and weight.  He was about
thirty-five, though a lifetime of hard work made him look older.  He raised
his right hand to be sworn.

     "You swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth, so help you God?" the clerk asked.

     Murphy spit a wad of tobacco into the spittoon, then wiped his mouth
with the back of his hand before he answered.  "I do."

     During the questioning that followed, Murphy told how he had been
standing at the end of the bar nearest the door.  He heard a shot from
outside, and, turning, saw Taggert staggering, back-pedaling through the
batwing doors.  He fell on a table, by his weight and the force of his
fall, broke it into two pieces, then wound up on his back, on the floor.

     "Did Sheriff Taggert say anything?" Foster asked.

     "No, he was deader'n shit by the time he hit the floor," Murphy said.
There was a tittering of laughter from the gallery.

     "You say you heard a shot from outside.  How many shots did you hear?"

     "One."

     "Only one shot?"

     "That's all."

     "Is it possible that there were two shots, but fired almost
simultaneously, thus giving the illusion of one shot?" Foster asked.

     "I don't know how that could be."

     "Why is that?"

     "Taggert didn't even have his gun out.  It was still in the holster
when he hit the floor."

     "Thank you, Mr. Murphy.  I have no further questions."

     "Miss Davenport?" Coit asked.

     As Sue approached the witness, Murphy turned toward the judge.
"Judge, are you goin' to let this here girl ask me questions like she was a
lawyer?"

     "As far as You are concerned, Mr. Murphy, she is a lawyer," Coit
replied.  "And you will answer accordingly."

     "Yes, sir.  Well, I'll say this.  I ain't never seen a prettier lawyer
anywheres," Murphy said.  Again the gallery laughed, and they were quieted
this time only by a warning glare from Judge Coit.

     "Mr. Murphy," Sue began.  "Did you hear any exchange of words between
Sheriff Taggert and Mr. Coulter?"

     "Naw.  It was too noisy inside the saloon.  First thing I heard was
the shot."

     "And you saw nothing?"

     "Yeah, I saw something.  I seen Taggert come backin' through the
doors."

     "But, of the actual shooting, you saw nothing?"

     "No, that happened out front, on the porch."

     "Then you cannot testify as to who drew first, can you?"

     "Girly, I didn't have to see it to know who drawed first.  I tole you,
the gun was still in Taggert's holster."

     "Isn't it possible that Mr. Coulter saw Taggert starting for his gun,
but drew his own gun so quickly that Taggert was stopped before he could
draw?" Sue asked.

     Murphy looked at Sue in total surprise.  "Are you tryin' to say this
here Coulter fella is so fast that he could draw and shoot before Taggert
could even clear leather?"  He laughed.  "That's the most damn fool notion
I've ever heard," he said.  The gallery laughed with him.

     "No further questions, Your Honor," Sue said, her cheeks flaming as
she returned to the defense table.

     "Redirect, Mr. Foster?"

     "No redirect," Foster replied.  "Your Honor, despite the obvious
inexperience of the defense counsel, I would like to point out that she did
bring up one salient point.  Neither Mr. Murphy, nor anyone else in the
saloon, actually witnessed the shooting.  But there is one person who did
see the shooting, and that will be my final witness.  Prosecution calls to
the stand the widow, Mrs. Abby Martindale."

     Abby Martindale was a dried up, pinch-faced, perch-mouthed woman.  Her
hair was combed back into a severe bun, and a pair of rimless glasses
rested on the end of her nose.  After being sworn, she took her seat in the
witness chair.  As she waited for the cross-examination to begin, she
fidgeted with the dark gray, high-collared dress she was wearing.

     Foster got up from his table, and hooking his thumbs in his vest,
approached the witness chair.  He smiled and nodded, deferentially.

     "Now, Mrs. Martindale, I realize that it is a difficult thing to
testify in a case like this, and I want you to know how much I appreciate
your agreeing to do so."

     "I'm only doing my Christian duty," Mrs. Martindale replied
self-righteously.

     "To be sure," Foster replied.  "Now, on the night Sheriff Taggert was
murdered."

     "Objection, Your Honor," Sue interrupted.  "It has not been
established that Sheriff Taggert was murdered, only that he was killed."

     "Sustained," Coit said.

     "Very good, Miss Davenport," Foster said.  Looking at her, he clapped
his hands slowly and patronizingly.  "I'm sure your father, if he were here
... and sober, would be pleased with you.  And you are quite correct, my
comment was prejudicial.  Therefore, I will rephrase my question."  He
turned back to the witness.  "Now, Mrs. Martindale, on the night Sheriff
Taggert was," he paused and looked over toward Sue as he said the next
word, setting it apart from the rest of his sentence, "... killed ... were
you in your apartment?"

     "I was."

     "And, what night was that?"

     "That would have been Tuesday night, the eighteenth," Mrs. Martindale
replied.

     "Let the record show that Mrs. Martindale has established the date on
which Sheriff Taggert was killed as Tuesday, June the eighteenth," Foster
said.

     "So ordered," Coit said.

     Foster turned back to Mrs. Martindale.  "How far is your apartment
from the front porch of the Double Eagle?"

     "Not very far at all," Mrs. Martindale answered.  "My business
establishment is just next door to the Double Eagle.  Before my husband
died, he was half owner of the Double Eagle.  After he died, I sold my
husband's interest to Mr. Thomas, the current owner of the Double Eagle,
and I used the money to buy the dressmaking and alteration shop I now run."

     "Would you say you are close enough to the entrance to be able to hear
a conversation that might have taken place on the front porch?"

     "Yes, when the window is raised in my apartment, I can easily hear
conversations from the front porch of the saloon.  In fact, I have
overheard some quite shocking things."

     "I'll say.  You've gotten more than one husband in trouble with that
wagging tongue of yours," someone in the gallery shouted, and all laughed.
With a stern glare and pounding gavel, Coit restored order.

     "On the night of the eighteenth, Mrs. Martindale, did you have cause
to raise the window?"

     "Yes.  As you may recall, it was quite warm that evening," Mrs.
Martindale replied.

     "Did you hear anything of interest on that night?"

     "I heard Sheriff Taggert and another man talking."

     "The other man that you overheard, is he now in court?"

     "Yes."

     "Can you point him out for the court?"

     Mrs. Martindale looked over toward the defense table at Win.  Then she
pointed at him.  "That is the man."

     "Thank you, Mrs. Martindale.  Your Honor, let the record show that
Mrs. Martindale has identified the defendant, Win Coulter, as the man she
overheard having a conversation with Sheriff Taggert."

     "So ordered," Coit replied.

     "Was there anything about their conversation that caused-"

     "If it please the Court, Your Honor, I have Mr. Davenport!" Elam
suddenly shouted, interrupting the proceeding as he pushed in, importantly,
through the back door.


                                Chapter 13


     "Mr. Davenport, you are late," Coit SAID.

     "I beg your pardon, Your Honor, but I was unavoidably detained."

     "More'n likely, he was unavoidably hungover," someone in the courtroom
said just under his breath, and the others laughed.

     Coit silenced the court with his gavel, then he looked at Dexter.
"Are you intoxicated, Mr. Davenport?"

     "I am not intoxicated at the moment, Your Honor," Dexter said.

     "Approach the bench, please."

     Dexter walked down to the front of the courtroom and stood there while
Judge Coit looked him over.

     "Let me smell your breath," Coit demanded.

     "With all due respect, Your Honor, I ... uh ... was intoxicated last
night and there may be some residual odor.  I submit that smelling my
breath is not a valid test."

     Coit studied Dexter for a long moment.  "All right," Coit finally
said.  "You don't appear to be intoxicated.  And due to the court's
awareness of your current economic conditions, I will not fine you for
contempt for being late.  However, Mr. Davenport, you are put on notice.  I
will not tolerate any further disregard of this court.  Do you understand?"

     "I do, Your Honor."

     Coit nodded toward the defendant's table.  "You may take your seat
with your client and your co-counsel," he said.

     "Thank you, Your Honor."

     "Prosecution may continue."

     "Clerk, would you read back my last question, please?" Foster asked.

     The clerk read in a monotone voice: "Was there anything about their
conversation that caused and that is as far as you got."

     "Thank you.  Mrs. Martindale, was there anything in their conversation
that caused you to pay particular attention to what they were saying?"

     "I don't understand the question."

     "Were their words loud or angry?"

     "Loud?  Angry?  No," Mrs. Martindale replied, "but they were
frightening."

     "They weren't loud or angry, but they were frightening?  How so?"

     "The words were cold and calculating," Mrs. Martindale said.

     "Cold and calculating.  Would you say they were killing words?"

     "Objection," Dexter called out.  "Prosecution is leading the witness."

     "Sustained."

     "All right, I'll strike that.  We'll go with cold, calculating, and
frightening.  Did there seem to be a disagreement between them?"

     "Yes," Mrs. Martindale said.

     "And what was the disagreement about?"

     "Evidently Mr. Coulter wanted to go into the saloon, but the sheriff
was opposed to that."

     "What makes you think that?"

     "I heard the sheriff say, 'Mister, I told you, you ain't comin' in
here and that's just the way it's goin' to be.'"

     "How did Coulter respond?"

     "He didn't say anything," Mrs. Martindale said.  "So the sheriff spoke
again.  'Time's runnin' short,' the sheriff said.  'What are you goin' to
do?'"

     "Was there a reply to that?" Foster asked.

     "Yes.  Mr. Coulter said, 'I'm going to do just what I told you I was
going to do.  I'm going in there to get myself some supper and a couple of
beers.  Now, you can either step aside and let me by, or stay where you are
while I come through you.'"

     Foster turned toward the jury and held his finger up.  "Step aside and
let me by, or stay where you are while I come through you," he said.  He
turned back to Mrs. Martindale.  "What was said next?"

     "Nothing was said next," Mrs. Martindale replied.

     "Nothing?  You mean nothing else happened?"

     Mrs. Martindale shook her head.  "I didn't say that.  I said no more
words were spoken.  The next thing I knew, there was a gun in Mr. Coulter's
hand.  I saw the flash and heard the sound of the shot."

     "Then what?"

     "Then Mr. Coulter passed out of my view, going into the saloon."

     "Now, Mrs. Martindale, and this is very important," Foster said.  "Did
you see who drew first?"

     "Yes.

     "And, who drew first?"

     "Mr. Coulter drew first," she said.  "One moment there was nothing in
his hand, and the next moment ... almost as quick as thought, he was
holding, and shooting his gun."

     "Thank you," Foster said.  He looked over at the defense table.  "Your
witness, Mr. Davenport."

     Dexter got up from the defense table and walked over to Mrs.
Martindale.

     "Mrs. Martindale, did you see Sheriff Taggert start to draw?"

     "No."

     "You didn't see him draw, because in fact, you didn't see him at all.
Is that correct?"

     "Objection!  It has already been established that Mrs. Martindale was
a witness through her window that night!"

     "I submit, Your Honor, that Mrs. Martindale was a witness to only
one-half of the drama.  One of the reasons I was late this morning, is
because I asked Mrs. Martindale's maid to allow me into her apartment so I
could examine the window through which she witnessed the shooting.  In
doing so, I discovered an interesting fact.  From the chair Mrs. Martindale
occupies during her window eavesdrops, her view of the front of the saloon
is limited.  She can see the front steps to the porch, but, because of the
porch roof, a significant part of the porch is blocked from her view."
Dexter then turned his attention back to the witness.  "You heard them both
speaking that night, but, you didn't actually see Sheriff Taggert.  That's
true, isn't it, Mrs. Martindale?"

     "Well, yes, if you mean did I actually see the sheriff, then the
answer is no.  He wasn't in my direct view."

     "That being the case, it is very possible that Sheriff Taggert started
his draw before Mr. Coulter, but you didn't see it."

     Mrs. Martindale shook her head.  "Based on what I was seeing and
overhearing, I just don't think that is the way it happened.  I stand by my
statement that Mr. Coulter drew first."

     "I see," Dexter said.  He started back toward his table then he
stopped and looked back at her.  "Mrs. Martindale, you didn't actually see
Mr. Coulter start his draw either, did you?"

     "I beg your pardon?"

     Dexter closed the rest of the distance to his table, then read from
his notes, "You said, and I quote, 'One moment there was nothing in his
hand, and the next moment ... almost as quick as thought, he was holding
and shooting his gun.'  By your own account Mrs. Martindale, Mr. Coulter
was so fast, that you didn't see him start his draw.  You saw only the
conclusion ... when the gun was actually in his hand.  But a conclusion
must have a beginning.  He obviously started his draw, even though you
didn't see it.  Isn't that correct?"

     "Yes ...  I ...  I suppose that is so," Mrs. Martindale agreed.

     "So then, if you didn't see either man begin their draw, it is
impossible for you to say who drew first."

     "I ...  I guess so."

     "Thus, Mr. Coulter's statement that Sheriff Taggert drew first remains
unchallenged by any eyewitness," Dexter said triumphantly to the jury.  He
turned back toward Mrs. Martindale, who was still sitting in the witness
chair.  A look of confusion had replaced what had been an expression of
smug correctness.

     "Thank you, Mrs. Martindale.  No further questions," Dexter said as he
sat down.  Smiling in support, Sue put her hand on her father's arm.

     "Redirect, Mr. Foster?" Coit asked.

     Foster stood, but he didn't leave his table.  "Mrs. Martindale, before
the incident the other night, did you ever have occasion to see Sheriff
Taggert use his gun?"

     "Yes, when my husband was alive and running the saloon.  I was witness
to a gunfight between Sheriff Taggert, Lee Trevett, and Angus Pugh."

     "Yes, I remember that.  In fact, you gave testimony in court in regard
to that shooting, did you not?"

     "I did."

     "On that occasion, by his speed and skill with a pistol, Sheriff
Taggert prevailed over not one, but two would-be assassins?"

     "Yes.

     "So, even if, as defense claims, you were unable to see Sheriff
Taggert on the night of the eighteenth, you have in fact seen him in action
before."

     "Yes, I have."

     "Now, on the night of the eighteenth, you saw Mr. Coulter, which means
you have seen both men under similar conditions.  Based upon your
observation, which of the two do you think is the faster?"

     "Objection!" Dexter said.  "Your Honor, you can't ask a person to make
a comparison based upon seeing one person draw at one time and another at
another time.  She would have to see both of them at the same time!"

     "Your Honor, I'm not really asking the witness to make a comparison in
the sense Mr. Davenport is thinking.  She has already testified that she
believed Coulter drew first.  I am just providing her with the empirical
evidence that will allow her to substantiate the belief she has already
stated."

     "Defense objection is overruled," Coit said.

     "Exception!  To allow such convoluted logic would be a gross
miscarriage of justice," Dexter shouted.

     "Be very, very careful with me, Mr. Davenport," Judge Coit warned,
shaking his finger at him.  "I have said I will allow Mr. Foster's argument
to stand and that's it."

     "Thank you, Your Honor," Foster said.  "I have no more questions."


                                Chapter 14


     Ben Anders climbed up onto a rock from which he could see for nearly
two miles back across the desert.  A small rise hid everything beyond that
point.  "See anything?" Moe Jacoby asked.

     "No," Anders answered.

     Jacoby, a short, hairy man with gray eyes and a pug nose took the last
swallow from a whiskey bottle, then tossed it against a nearby rock.  The
bottle broke into two pieces.

     "Goddammit, Jacoby, what for'd you break that bottle?" Anders asked,
looking around at him.  "We could'a got us five cents for it back in town."

     "Five cents," Jacoby snorted.  "If you'd sell that gold tooth of
your'n, you get a lot more than five cents."

     "I ain't goin' to sell my gold tooth.  If you're so all-fired anxious
to sell somethin', we could sell that watch you got."

     "You keep your hands off my watch.  Anyhow, the deal we got goin' now
is goin' to bring us more money than your gold tooth or my watch," Jacoby
said.

     "Yeah, well, I ain't seen no money yet."

     "All we have to do is take care of the Coulters, and we'll get our
share," Jacoby insisted.  "Now, look again."

     "We ain't got Win Coulter to worry about now.  He'll be hung before
nightfall."

     "Don't count your chickens before they hatch," Jacoby cautioned.
"When you shot his horse, you thought the son of a bitch would die on the
desert, but he didn't.  You should'a killed him when you had the chance."

     "Who would'a thought he would make as far as he did?" Anders replied.
"Anyway, the judge'll take care of him."

     "That leaves Joe Coulter for us."

     "Maybe he ain't comin'," Anders said.

     "He's comin'," Jacoby said.  "I can feel it in my gut.  He is out
there, and he's close."

     Anders climbed down from the rock and walked over to his horse.  He
slipped his rifle out of the saddle holster.

     "What are you fixin' to do?" Jacoby asked.

     "If he's really comin', like you say he is, I don't aim to let him get
any closer'n a rifle shot."

     "Yeah," Jacoby agreed.  "Yeah, that's a good idea.  We'll just shoot
the son of a bitch down, soon as he comes into range."

     The two men, with rifles in hand, climbed back up onto the rock which
afforded them, not only a good view of the approaching trail, but also some
cover and concealment.  They checked the loads in their rifles, eased the
hammers back to half-cock, then hunkered down on the rock and waited.

     "Let 'im come up to no more'n about a hundred yards," Jacoby
suggested.  "We got all the advantage.  He don't have any idea we're here."

     "I still say he ain't comin'," Anders said.

     At that moment, a rider came into view over a distant rise.

     "He ain't, huh?" Jacoby said with the smug air of "I told you so."
"Then who is that?"

     "Son of a bitch!  It's him!" Anders said.  He raised his rifle to his
shoulder.

     "Hold it!" Jacoby said, reaching out to pull the rifle back down.  "Be
patient.  You shoot now, you won't do no more'n spook him.  Let him get
close, like I said."

     "All right," Anders said, nervously.

     They waited as the distant rider came closer, sometimes seeming not to
be riding, but rather floating as he materialized and dematerialized in the
heat waves that were rising from the desert floor.

     On he came, to a mile, half a mile, a quarter mile.  Jacoby raised his
rifle and rested it carefully against the rock, taking a very careful aim.
"Just a little closer," he said, quietly.  "A little closer before we
fire."

     Anders shifted position to get a better aim.  As he did so he
dislodged a loose stone, and the stone rolled down the rock, right into the
largest, unbroken piece of the whiskey bottle.  The stone shattered the
glass and it made a loud, tinkling noise.

     "Goddammit!" Jacoby shouted angrily.  "You dumb bastard, you just gave
away our position!"  He raised up and fired his first shot.

     The sound of the crashing bottle reached Joe Coulter's ears at about
the same time Jacoby reared up to fire.  Joe could see that ahead, on the
trail, a man was holding a rifle pointed at him.

     "What the hell?" he shouted, pulling his pistol at the same time.  He
snapped off a shot, knowing he was out of range, hoping only to make the
ambusher hurry his own shot.  The ploy worked.  Jacoby fired quickly, then
dropped back down behind the rock.

     Joe slid down from his horse quickly, slipping his rifle from the
holster as he did so.  Slapping his horse to get him out of the line of
fire, he ran, bending over, toward a nearby rock formation.  Two shots
whined off the rocks just as he got behind them.  The shots were so close
together that, even though he had only seen one man, he knew that there
were at least two of them laying for him.

     Joe raised up and fired his rifle toward the place where the shots had
come from, even though he didn't have a target.  Looking around, he saw a
dry creek bed.  If he could make it there, he could work his way up closer
to the ambushers without coming under their fire.

     "Anders, you dumb son of a bitch!" Jacoby swore.  "Iffen you hadn't
kicked that rock down we would'a had him by now."

     "Hell, I'm not the one put the bottle there," Anders said.  "Where is
he, anyhow?"  Anders stuck his head cautiously over the rock and looked
down where the target had been.  "Where is he?  I can't see him."

     "I don't know," Jacoby admitted.  "I saw him get behind that rock, but
I ain't seen him since."

     "There's a dry creek bed down there.  I seen it when we come through,"
Anders said.

     Jacoby looked toward him.  "A dry creek bed?  Damn, he could be right
on us before we even knew it."

     Anders shook his head.  "I don't think so," he said.  "It curves away
a long time before it gets up here."

     No sooner were the words out of Anders' mouth than there was a puff of
smoke and the bark of a rifle from a clump of bushes not too far distant.
The bullet hit the rock right in front of them, then hummed off, but not
before shaving off a sliver of lead to kick up into Anders' face.

     "Ow!  I been hit, I been hit!" Anders called, slapping his hand to his
face.  "I been shot right in the jaw!"

     Jacoby looked at him, then laughed.

     "What do you think is so goddamned funny?" Anders complained.

     "You are.  You are funny," Jacoby said.  "You ain't been hit.  That
ain't nothin' but a shaving."

     Two more bullets hit the rocks then and chips of stone flew past them.

     "I don't like this," Jacoby said.  "He's gettin' too damn close."
Jacoby fired a couple of shots toward the bush just below the puff of gun
smoke.

     "Hey, Jacoby, look down there," Anders said.  "Ain't that his horse
comin' back up the road?"

     "Yeah," Jacoby said.  He giggled.  "This is great!  Shoot the horse!
We'll just leave the son of a bitch out here to die."

     "That didn't work the other time.  What makes you think it'll work
this time?" Anders asked.

     "Do you have a better idea?" Jacoby challenged.

     "No," Anders admitted.

     "Then shoot the goddamned horse."

     Both men started shooting at the horse, but the animal was still a
couple of hundred yards away and slightly downhill.  As a result, it wasn't
hit, though the bullets striking the ground nearby caused the horse to turn
and run toward the shelter of a bluff, a quarter of a mile away.

     "Dammit!  We missed!" Jacoby said.

     Another bullet hit the rock, very close beside them.

     "Let's get the hell out of here!" Anders shouted.  He started running
for his own horse.

     "Anders!  Come back here!" Jacoby called, chasing after him.

     Seeing the two men start to run, Joe tracked them with his rifle,
firing at the man in the lead.  That man went down, but the other made it
to his horse.  He kicked his horse into motion and in just a few seconds
was behind a rocky ledge, out of the line of fire.

     "Don't leave me, you bastard!" the one on the ground shouted.  "Don't
you leave me!"

     Joe approached the man on the ground, holding his weapon pointed
toward him.  Seeing him, the man sat up and threw up his hands.  "Don't
shoot, don't shoot," he begged.  "I'm hurt.  I'm hurt bad."

     "Your name is Anders?" Joe asked, when he reached the wounded man.

     Anders looked surprised.  "How do you know my name?"

     "You two boys weren't exactly keepin' secrets," Joe said.  "I heard
the other man call your name.  Why did you ambush me?"

     "You got to get me to the doctor," Anders said, without answering
Joe's question.  "If this wound ain't treated, I could wind up losin' my
leg."

     "That's right, you could," Joe said laconically.  Putting his rifle
down, he knelt beside Anders.  He cut the trouser leg away with his knife
and saw the ugly black hole where the rifle bullet had gone into the flesh.
The bullet had come out the other side.  There was a good amount of blood,
but it wasn't pumping as it would have been had an artery been hit.  And
there didn't appear to be any shattered bone.  Joe ripped up some more of
Anders' trouser leg and used it to make a bandage, tying it in place with
strips of cloth.

     "You aren't hurt all that bad," he said.

     "The hell I ain't.  What do you know about it, anyway?"

     "I've treated gunshot wounds before."

     "Yeah, well, you ain't ever treated one of mine."

     "The one who got away," Joe said.  "What was his name?"

     "Why the hell should I tell you that?"

     Joe pulled his gun and put the barrel of his pistol to Anders'
forehead.

     "Because I will shoot you if you don't."

     "You're bluffing."

     Joe cocked his pistol.  "When you get to hell, say hello to Quantrill
for me," he said, matter-of-factly.  His finger twitched on the trigger.

     "No, wait!" Anders screamed as he pissed in his pants.  "His name is
Jacoby.  Moe Jacoby!"

     Joe eased the hammer down on his pistol.  "Now, Anders, why are you
trying to kill us?"

     "Why does anyone do anything?  For money," Anders explained.  He was
still shaking with fear.

     "Money?  Where are you going to get money from killing us?  There's no
paper out on us out here.  How do you expect to collect a reward?" Joe
asked.

     "A reward?  Who's looking for a reward?" Anders asked.

     Joe was confused.  "You said you were trying to kill us for money.  If
there's no reward, where is the money coming from?"

     "Are you kidding?" Anders replied.  "Hell, you should know better'n
anyone where the money is coming from."

     Joe had no idea what Anders was talking about, but he decided to let
it drop for the moment.  Instead, he went over to Anders' horse and started
to mount.

     "Hey, wait a minute!  What are you doin'?  You're stealin' my horse,"
Anders asked.

     "I'm just borrowing it to ride down to collect mine," Joe said.  "I'll
be back in a minute or two."

     "How do I know you will be back?  You could be lyin', plannin' to
leave me out here."

     "I could be," Joe said, easily.

     Joe rode down to where his own horse stood, quietly waiting.  He got
off Anders' horse and mounted his own, then returned, leading the animal he
had borrowed.

     "You come back.  I didn't figure you'd come back," Anders said.

     "Get on," Joe ordered.  "We're going into Horseshoe."

     Anders mounted with some effort, though Joe was of the opinion that
Anders was letting on as if he was hurting much more than he was.

     Joe's opinion was right.  Anders was playing for time, looking for the
right moment.  When Joe turned away from him, Anders figured that the right
moment had arrived.  He pulled a hidden pistol from his bedroll and fired
at Joe.

     Until that moment, Anders' plan had gone well.  He had caught Joe by
surprise, pulling and firing his pistol before Joe even realized that a
second gun existed.  But he missed, and that was his error.  His fatal
error, as it turned out, because even as Anders' bullet was whizzing by
Joe's head, Joe was already turning, his pistol blazing in his hand.

     Joe's bullet caught Anders in the chest, knocking him from his horse
and killing him before he even hit the ground.

     Joe rode over to Anders' body and looked down at it.  He gave a
passing thought to burying him, then shrugged.  Let the buzzards have the
bastard.


                                Chapter 15


     "A demonstration?" Coit asked.  "What sort of demonstration?"

     "A demonstration of my client's expertise with the pistol, Your
Honor," Dexter said.

     "Let me see if I understand this.  You are asking me to put a weapon
in the hand of your client ... put a gun in the hand of a known killer, so
he can give us a demonstration of his skills with that instrument?"

     "Yes, Your Honor," Dexter replied.

     "What makes you think I would even consider such a ridiculous
request?"

     "Because, Your Honor, my entire case depends upon it," Dexter said.
"Prosecution claims that Mr. Coulter drew first.  He had to draw first,
prosecution argues, because no man alive is fast enough to have beaten
Sheriff Taggert.  But it is our contention that Mr. Coulter is fast enough
to have done that very thing."

     "Your Honor, what would a demonstration accomplish?" Foster asked.
"If the court watches him pull a pistol from his holster, we might all
agree that he is fast, perhaps faster than anyone any of us have seen.  But
it would prove nothing, because he would be drawing alone.  There would be
no standard by which we could make our assessment."

     "You have a point, counselor," Judge Coit agreed.

     "Your Honor, we have considered that very thing," Dexter said.  "In
fact, that is the point I tried to make when I suggested that Mrs.
Martindale could not judge the relative speed of the two men, based upon
watching them perform individually.  But, I believe we have crafted a
demonstration that would accommodate that concern."

     "What sort of demonstration would that be?" Coit asked.

     "It is a demonstration suggested by my client," Dexter replied.  He
walked back over to the table and picked up a pie pan and a silver dollar.
He put the pie pan, upside down, on the floor.  The gallery buzzed in
curiosity.  "What's the pan for?" someone asked.  "What's he aimin' to do?"
another questioned.

     "This is how the demonstration will work," Dexter explained.  He stuck
his hand out in front of him.  "My client will hold his hand straight out
in front of him, like so, palm down."  With his other hand, Dexter held up
the silver dollar.  "This coin will rest on the back of his hand, like
this."  Dexter put the coin on the back of his hand so that he was now
holding it out in front of him.  "When he turns his hand to start for his
gun, the silver dollar will fall toward the pie plate.  Mr. Coulter will
then draw his pistol and shoot two times, hitting his target both times
before the silver coin strikes the pie plate."

     Dexter turned his hand.  Then, even though he wasn't wearing a gun and
holster, he acted as if he were drawing and shooting a pistol.  Pointedly,
the coin clanked against the pan before Dexter could even raise his hand
back up from the imaginary holster.  The gallery laughed at his failure.

     "Why, that's impossible," Coit said.  "You couldn't even do it without
a gun ... let alone actually draw and shoot."

     "That is true, Your Honor, I couldn't, and I daresay there are few who
could.  Therefore, such an exhibition, if successfully performed, would
clearly demonstrate my client's speed and skill with a pistol, would it
not?" Dexter asked.

     "Mr. Coulter," Coit asked, leaning over his desk and looking over
toward the defense table.  "Can you actually do such a thing?"

     "I think I can," Win replied.

     "You think you can?" Coit repeated.

     "I'm pretty sure I can."

     "I think I'd like to see that."

     "Your Honor, I strenuously object!" Foster said.  "I could see
allowing him to make a demonstration with an empty pistol.  But what you
propose now, is giving him a loaded gun.  Do you understand the gravity of
this?  You are actually going to let him have bullets in that gun!"

     "Mr. Foster, you are the one who said that a demonstration with an
unloaded pistol would be a waste of time," Coit reminded him.

     "Yes, but ... to give an accused murderer a loaded gun?"

     "The court will take every precaution," Judge Coit promised.  "Deputy
Elam."

     "Yes, Your Honor?"

     "While the demonstration is in progress, you will stand nearby.  At
all times, your pistol will be drawn, and aimed at Mr. Coulter.  If he
deviates one iota from the script as outlined by Mr. Davenport, you will
shoot him."

     Elam smiled broadly.  "Yes, sir, Your Honor, it will be my pleasure,"
he said.

     "This court will take a five-minute recess," Coit said.  "At the
conclusion of that five minutes, we will reconvene out on the street in
front.  At that time, and in that place, Mr. Coulter will demonstrate his
prowess as a marksman."

     Coit rapped on the table, then got up and retired quickly.  When he
was gone, the rest of the court stood then started toward the back door,
buzzing in excitement over the unexpected entertainment.

     Outside of the courthouse the finishing touches were being put on the
gallows.  The judge had already made it clear that not only did he intend
to find Win guilty today, he intended to hang him today as well.

     "Mr. Coulter, I have to tell you that I am worried about this," Sue
said as she, Win, and her father walked out under the watchful eye of
Deputy Elam.

     "What is there to worry about?" Win asked.

     "If you stop and think about it, this is a loaded situation.  Even if
you can do what you say, we will still have to make a case for
self-defense.  But if you can't do it, the prosecution will be able to
claim that their case is already made."

     "I'm afraid my daughter might be right," Dexter said.  "I'm now
beginning to wish that I had not listened to you when you came up with this
idea."

     "The problem is the bell has been rung and we can't unring it," Sue
said.  "If you back out now, it's the same as admitting defeat."

     "Then, I'll just have to do it, won't I?" Win said.

     By now, the entire court had reassembled in the street in front of the
courthouse, to include the judge, clerk, and jury.  A paper target was put
on a wagon, and the wagon was pulled away, approximately fifty feet.

     "Your Honor, I object," Dexter said, when he saw the position of the
wagon.  "At the time of the actual shooting, the two belligerents were no
more than ten feet apart.  You've put this target much too far away."

     "I've put it there for the safety of the observers," Coit said.  "I
can't see that its location should make that much difference."

     "Hell, it would for me," someone in the crowd said.  "I doubt if I
could even hit the wagon from here, let alone that little target."

     The others laughed, but Judge Coit's fixed glare forestalled any
additional comments.

     "Johnson?" the judge said to one of the men in the crowd.  "Yes, sir?"
Johnson replied.

     "Take all the bullets but two from your gun, then hand your pistol and
belt over to the defendant."

     "Your Honor, I ask that the defendant be allowed to use his own gun
and holster," Dexter said.  "After all, this is no small feat we are asking
of him."

     "Where is his gun and holster?" Coit asked.  "I will not hold the
proceedings up any longer while you send someone for it."

     "I have it with me, Your Honor," Sue said.  Reaching into her
oversized reticule, she pulled out Win's holster and pistol, tied up with
its own belt.

     "Bring it to me," Coit instructed.

     Sue handed it to him.  The judge checked the cylinders and, satisfied
that only two chambers were charged, handed it back to Sue.  "Deputy Elam,"
Coit said.  "Draw your pistol and point it at the defendant."  Elam drew
his gun and pointed it at Win.

     "Now, Miss Davenport, you may give Mr. Coulter his pistol."

     Sue handed the gun and holster to Win.  Win smiled at her, then
strapped the rig on.  He loosened the gun in his holster, a couple of
times, then nodded at Dexter.  Dexter put the pie pan on the ground in
front of him, then handed Win the silver dollar.  Win stretched out his
hand and put the coin on the back of his hand.

     "Are you ready, Mr. Coulter?" Judge Coit said.

     "Wait, I can't do it like this," Win said.  The crowd buzzed at Win's
answer.  "I knew he couldn't do it," someone said.  "Hell, no man could,"
another added.

     "Then, I take it you are ready to admit defeat?" Coit asked.

     "No, that's not what I meant," Win answered.  He was still holding his
hand out in front of him.  "I meant that in order to do this I need an
element of danger.  Nothing makes a gunman faster than the thought that if
he doesn't succeed, he'll be killed."

     "Do you have a proposal as to how we may add that element of danger?"
Coit asked.

     "I do," Win answered with a smile.  He looked over at the deputy, who
was still pointing his pistol at Win.  "Elam, if I don't pull my gun and
shoot the target before you hear the coin hit the pie pan, I want you to
shoot me."

     "What?" Sue asked.  Her incredulous response was met with a buzz of
excitement and disbelief from those in the crowd.

     "Mister, you gone plumb loco?  Elam would like nothing more than to
shoot you," someone said.

     "Yeah, and how do you know he won't start shooting even before he
hears the coin clank?" another asked.

     "What'll I do, Judge?" Elam asked, unsure of himself.

     "You heard the man, Deputy," Coit replied.  "If he doesn't get his two
shots off before the coin hits the pie pan, shoot him."

     Elam smiled broadly.  "Yes, sir, Your Honor.  I'll do that gladly!"

     "Win!  Have you gone crazy?" Sue asked in alarm.  Win looked over at
her and winked.

     "Alright, ever'one back out of the way," Coit said.  "Mr. Coulter,
anytime you're ready."

     At the time everyone started filing out of the courtroom, the
carpenters were still working on the gallows.  But word spread quickly as
to what was about to happen, so the carpenters abandoned their saws and
hammers and came down to watch.  At the same time, drinkers left the
saloon, clerks and customers quit the stores, men came from the livery and
the freight company, housewives abandoned their washing, and children ran
from the school to see the show.  Like ants swarming to a sugar cube, the
crowd in front of the courthouse swelled to well over two hundred people.
In fact, the only citizens of the town who weren't present, were those few
who were too sick, too old, or too young.  And now, as they waited for the
demonstration, the whispered buzz of excitement stilled, and the crowd
became absolutely silent.  A sign squeaked in the wind.  Time itself,
waited.

     Then, suddenly, Win turned his hand, and the crowd drew a collective
breath as the coin started falling toward the pie pan.  In the blink of an
eye, the gun was in Win's hand.  It cracked once ... twice ... then the
coin hit the pan.  It was all over before the crowd realized that Win's
first shot had not been at the target, but at the gun in Elam's hand.  It
was not until Elam shouted out in pain and anger that everyone realized
what happened.

     "You ... you son of a bitch, you shot me!" Elam shouted, holding his
hand.  A trickle of blood was running down from his middle finger.  It had
been creased just enough to make him drop the gun, though the finger had
not been crushed by the impact of the bullet.

     "He hit the target dead center," someone called from down by the
wagon.  That had been Win's second shot.

     There was a spontaneous burst of applause, silenced only when Judge
Coit was able to regain control.

     "Deputy, retrieve your pistol," Coit said.  Grumbling, Elam did as the
judge asked.

     "Now, if you would, please escort the prisoner back into the court."


                                Chapter 16


     As court members and gallery filed back into the community building,
they were still expressing awe and disbelief over what they had just
witnessed.

     "In all my born days, I ain't never seen nothin' like that."

     "I didn't think it was humanly possible for anyone to be that fast."

     "Sheriff Taggert was fast, but he wasn't nowhere near to being that
fast."

     Even the members of the jury, men who were supposed to be impartial
witnesses, expressed their amazement over what they had just seen.

     Judge Coit called the court back to order, then directed that the
trial continue.  Dexter Davenport was invited to give his summation.

     "Gentlemen of the jury, the law is very clear," Dexter began.  "In
order to bring a verdict of guilty, you must establish a trinity of events.
You must establish that Coulter had the opportunity to kill Taggert ...
that he had the means to kill Taggert ... and finally, the motive to kill
Taggert.  You heard Mrs. Martindale testify that Coulter and Taggert stood
face to face on the front porch of Double Eagle saloon.  Defense will
stipulate, therefore, that this did present Coulter with the opportunity to
kill Taggert.  But I ask you to remember this.  Coulter's horse was killed
out in the middle of the desert, and he was forced to walk nearly twenty
miles in blistering heat ... without water ... to get here.  I submit to
you therefore, that this was an opportunity born of fate, not of
aforethought.  You are trying a case of first degree murder.  And, without
malice and aforethought, there ... can ... be ... no ... conviction.

     "Secondly, we must consider if he had the means to kill Sheriff
Taggert.  Defense will also stipulate that yes, Mr. Coulter did have the
means.  In fact, we just witnessed a remarkable demonstration in which Mr.
Coulter proved to us that he had the means to best Taggert in a gunfight,
even if Taggert drew first.  If Taggert drew first, there ... can ... be
... no ... conviction.

     "It is Mr. Coulter's contention that Taggert did draw first, and we
have no direct eyewitnesses who can testify to the contrary."

     Here, Dexter paused and stared hard at each member of the jury, all of
whom were sitting spellbound by his oratory.  "If there is the slightest
chance that Coulter might be telling the truth ... then that alone is
sufficient to cast a shadow of doubt over his guilt.  Remember that,
because if there is the slightest doubt, there ... can ... be ... no ...
conviction.

     "And now, to the third branch of our trinity.  We have discussed
opportunity and means.  Let us now discuss motive.  All three elements must
be considered in bringing about a guilty verdict.  And, while we will
stipulate as to opportunity and means, the lack of motive is glaring.  What
was Win Coulter's motive?  Why cross a barren desert just to kill Sheriff
Taggert?

     "The answer is, he wouldn't have.  The only reason he killed Sheriff
Taggert, was because Sheriff Taggert was trying to kill him.  And that
isn't motive, that is self-defense.  And if Coulter acted in self-defense,
there ... can ... be ... no ... conviction."

     As in each of the previous times, Dexter set the words of his mantra
apart, allowing them to sink in.  After an extended silence, he resumed his
summation.

     "And finally, before you render your verdict, I ask each and every one
of you to look deep into your inner souls.  Consider all that I have told
you.  The burden of proof is upon the prosecution.  If there is the
slightest chance that you believe Mr. Coulter's story ... that you believe
he was braced on the front porch of The Double Eagle saloon ... and that he
did not draw his gun until he perceived his life to be in mortal danger,
then there ... can ... be ... no ... conviction.

     "Thank you."

     Sue was smiling proudly at her father as he returned to his chair
behind the table for the defense.  Win leaned over to him.

     "You've done a good job for me, Mr. Davenport," he said.  "Regardless
of how this comes out, I couldn't have asked for a better lawyer."

     "Thank you, my boy," Dexter said.  His eyes were misted over with
tears.  "Odd, how things work out, isn't it?  I am trying hard to save your
life, and in so doing, I may have just saved my own."

     "Prosecution, your closing remarks?" Judge Coit invited.

     Standing, Brigham Foster looked over toward the defense table.
"Before I address this court, Your Honor, let me first congratulate Mr.
Davenport on the fine and spirited defense he has put up for Win Coulter.
To those of us who have grown accustomed to seeing him drunk, it is
heartening to see him sober."

     "That was a backhanded compliment if I have ever heard one," Sue said
under her breath.

     "I don't think it was a compliment, dear," Dexter replied.  "Wait for
the other shoe to drop.  Mr. Foster is far too calculating for empty
compliments."

     Foster approached the jury.

     "Some of you may have wondered how a man of Dexter Davenport's obvious
intelligence and talent could have fallen so far.

     "To answer that question, we must go back to a trial that took place
in this very building, two years ago.  At that trial our positions were
reversed.  Davenport, until then, a fine, upstanding lawyer and leading
citizen of Horseshoe, was prosecuting.  I, the younger and more
inexperienced lawyer, was defending.

     "The defendants were Sheriff Taggert and Moe Jacoby.  You see,
gentlemen of the jury, Sue Davenport thought Luke Taggert would make a fine
husband, so, she threw herself at him, only to have him reject her.  And,
as the saying goes, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

     "Sue Davenport then took revenge upon the sheriff by accusing him of
raping her.  But, her fury was so great that she didn't stop with Taggert.
The accusation took in Mr. Jacoby as well.  Now, rape is a foul crime, and
society is justifiably harsh with the perpetrators of such an act.  But,
because of that very harshness, we must also be certain that the accusation
is true.  Alas, the charges brought against Sheriff Taggert and Mr. Jacoby
by Sue Davenport were proven, in this very court, and with this very
judge," Foster pointed to Coit, "to be false.  Luke Taggert and Moe Jacoby
were exonerated.

     "Dexter Davenport had fought hard to uphold the honor of his daughter,
but he was fighting an uphill battle, because truth has a way of winning
out over even the cleverest and most skilled lawyer.  Unable to face the
humiliation his daughter had brought down upon them, Dexter Davenport took
to drink.  The result of his failing battle with demon rum is the poor
wretch we all know today.

     "You may be wondering, gentlemen of the jury, why I told you this
story.  I told it, not to further embarrass Mr. Davenport, but to supply
you with that missing element in the trinity that the defense counsel so
clearly laid out for us.  If you will recall, Mr. Davenport stipulated as
to means and opportunity.  But where, he asked, was the motive?

     "The motive, gentlemen, is right here."

     Dramatically, Foster pointed to Sue Davenport.

     "Win Coulter killed Sheriff Taggert to avenge this vindictive woman."

     "What?" Sue shouted out loud.

     "Objection!" Dexter yelled.

     Coit banged his gavel.

     "Mr. Davenport, Miss Davenport, silence during summation."

     "Your Honor, this isn't summation, this is a new charge.  None of the
information the prosecutor spoke of was introduced during the trial."
Dexter looked at Foster.  "Are you accusing my daughter of hiring this man
to kill Sheriff Taggert?"

     "No, not at all," Foster said quickly.  "Indeed, I am positive she is
innocent of it.  I contend that Coulter did it on his own, without the
prior consent of Sue Davenport, perhaps in hopes of winning her favor.  She
is, after all, a very beautiful young woman."

     "Your Honor, this is preposterous!" Dexter said.  "Neither my daughter
nor I had ever met, nor even heard of Mr. Coulter before this trial began."

     Foster looked at the men in the jury.  "Is it preposterous, gentlemen?
Suppose I told you that on the very next day after Sheriff Taggert was
killed ...  Sue Davenport was seen kissing Win Coulter through the bars of
his jail cell by none other than Judge Coit himself?"

     "That's true," Coit said.  "I did see them kissing."

     After the reaction from the gallery, Foster continued his summation.
"Despite Miss Davenport's questionable background, I don't think anyone is
ready to believe that she is a woman of such loose morals that she would
kiss a man whom she met for the first time."

     "My daughter is not a woman of loose morals, and you know that!"
Dexter shouted in anger.

     "Indeed, I do know that, sir," Foster replied, almost patronizingly.
"That is why I submit that there had to be some earlier collusion ...
either inferred by your daughter ... or imagined by Win Coulter.  I am
willing to believe that it was imagined by Win Coulter.  But in any case,
it does provide the motive you so ardently suggested was missing.  And in
so doing, satisfies the requirements for the jury to find a verdict of
guilty of first degree murder."  Foster turned back toward the jury.  "And
with that, gentlemen of the jury, I rest my case."

     Brigham Foster's fiery and scathing accusation, stunned the gallery,
and they sat in absolute silence as Foster returned to his seat.

     Judge Coit began his instructions.

     "You have heard the case as presented by both defense and prosecution.
It is not necessary for you to consider who killed Sheriff Taggert, for
that issue is not in contention.  Clearly, Sheriff Taggert was killed by
Win Coulter.  The only thing you must decide is whether this killing was
murder, or self-defense.

     "If, somehow, you can overcome the clear evidence that Sheriff
Foster's gun was still in his holster when he died, and actually believe he
drew first, then it is self-defense, and you must acquit.

     "On the other hand, if you think that the fact that Sheriff Taggert's
gun was still in its holster is compelling physical evidence that he
couldn't have started his draw, it is murder, and you must convict.

     "The first consideration, it seems to me, requires a suspension of
belief.  The second consideration requires merely the acceptance of the
preponderance of evidence.  "You may now retire to consider the verdict."

     "My God!" Dexter said under his breath.  "Coit has just all but
ordered the jury to return a verdict of guilty."

     The jury met in the farthest corner of the room to deliberate.  Deputy
Elam stood guard to keep away the many people who wanted to offer their own
suggestions.  In the meantime, Win, Dexter, and Sue waited at the defense
table.

     "I want to apologize to you, Mr. Coulter, for having your name dragged
through my own, personal slime and mud," Dexter said.

     "I don't think anyone will actually believe Foster's claim that there
is a connection," Win said.

     "On the contrary," Dexter said.  "There is an element of truth in what
he said.  When Taggert and Jacoby ..."  he looked at Sue, then paused.  Sue
reached across the table to put her hand on his.

     "You can say it, Pa," she said.  "When they raped me."

     Dexter nodded.  "When those two monsters raped my daughter, they
thought they could get away with it because they were representatives of
the law.  I, on the other hand, was a pompous, arrogant fool.  I was
absolutely positive that the law they proposed to uphold, the very law that
I revered, would turn upon those despoilers of the sacred trust and take
care of them."

     "That's the trial Foster was talking about?" Win asked.

     "Yes," Dexter said.  "I lost the case, and Taggert and Jacoby went
free.  I failed my own daughter when she needed me most."  Dexter hung his
head in shame, and a tear began to slide down his cheek.

     "You didn't fail me, Pa.  The jury was frightened of them," Sue said.
"We never had a chance with the jury."

     "I'm talking about after the trial," Dexter said, and he put his other
hand on top of Sue's to squeeze it.  "I failed you when I started drinking.
I've no excuse for the way I have behaved these past two years.  When you
needed me most is when I was at my worst.  I can only beg you to forgive me
... and promise you that, beginning now, I am going to make every effort to
regain my life ... and my dignity."

     Father and daughter were in the midst of an embrace when someone
called out.

     "The jury is coming back!"

     Win looked toward the corner of the room where the jury had been
meeting and saw that the twelve men were returning to the area that had
been set aside as the jury box.

     "Order in the court!" the clerk shouted, and the milling, buzzing
throng of people quickly took their seats to see what verdict the jury
would deliver.

     "Defendant will rise," Coit said.

     Win stood.

     "Face the jury."

     Win turned toward the jury.

     "Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?" Coit asked.

     "Yeah, we have."

     Coit glared at the foreman of the jury.

     "You will address this court with respect," Coit demanded.

     "Oh, uh, yeah, I mean, yes, sir ... uh ... yes, Your Honor."

     "Publish the verdict, please."

     "What?" the foreman asked, confused by the term.

     "Please tell the court your verdict."

     "Well, by a vote of nine to three, we find the defendant not guilty."

     The gallery reaction was immediate as dozens of voices sounded.

     "Damn, Dexter, you done it!" someone from the gallery shouted.

     "No," Dexter said, speaking under his breath.  He was shaking his
head.  "This isn't right.  There's something wrong here."

     The loudest voice of all was coming from Foster.  He continued to
shout until Win was able to hear what he was saying.

     "Objection, Your Honor, objection!  The verdict must be unanimous!"

     "Is that right?" Win asked.  "Does it have to be unanimous?"

     "I'm afraid so."

     "Your Honor, I call for a mistrial!" Foster shouted.

     "What does that mean?  A mistrial?" Win asked.

     "It means we have to do this all over."

     Coit began banging his gavel, and he continued to bang it until the
courtroom was absolutely quiet.  When you could hear a pin drop, he looked
over toward the jury.

     "Is there any chance of the twelve of you coming up with a unanimous
verdict?"

     The foreman shook his head.  "There ain't a chance in hell, Judge.
They's nine of 'em says he ain't guilty, and they ain't goin' to change
their minds, no matter what we say to 'em."  The foreman then looked over
at Win.  "But then, they's three of us says Coulter is guilty as hell, and
we want to see the son of a bitch hung."

     "Very well, this jury is dismissed," Judge Coit said.

     "Your Honor, you are declaring a mistrial?" Dexter asked.

     Coit looked first at Davenport, then at Foster.  "Declaring a mistrial
would mean empaneling a new jury.  And, like as not, we'd have the same
problem with them as we had with this jury.  No mistrial."

     "No mistrial?  Your Honor, you mean you are going to let the verdict,
as brought by the jury, stand?" Foster asked.

     Sue smiled broadly and spontaneously hugged Win.  "We won!" she said.

     "No, I don't think so," Dexter said in a quiet voice.  He held his
hand out.  "Wait."

     "I have decided to dismiss the jury and render a summary judgment,"
Coit said.  "My summary judgment is guilty."

     "What?  Your Honor, you can't do that!" Dexter shouted.  "I'm going to
appeal!"

     "You can appeal all you want, Mr. Davenport, but it will be too late
to do your client any good.  Mr. Coulter, I find you guilty, and I sentence
you to hang by the neck until dead.  That sentence to be carried out at
four o'clock this afternoon.  That is ..."  Coit looked up at the wall
clock.  "Two and one half-hours from now.  May God have mercy on your
soul."


                                Chapter 17


     "Stop that!" The little girl in pigtails said.

     The young boy who had tied the girl's pigtails together, ran away,
giggling in delight.

     "Mama, look what Johnny did," the little girl tattled.

     "Johnny, if you don't behave yourself, I'm going to make you go home,
and you won't get to see the hanging," Johnny's mother scolded.

     "No, Mama, don't make me go home.  I want to stay and watch," Johnny
protested.

     "Then stop pestering your little sister," the woman ordered.

     "All right, I'll leave the little baby alone," Johnny said
sarcastically, sticking his tongue out at his little sister, who stuck her
tongue back at him.  Leaving her and his mother, Johnny hurried over to
join another group of young boys, all of whom were occupying a position in
the very front of the crowd.

     "You think he'll make a noise when he gets hung?" one of the boys
asked.

     "Nah, he can't make no noise," one of the others answered.  "The
rope'll be chokin' 'im, so he can't say a word."

     "How much longer?"

     "Don't know.  Not much."

     The gallows the boys were standing by was an unpainted, fresh-smelling
structure built of new wood.  A stairway of thirteen steps led to the
gallows floor.  It stood high and occupied a prominent position in the
middle of the street, right in front of the community center, where earlier
Win Coulter had been tried, convicted, and sentenced to hang.

     It was not quite three-thirty, but already the crowd was thick and
jostling for position.  There were men in suits, shirtsleeves, and
overalls, women in long dresses and bonnets, and children, not only Johnny,
his sister, and the group of fascinated boys, but other, younger children
who threaded in and out of the crowd as they chased one another around the
gallows.  A few enterprising vendors were selling lemonade, beer, pretzels,
popcorn, and sweet rolls.

     Half a block away from the gallows, in the Horseshoe jail, Elam, who
by now had been given the position of sheriff, was standing at the front
window looking out onto the street.  Behind him, on the bunk in his cell,
Win sat, calmly paring an apple.  One long, connected peel hung down from
the apple.

     "Hey, look at this," he said enthusiastically.  "This may be the
longest single peel I've ever done."

     "What?  Why are you doing that?" Sue asked in an exasperated voice.
"I can't believe this.  They are about to hang you and you ... you are
talking about a long apple peel."

     Both Sue and Dexter were in the cell with Win, allowed this privilege
by Judge Coit because they were his lawyers.  Sue was standing by the
window that looked out over the alley behind the jail.  Dexter was sitting
on an overturned water bucket.

     "Well, long apple peels can sometimes pay off," Win said easily.  "I
won a dollar once for having the longest peel.  I beat Frank James by
almost a full inch."

     "Stop it!" Sue said, turning toward him.  "Don't you understand what
is about to happen to you?"

     Win finished the peel, then lay it on the bunk beside him.  He looked
up at Sue.

     "Of course I know what is about to happen to me, Sue," he said.  "I'm
about to be hanged."

     "And you aren't concerned?"

     "Not particularly."

     "I don't understand that.  You must be insane."  Practically wringing
her hands, Sue turned to her father.  "Pa, we used the wrong tactic.  We
should have pled him not guilty by reason of insanity."

     "I'm not insane, Sue," Win said, his voice still calm.  "But you have
to realize that I have faced the prospect of instant death for nearly all
of my adult life.  First in the war, and then in the life I have lived
since the war.  You can't be worrying about it all the time.  So, I have
made a conscious decision to treat death for what it is, a fact of life
that is always there, waiting for all of us."

     "That's an abstract concept," Sue said.  "What I am talking about is
real.  It is right here, right now."

     Win looked over at the clock on the wall of the sheriff's office.
"No," he said, shaking his head.  "It isn't here yet.  I've got nearly half
an hour remaining."

     "Half an hour?  Half an hour?  Half an hour is nothing!"

     "That's where you are wrong.  The next half an hour is the rest of my
life."

     "No, I just can't accept that!" Sue wailed.

     "Let's not give up hope yet, honey," Dexter said, speaking for the
first time.  "I've sent a telegram to Governor Bradley.  In it, I made it
clear, in no uncertain terms, that this trial was a total miscarriage of
justice.  And, you might be interested to know that Brigham Foster joined
in the appeal."

     "Foster did?" Win asked.

     Dexter shook his head.  "Foster is a good man.  He prosecuted as
vigorously as he could, because that was his job.  But in the final
analysis, he is a man of principle and ethical courage.  He, too, believes
the case should have been declared a mistrial."

     "Why haven't we heard from the governor?" Sue asked.  "We should have
heard from him by now.  Are you sure he hasn't answered?"

     "Honey, as soon as he answers, we will know.  Billy, down at Western
Union, will run it down here immediately."

     "Suppose Governor Bradley does grant us a stay, can we count on Judge
Coit to abide by it?" Sue asked.

     "He'll have to.  If the governor orders a stay, Coit will have no
choice but to comply," Dexter said.  "Especially as Brigham Foster backs me
on this."

     The front door opened then and the hangman came in.  He was smiling
broadly.

     "I'll bet there are three hundred people out there, waiting for the
show," Tatum said to Elam and the others as he walked over to the coffeepot
to pour himself a cup.

     "That's what you call it?  A show?" Sue asked.

     "I call it a show, because that's what it is," Tatum said, coming over
to stand just outside the cell.  "Whenever somebody sees a hangin', why,
that's somethin' that will stay with them for the rest of their lives.
It's entertaining and educational.  And it stars just two people.  The
hangman."  He made a slight bow.  "That's me.  And the person gettin'
hung."  He swept one arm toward Win.  "That's him."

     "You actually enjoy this, don't you?" Sue asked incredulously.

     "Oh, indeed I do, madam, indeed I do," Tatum said.  "There's no
greater satisfaction in life than for someone to take pleasure in the work
they do.  I take pleasure in my work, and I'm very good at it."

     "What's good about it?" Dexter asked.

     "The dignity of the moment," Tatum said.  He looked again at Win, who,
as yet, had not joined the conversation.  "When I send you off to see your
maker, Mr. Coulter, you can be sure that I'll do it in a dignified manner."

     "Yeah, thanks," Win answered.  "I'd been worried about that," he added
sarcastically.

     "Hey, Tatum," Elam called back from the front of the jail.  "Here
comes Judge Coit."

     "Wonder what he wants?" Tatum asked.

     "Pa!  Maybe the stay has come through from the governor," Sue
suggested excitedly.

     "I don't know.  It could be possible," Dexter said, showing some hope.

     Win, who had now cut his apple into sections, began to eat it.  He
made no comment as to the possibility that the governor may have responded
to Dexter's telegram, nor did he show any reaction.

     When Coit came in, he walked straight over to the jail cell where he
stood, alongside Tatum, just outside the cell.  "Davenport, did you and
Foster wire the governor behind my back?" he asked.

     "Yes, we did," Dexter said.  "Has there been an answer?"

     Coit chuckled.  "Oh yes, there's been an answer.  It seems that the
governor is an overnight guest for dinner at a nearby ranch, and they won't
be able to deliver the message to him until he returns tomorrow.  Looks
like it's going to reach him too late to make any difference."

     "Too late?  What do you mean, too late?"

     "Coulter's going to hang today," Coit said.

     "Judge, surely you aren't going to go through with it now?  You have
the authority to delay this until tomorrow," Dexter said.  "I beg of you to
do so.  Give us a chance to hear from the governor."

     "I have no intention of changing my ruling.  The execution takes place
at four o'clock, as planned," Judge Coit said.  He pulled a watch from his
pocket and examined it.  "That's less than fifteen minutes now.  Sheriff
Elam?"

     "Yes, sir?"

     "I suggest you get this prisoner down to the gallows.  Mr. Tatum, it
is time for you to go to work."

     "It will be my honor," Tatum said.

     Elam came over to the jail cell and opened the door.  "All right,
Dexter, Miss Davenport, you folks, come on out of there now," he said.
"Your visitin' time is over."

     With a dolorous expression on his face, Dexter looked at Win.
Hesitantly, he stuck out his hand.  "Good-bye, Mr. Coulter.  I'm sorry I
couldn't have done more for YOU."

     Win shook it.  "You've done all you could, and I've been grateful," he
said.

     Sue approached Win, started to hug him, then, unable to face him,
turned away with a little sob.  Dexter was providing what comfort he could
for his daughter as they left the jail.

     "Turn around," Elam ordered, and as Win did so, Elam tied his hands
behind his back.  "All right," he said.  "Let's go."

     With a shotgun poking into his back, Win walked the half block that
separated the jail from the gallows.  As he passed through the crowd of
onlookers, he studied their faces.  He saw pity in some, and horror in
others, but morbid fascination in most.  He smiled at a little girl with
pigtails.  Frightened, the little girl turned her face into her mother's
skirt.

     "Get up there," Elam growled, prodding him with sharp pokes in the
back from the shotgun.

     "Do you want a hood?" Tatum asked, holding up a piece of black cloth.

     "No," Win replied.  "When I get to hell, I want to look the devil
right square in the face."

     "Oohh," a woman in the front gasped at hearing such blasphemy.

     In the distance a hawk called, and Win looked toward him and saw him
flying free.  Then an amazing thing happened.  Win felt that somehow he and
that bird had exchanged places, so that he was the one flying around,
looking down on the proceedings.  He felt totally detached from what was
going on.

     He reconnected with himself, though, when he saw Joe riding one horse
toward the gallows and leading another.  Joe was smoking a cigar and
holding something in his hand.  Win saw his brother touch the smoldering
cigar to one of the objects in his hand, then throw it.  That was when he
realized that Joe was carrying several sticks of blasting powder.

     As Joe was coming up behind the crowd, no one but Win had even noticed
him.  Therefore, when the first stick exploded, no one was expecting it,
and there were several screams of surprise and fright.  Almost immediately
on the heels of the first explosion, there was a second, then a third.

     "What is it?  What's going on?" someone shouted.

     Casually, and with a big grin spread across his face, Joe tossed a
stick right in front of the gallows.  Its sputtering fuse cleared out what
was left of the crowd.  He tossed still another stick up onto the gallows
floor.  It rolled across the floor to Win's feet, then stopped.  Win could
hear the fuse sparking and smell the burning cordite.  Elam and the hangman
were both on the gallows floor with Win.

     "Holy shit!" Elam shouted, jumping off the edge of the gallows.
Tatum, with his own cry of alarm, was right behind him.

     "Get on," Joe said easily, leading the second horse right up to the
gallows.

     Win's hands were still tied behind him, but the height of the gallows
made it easy for him to just walk over and slip down onto the saddle.

     "Hurry," Win said.  "The fuse is almost down."

     "Don't worry about it," Joe replied with a chuckle.  "That one isn't
real."  Joe rode away from the gallows then, still leading the second horse
because Win, with his hands tied behind him, couldn't hold the reins.

     They were no more than a few feet away when the stick of blasting
powder Joe had tossed onto the gallows exploded.  It went up with a roar,
scattering shattered pieces of the lumber all over the center of town.

     "Damn!" Win shouted, as chunks of wood, some of it rather large,
rained down on them.  "I thought you said that one wasn't real!"

     "I must've gotten them mixed up," Joe said easily.

     "That's a hell of a thing to get mixed up."

     "You want to stay around here and talk about it, big brother?  Or do
you want to get the hell out of here?"

     "Let's get the hell out of here," Win agreed, and using his legs for
leverage, he held on as well as he could while Joe led them both out of
town at a full gallop.


                                Chapter 18


     "Do you see anything from there?" Joe called.  Win, who was clinging
to the top of the telegraph pole looked back in the direction from which
they had come.

     "I'm not exactly riding the back of a hawk up here, Joe.  I don't have
that much better of a view than you do."

     "Yeah, well I don't see anything from down here," Joe said.  "I
figured sure, they would be after us by now."

     "Not if Elam has to get the posse together," Win replied.  "He
couldn't pour piss out of a boot if he had the instructions written on the
heel."  Win leaned around the pole and, using his knife, cut the telegraph
wire.  It fell to the ground with a twang, then Win climbed back down.

     "There," he said.  "This is the third section of wire we've removed.
It'll take them a day or two to repair it.  By the time they can send out
any telegraph messages about us, we'll be well out of here.  What do you
say we head south, toward Arizona?"

     Joe took a drink from his canteen, then screwed the top back on and
hooked it across his saddle pommel.  "All right," Joe agreed.  "But not
until we go through Tybo."

     "Tybo?  Why do you want to go there?"

     "For the same reason I wanted you to meet me there, instead of me
coming to Reveille," Joe said.  He opened his shirt pocket and took out the
little peanut-sized nugget.  "For this," he said, handing the nugget to his
brother.

     Win looked at it.  "Damn, Joe," he said.  "This is gold."

     "It damn sure is," Joe said as a wide grin spread across his face.  "I
told you I was goin' prospectin' while you were going to be gallivanting
around back in Missouri.  Well, I did go, and this is what I found.  This
... and a whole lot more like this."

     "How much more?" Win asked.

     "Well, if what Mr. Dempsey says is true, we might be talking in the
neighborhood of fifty to a hundred thousand dollars or more."

     "That's a pretty good neighborhood to be in," Win said.

     "Yeah," Joe said.  "That's what I was thinking."

     "It won't do us much good, though, if we're picked up soon as we ride
into Tybo," Win said.

     "You've never been to Tybo, so the chances are you won't even be
recognized," Joe said.  "Besides, there's no posse comin' after us, and,
like you said, we've cut the wire in a couple of places.  It'll be a couple
of days before word can even get out, and that's all we'll need."

     "Then, lead on, McDuff, lead on," Win said as he swung into his
saddle.

     "McDuff," Joe said.  "Yeah, I remember him.  He was that redheaded guy
from Springfield, wasn't he?"

     Win laughed.  "Yeah, something like that."

     The two brothers spent the night on the trail and rode into Tybo early
the next morning.  As they passed by the cluster of small houses that sat
just on the outskirts of town, a couple of women were talking back and
forth as they hung out their wash.  When they heard the hollow clump of
hoofbeats, they halted their conversation and looked curiously over at Win
and Joe.  Smiling, Win touched the brim of his hat and nodded.

     From those two houses, and the dozen or so others nearby, came the
aroma of breakfast: bacon, coffee, eggs, and freshly baked biscuits.

     Joe felt his stomach rumble with hunger.

     By the time they reached the downtown area, a few of the merchants
were already beginning their day's commerce.  The hardware dealer raised
dust with a vigorous use of his broom as he swept his front porch, while
the grocer was using a chalkboard to post distress prices on the produce he
had to move that day, or lose by spoilage.  Both merchants nodded at the
two brothers as they rode by.

     A derelict, just awakening from his overnight drunk, pissed on the
side of the leather goods store, totally unconcerned about his public
exposure.

     A dog scratched his fleas.

     A prospector riding one mule and leading another, plodded down the
street.

     "Nobody has gotten excited over seeing us yet," Win suggested as they
stopped in front of the Tybo Corral.  The liveryman, still holding a cup of
coffee came out to greet them.  Wearing bib overalls and no shirt, he
reeked, not only with body odor, but a few other, unidentifiable foul
smells.

     "How long?" he asked, as he took the reins.

     "We'll do it a day at a time until we know," Joe replied.  He paid the
fifty cents it required to board and feed both horses for one day and
night.

     "Rub them down," Win said.

     "Always do," the stableman said.  "It's part of the job."

     When they stepped back outside, Joe pointed to a building just up the
street.  "That's Little Man Lambert's Cafe," he said.  "Why don't we have
breakfast?  If anybody is going to know anything about us, that's where
we're going to find out."

     Win chuckled.  "Joe, if I didn't know you better, I'd say that was a
good idea.  But I know damn well that all you are thinking about right now
is your stomach."

     "Well, I am hungry," Joe said.  "And you are, too, if you'd just admit
it.  Wait until you eat here.  Little Man puts out the best breakfast I
ever tasted."

     "Every breakfast is the best breakfast you ever tasted," Win teased.
As they approached the cafe, the aromas awakened Win's appetite as well,
but he wasn't about to let Joe know that.

     When Little Man saw Joe come into his cafe, he smiled broadly and
hurried over to meet him.

     "Hello, my friend!" Little Man said, shaking Joe's hand.  "It's good
to see you again."

     "Hello, Little Man," Joe said.  "I was telling my uh, friend ... here
what a good breakfast you put out."  Joe introduced Win as his friend,
rather than brother, just in case word was out to look for two brothers.

     "Coming from one with your appetite, I appreciate the compliment,"
Little Man said.  "But if your friend eats like you do, I'm afraid I'll
have to put on an extra shift in the kitchen."

     Some of the nearby diners, particularly those who had been present the
last time Joe had breakfast there, and who remembered Joe's prodigious
appetite, laughed, and told the others what Little Man was talking about.

     "You don't have to explain it to me, I've seen him eat before," Win
said.  "And believe me, I don't eat like he does.  In fact, I'm not sure
anyone eats like he does."

     "Have a seat, gentlemen," Little Man said.  "I'll bring you some
coffee, then get the cook started on your breakfast.  In fact, I'll
probably have to help him."

     Win and Joe took a table in the back of the room, sitting with their
backs to the wall, and in such a way as to afford them a view of the entire
cafe and all its entrances.

     "All right, Little Brother, this is your deal.  So, what's your plan?"
Win asked quietly as they took their seats.

     "I thought we would go down to the assayer's office as soon as it
opens," Joe replied.  "By now he'll have the final report on what I brought
in, and we'll be able to convert what I left with him to cash, over at the
bank.  That's one thousand dollars, less the hundred I got from Dempsey.
Then, we'll go up to my claim and see what's there."

     Win chuckled.  "I've done a lot of things in my life, but I never
thought I would be digging around like a miner."

     "Miner?"  Joe shook his head.  "No, Win, that's the beauty of it.  I
didn't have to dig this stuff out.  It was lying around loose, scattered in
the dry chute of a creek bed.  I just picked it up."

     Little Man came over to their table then, carrying two cups and a
coffeepot.

     "Little Man, what time does the assayer's office open this morning?"
Joe asked.

     Little Man looked up at Joe with an expression of surprise on his
face.  "The assayer's office?"

     "Yes, Mr. Dempsey.  What time does he open?"

     "Oh, my friend, you mean you haven't heard?"

     "Heard?  Heard what?"

     "It's a terrible thing.  Ronald Dempsey was killed a couple of days
ago."

     "How?"

     "He was murdered," Little Man said.

     "Any idea who did it?  Or why he was murdered?" Joe asked.

     Little Man shook his head.  "Nobody knows who it was, but ever'one
thinks it was robbery.  They say he had nearly a thousand dollars worth of
gold in his office."

     "Now, how would anyone know that?" Joe asked.

     Little Man shrugged.  "I don't know.  I just know what ever'one is
sayin'."

     "What about his records?" Joe asked.  "I filed on a claim a few days
ago."

     "Oh, you won't have any problem with that," Little Man said.  "All of
his records have been transferred to the land office.  All you have to do
is go down there with your claim number."

     "That's good to know," Joe said.

     "Have you got your claim number?" Win asked after Little Man left the
table.

     "Yep.  I've got it right here," Joe said, patting the same shirt
pocket where he was keeping his gold nugget.  "We'll go down there after
breakfast."

     A moment later, Little Man began bringing out the first round of the
boys' breakfast.  Joe didn't disappoint Little Man, nor any of Little Man's
patrons.  His breakfast was of legendary proportions, and, as he was
putting it away, Win overheard someone at one of the other tables.

     "I told you so.  Now pay up."

     "I would never have believed you, if I hadn't seen it with my own
eyes," an awed voice responded as he pulled out a silver dollar to pay off
his wager.

     After breakfast, Win and Joe started toward the land office to check
on Joe's claim.  They just stepped out of the cafe when they heard an
excited shout.

     "Coach is comin' in!  Coach is comin' in!" a male voice called.

     At the far end of the street, a coach, pulled by a team of six horses,
came sliding around the corner then up the street.  There was no real need
to hold the team at a gallop, and indeed, when the coach was out on the
road, the horses maintained a comfortable trot.  But, as the coming and
going of the stagecoach was generally an event of some interest to small,
isolated towns such as Tybo, the drivers invariably arrived and departed at
a gallop.

     Followed by half-a-dozen running kids, the horses pulled the coach at
a very rapid clip up the street, hooves pounding and wheels whirling, and
throwing back a rooster tail from the hard-packed dirt of Tybo's Main
Street.

     "Whoa!  Whoa!" the driver called to his team as the coach approached
the coach depot, which was just next door to Little Man's.  The driver
hauled back on the reins and pushed the brake lever forward with his right
foot.  The wheels began to skid, and the horses came to a shuddering stop,
then stood there, blowing hard, shaking their manes and stomping their
feet, trying to bleed off the energy that had sustained them for the last
several miles.

     "Tybo, folks!"  the driver called.  He tied off his reins, then
climbed down.  "This here is Tybo!"

     The driver opened the coach door and four passengers stepped out of
the stage.  None of the passengers meant anything to Joe, but Win saw them
and he drew a gasp of surprise.

     "I'll be damned," he said.

     "What is it?"

     Win pointed to two of the passengers.  "That's Dexter and Sue
Davenport," he said.

     Neither Dexter nor Sue had eaten their breakfast, so, after
introductions, the four of them returned to Little Man's.  Joe ordered a
stack of pancakes for himself.

     "Joe, don't tell me you are still hungry," Win said.

     "Well, I'm not really.  But I don't like to see anyone have to eat
alone.  Are you going to eat that bacon?" he asked, when he saw Sue push it
aside.

     "No," Sue answered.  "Do you want it?"

     "Not really, but I reckon it would be a shame for it to go to waste,"
Joe said, reaching for it.  He ate it in three bites.

     "I'm really surprised to see you here.  Pleased, but surprised," Win
said.  "How did you know where to find me?"

     "The first day we met, you said you were on your way to Tybo to meet
your brother when someone shot your horse," Dexter said.

     "That's right, I was.  Yeah, I guess I do remember telling you that,"
Win said.  He took a swallow of his coffee and studied Dexter over the rim
of his coffee.  "I guess I just didn't think you would remember it."

     "It's easy to see why you would think that I wouldn't remember,"
Dexter said.  "As I recall, I was pretty hungover that day.  But then, I've
been hungover every day now for nearly two years.  Except for today."

     "So, you knew where to look for me.  The next question is, why have
you come after me?  I hope you don't have some notion of trying to talk me
into going back."

     Sue laughed, and Dexter shook his head.  "Heavens no," he said.  "I'd
never do that to you.  Especially since I have this," Dexter said, taking a
paper from his jacket pocket.

     "What is that?" Win asked.

     "It's a telegram from Governor Bradley, granting you a stay of
execution, pending a new trial."

     Win laughed.  "That's nice, but if Joe hadn't taken a hand, the
governor's stay would have arrived too late.  I am curious, though.  How
did you get the message?  We cut the wires as we left Horseshoe."

     Dexter chuckled.  "Believe me, I know ...  I tried to send a telegram
ahead to Tybo, to tell you about the stay.  The truth is, Win, this wire
arrived before you left.  Judge Coit knew about it all along, but he
decided to ignore it.  Instead, he came up with that cock and bull story
about the governor being out of reach."

     "Why would he do that?" Win asked.

     Dexter shook his head.  "He obviously wanted you dead.  Have you ever
crossed paths with Judge Coit?"

     "Not that I know of."

     "Well, for some reason, he seems to have it in for YOU."

     "I don't know what you did when you got back from Missouri, Big
Brother, but you sure got a heap of folks mad at both of us.  First, those
fellas back in Reveille tried to kill you, then there were those two
sidewinders who came at me with knives ... then somebody killed your horse
and left you to die, and your run-in with Taggert, and the little fracas I
had with Anders and Jacoby."

     "Wait a minute," Sue said.  "Joe, did you say you had a run-in with
Anders and Jacoby?"

     "Yes.  Why, do you know them?" Joe asked.

     "Oh yes, I know them," Sue answered.  She shivered.  "I know one of
them too well," she added.

     "They are also court deputies," Dexter added.  "They both work for
Judge Coit."

     "Actually, only one of them works for Coit," Joe said.  "No, both of
them do," Sue insisted.

     Joe shook his head.  "Now, only Jacoby does.  I killed Ben Anders," he
said, matter-of-factly.  "You going to eat that biscuit?"


                                Chapter 19


     It had been less than an hour after Joe's bold rescue of his brother
when Dexter Davenport learned about the stay of execution.  At first,
Dexter, angry by what happened, was going to confront Coit with the
information.  But Sue had a cooler head, reminding him that if Coit knew
about it and didn't stop the hanging, then he might be dangerous to them as
well.

     Dexter agreed, and without disclosing their intentions to anyone, he
and Sue took the next coach out of Horseshoe.  They weren't sure Win and
Joe would be in Tybo, but they did know that was where Win was headed when
his horse was shot.  And that information, they kept to themselves.

     At ten o'clock the previous night, after a long, grinding ride over
rough roads, the coach stopped at a way station.  There, they were given a
meal of bacon, beans, and corn bread.  Afterward, Dexter, Sue, and the
other passengers slept fitfully on wooden benches in the waiting room.  The
hostler provided blankets for free, but the pillows rented for ten cents.

     Two hours before dawn that morning, the coach got under way again,
arriving in Tybo a little after eight.  As a result of their long, hard
trip, both Dexter and Sue were very tired.  So, after breakfast, they took
rooms in the hotel.

     As the four of them checked in, Win paid particular attention to the
room assignments.  Sue was in room 21 1.

     "We'll see you later today, after we've had a little rest," Dexter
said as he and his daughter started toward the stairs.  "In the meantime,
you boys stay out of trouble."

     "Well, if we do get into trouble, I know a couple of pretty good
lawyers," Win said.

     Dexter looked genuinely pleased by Win's response.  "Thanks," he said.

     "No, Mr. Davenport.  I thank you."

     Leaving the hotel, the two brothers walked along the sidewalk to the
Land Office, their boots clumping loudly on the wide-plank boards.  As they
passed the notions shop, a woman stepped out in front of them.  Joe
recognized her immediately.

     "Hello, Lucy," Joe said, touching the brim of his hat.

     "Joe, you've come back!" Lucy said, squealing in delight.

     "I couldn't stay away," Joe teased.

     "You broke my heart, you know," Lucy said, extending her lower lip in
a faux pout.

     "Did I?"

     "You did indeed."

     Win laughed.  "You'll have to excuse Joe, miss.  That's just the way
he is.  Why, if you just knew how he was, you wouldn't have anything to do
with him.  He has left a string of broken hearts all over the West."

     "I'm sure he has," Lucy replied.  Then, noticing Win, she smiled
seductively.  "And you have too, I'd be willing to bet," she added
flirtatiously.  "Where are your manners, Joe?  Aren't you going to
introduce me to this very handsome gentleman?"

     "This is my brother, Win."

     "Your brother?  Oh, my, I can certainly see that attractive men run in
the family.  I do hope the two of you are going to come see me while you
are here."

     "I'll come see you, all right," Joe said.  He nodded toward Win.  "But
as far as I'm concerned, Win can get his own girl."

     "I don't think he'll have any trouble doing just that."  Lucy turned
her attention back to Joe.  "I'm counting on you coming to see me, just
real soon."  She looked at Win.  "With, or without your brother."

     With a toss of her curls, Lucy hurried on down the boardwalk.

     "I see you made a friend while you were here," Win said as they
continued their walk.

     "Well, you know me, Win.  I'm a real friendly person."

     "Uh huh," Win replied laconically.  He pointed to a building just in
front of them.  "There it is.  Nye County Land Office."

     The land office was a small, two-room lean-to shack that protruded
from the side of the bank.  Just inside the door was a counter that ran
three-quarters of the way across the room.  The north and east walls had
windows, through which spilled a bright splash of sunlight.  The west wall,
which was actually the east wall of the bank building itself, was plastered
with maps of Nye County.  The back wall was lined with shelves.  A door on
the back wall led into another room.

     Win stepped over to study the maps.  Nye County was so large that it
required four map sections to cover it.  "Where is this claim of yours?"
Win asked.

     "Right here," Joe said, pointing to one of the maps.  "In the Monitor
Mountains."

     "Hard to get there?"

     "It's not a leisurely ride, but if we leave early in the morning, we
should get there before nightfall," Joe said.  Win looked around the still
empty room.  "Wonder where everyone is?  It doesn't look as if anyone is
that interested in doing business with us," he suggested.

     "Maybe they didn't hear us.  Hello?  Anyone here?" Joe called.

     There was a scurrying sound from the back room, then someone came
through the door.  "Sorry, gentlemen, I was busy and didn't hear you come
in," the land clerk apologized.  He saw that they were looking at the maps.
"Studying Nye County, are you?  If you are looking to homestead, we have
some choice sections available down in Oasis Valley.  That's right about
here," he said, crossing over to the map and pointing to the southern part
of the county.

     "We aren't looking to homestead," Joe said.

     "Oh?" the clerk replied.  "Then you are buying property somewhere?
Excellent idea, sir.  Some of the earlier property has been improved quite
nicely."

     "Not looking to buy, either," Joe said.  "I've come to pick up the
papers to my mining claim."

     "Mining claim?  Oh, yes," the clerk said.  "I'm sorry, I guess I still
haven't gotten used to the fact that those records are being kept here now.
They were moved down right after poor Mr. Dempsey was shot."  He took a
large notebook down from a shelf, blew the dust from it, then opened it.
Removing his glasses, he began to polish them with his handkerchief.  He
looked up at Joe.  "Do you have your claim number?"

     "Yes," Joe said.  "The claim number is two-five-one-four."

     The clerk put his glasses back on.  "Two-five-one-four," he repeated
as he opened the notebook.  Licking his fingers he turned several pages
until he got to the page he was looking for.  He ran his finger down the
long column of numbers.  "Ah, here it is.  Two-five-one-four.  Located up
in the Monitor Range, I believe?"

     "That's it," Joe said.  He smiled excitedly at Win.

     The clerk moved his finger over to the right side of the page.
"According to this, the claim papers haven't returned from the county seat
at Belmont."

     Joe's face reflected his frustration and disappointment.  "Not back
yet?  Why not?  How long does it take to post the claim?"

     "I know that property deeds normally return within a week," the clerk
said.  "But I really don't have any experience in dealing with mineral
claims.  If you are concerned, though, you could send a telegram to the
claims office in Belmont and make an inquiry."

     "Yes," Joe said.  "Yes, we might just do that.  Thank YOU."

     "Not at all," the land clerk replied.  "Oh, and if your mine doesn't
work out and you decide to go into farming, come back and see me.  There
are still some choice pieces of land remaining for anyone who will apply
himself."

     "Yeah, thanks again," Joe said.

     Leaving the land office, Win and Joe went directly to the Western
Union office.

     "Good morning, Mr. Stone," Joe said.

     "Good morning," Stone replied.  He stared at Joe.  "I know you, don't
I?  Didn't I send a telegram for you a few days ago?"

     "No," Joe said.  "You sold me a nostrum for a toothache."

     Stone laughed.  "A nostrum for a toothache," he said.  "Very good.
Yes, very good indeed."

     Win looked at Joe with a quizzical expression on his face.

     "It's an inside joke," Joe explained, reaching for one of the message
pads.  He carefully wrote his message and then handed it to Stone.

     "How long you think it'll be before I hear back from them?" he asked.

     "From the clerk of claims and deeds?" Stone replied.  He looked up at
the clock on the wall.  "Knowing how they work, it'll take 'em a while
before they get around to even reading your message.  Then they'll have to
go through the records.  I doubt you'll hear anything back from them before
mid to late afternoon."

     "Then we'll see you this afternoon," Joe said.

     "You take care of that toothache now," Stone called out, laughing at
the joke.

     Once outside, Joe rubbed his hands together and smiled.  "Well,
nothing to do now but wait," he said.  "So what do you say we pay a call on
Lucy and some of her friends?"

     "And just what kind of call would that be, Little Brother?  Social or
business?" Win asked.

     "Win, with ladies like Lucy and her friends, social calls are business
calls."

     Win chuckled.  "That's what I thought."

     "I like it like that.  There's no misunderstanding, no beating around
the bush.  You know what you want, and they know what you want.  So, what
do you say?  Shall we make that visit?"

     "You go ahead," Win said.  "I think I'll just wander around on my own
for a while."

     "Have it your own way," Joe said easily.  "But as for me, when I've
got a couple of hours to kill and a room waiting, it's nice to have a
willing woman to keep you company."

     Win didn't disagree with his brother.  The only place they parted
company was on the choice of a willing woman.  Win had his own choice in
mind.  What he didn't know was whether or not his choice would be willing.

     Returning to the hotel, Win climbed the stairs up to the long,
carpeted hallway of the second floor.  Although three kerosene lanterns
burned in the hallway, their chimneys were so blackened with smoke that the
light was very dim, thus causing the hallway to be quite dark.

     The doors to each room had been red at one time, though the paint was
so distressed and flecked that it was hard to tell the color.  The door
numbers, in faded white, were difficult, but not impossible to read.  Win
stopped just outside 211 and knocked lightly.  "Just a minute," a voice
answered.

     The door was pushed open just a crack, and Win saw Sue peering
through.  When she saw that it was Win, she exhibited a brief moment of
surprise, which gave way to a broad smile.  Stepping away from the door,
she opened it to let him in.  As soon as Win was inside, Sue stuck her head
out into the hall and looked both ways.  Satisfied that no one had seen him
enter, she closed the door.

     "I was hoping you would come," she said.  Sue was wearing a
white-cotton nightgown, which, though opaque, was so thin that he could see
the impressions her nipples made in the soft cloth as it draped across her
breasts.

     "I wasn't sure you would be interested in, uh, company," Win said.

     "Oh, I'm interested," Sue said.  "The fact is, you got my comb red the
first time I ever saw you."  Without another word, she crossed her arms,
grabbed a handful of cloth, then pulled her nightgown over her head.  As a
result of that action, she was standing before him, completely,
beautifully, and unashamedly, naked.  "The question is, are you
interested?" she asked.

     Win let out a long, slow, whistling breath.  "Yes, indeed.  I would
say that I am very interested."

     "Win, I know you must consider me a brazen hussy," Sue said.  "First,
by the way I kissed you when I first met you in jail, and now this.  But I
can't help myself."

     "No, I don't consider you a hussy at all.  Just friendly," Win
replied, smiling at her.  He put his hands on her breasts, then bent over
to brush his lips across them, moving from one to the other.

     Sue's body began twitching in pleasure, and she put her hands behind
Win's head, pulling him to her, guiding him from side to side.  Then, even
as he was kissing her breasts and sucking her nipples, Win began undoing
his trousers and pushing them and his underwear down to the floor.

     Sue helped him get undressed, then she grabbed his swelling shaft and
squeezed it.

     "Oh my," she breathed.  "I guess you really are interested, aren't
you?"

     "I told you I was," Win said.  "And I never lie to a beautiful naked
lady."

     Sue laughed.  "Why is it that I believe you have seen a lot of
beautiful naked ladies?"

     "Doesn't matter how many I've seen," Win said.  "I'm only looking at
one now."  He picked her up and carried her over to the bed.  Lying beside
her, he put his hand on her inner thigh, then moved it up.  He slid his
finger through the lips of her sex, feeling the slickness of her desire.
She moaned with pleasure and, grabbing his penis, began moving her hand up
and down his shaft, feeling its throbbing heat.  For fully a minute, Win's
fingers teased, probed, stroked, and massaged until Sue was squirming in
uncontrollable desire.

     "Win," she finally said, her voice trembling with passion.  "Win,
please ...  I can't stand the agony.  I want you in me now."

     Obliging her, Win moved his body over hers.  As he lowered himself
into position, Sue guided him into the accommodating damp folds of flesh
that hid the center of her womanhood.  It was well lubricated with the
copious flowing of her sex and when Sue put her hands behind Win's butt and
pulled forward, he slipped in easily.  She thrust up against him and pulled
him deeper into her.

     "Oh, yes!" she said in one long sigh of ecstasy.

     Win felt as if he had just dipped his wick in a vat of hot wax.  It
was a wonderful, delicious sensation, and as Sue writhed in her own rapture
beneath him, he put his mouth to her neck.  He could feel her neck muscles
twitching, and he opened his mouth to suck on the creamy white flesh.  He
could hear the gasps and moans of pleasure from this beautiful creature
beneath him, and she continued to raise her hips wildly to meet his every
thrust.

     Win heard Sue's gasps and moans rise in intensity, and he could tell
by the increase in her movements and the spasmodic action of her hips that
she was nearing orgasm.  He rode with her, and when she peaked, her
contractions sucked the juices from deep within Win's body.  It was a
total, all-consuming orgasm, and for an instant he felt keenly with every
inch of his body that was in contact with Sue's naked skin.

     Win lay on top of Sue for a few seconds, then rolled to one side.  He
put his arm out and Sue cuddled against it.  His hand was positioned just
over her breast, and Sue reached up and brought it down so he could massage
it.

     "All the time we were in court, I was imagining this," Sue said.  "I
knew it would be like this.  I just knew it would."


                                Chapter 20


     Lucy met joe in the downstairs drawing room of the sporting house
where she worked, then led him upstairs to her room.  From his position
behind her, Joe could watch her butt wriggle inside the snug fit of the
dress she was wearing.  "My room is down the hall ..." Lucy said.  "On the
left," Joe interrupted.  "I remember."

     "You do?  I'm flattered," Lucy said.  "I'm sure you've been in your
share of such rooms."

     Lucy unlocked the door, then pushed it open, inviting Joe to go in
first.  The room, just as Joe remembered, was considerably larger than a
normal hotel room.  It was dominated by a four-poster bed, covered with a
bright comforter.  There were curtains to match, hanging at the windows.

     The windows on the back wall looked out onto a freight company, its
yards busy with departing and arriving wagons.

     "You just going to stand there all day?" Lucy asked.  "Or is there
something I could do that might get you interested in me?"

     When Joe turned back around, he saw her working on the buttons at the
back of her gown.  She watched him with smoky eyes and a provocative grin
as she undid the last button and let the gown fall to her waist, exposing
her large breasts.  She started pushing the gown down over her hips,
squirming as she did so, causing her breasts to jiggle.

     "You plannin' on doin' this with all your clothes on?" Lucy asked.

     Joe grinned crookedly.  "I guess it would be better if I shucked out
of them," he said.

     Joe was out of his clothes so quickly that Lucy barely had time to
flip the scarlet coverlet back.  Then they were in bed together and,
without any further preliminaries, he moved on top of her as her legs went
around his waist and her hands slid up from his ribs to grab him just below
the shoulders.  Then, reaching down, she helped him make the connection.
He pushed in, hot and hard, deep into her, then pulled back slowly and held
himself for a second before thrusting into her again.  After that, he
established a steady pace of long, powerful thrusts and withdrawals.

     Supporting himself above her with his hands, he enjoyed the
perspective, watching every thrust as it reverberated through her, her big
breasts jiggling, erect nipples pointing up at him.  He managed to keep
himself just below climax, pacing himself so it would last, so he could
bring her with him.

     Joe felt Lucy's fingernails rake down across his ribs, saw her grin
widen to a pleased leer as he jerked in response.  He took her with him,
right up to where he was, hanging on the edge, hot and blood-pounding with
lust.

     Joe slid one arm under the small of her back, lifting her up from the
bed until only her shoulders touched the sheet.  He began thrusting deeper
into her, long and slow and powerful, feeling that hot lust raging through
his brain, driving and driving into her until he saw her eyes close, saw
her hands come down to clutch at the sheet, saw her head begin to rock from
side to side, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

     And then the little cries began to come from her; he felt her ankles
lock across his back, her hands clutch the bed for leverage, and her hips
pumping frantically.  For a moment he held her to a slower pace, never
losing contact with her until, finally he let her go and felt her surge
into wild rapid lunging.

     Joe caught up to her pace, surpassed it, mastered it, then mastered
her, his own eyes closing from the heat of it.  Through the blood pounding
in his own ears he heard her wild cries as she surged up in frantic rhythm
that brought her up and over.  He came after her, lunging and thrashing in
a long final frenzy that brought them both back down on the bed.  He felt
her hands snake up around his neck, felt those big breasts heaving against
his chest, felt her shudder up against him, shudder down again, and then
leech herself to him in one final prolonged quiver, all her sleek round
curves soft against his skin.

     They lay that way for what seemed like a long time, on their sides,
her head tucked down under his.  He was still in the warm hollow of her
thighs, her legs around his waist.  A faint breeze stirred curtains at the
open window, welcome because it was well into the heat of the day.

     Lucy grinned and slid a sharp fingernail up his chest.  "You huh, a
fella like you could make me forget I'm even in the business.  This one is
on the house."

     Joe laughed, then shook his head.  "Huh uh," he said.  "When I get my
money's worth of anything, I expect to pay for it."  He reached for his
pants.  "And, darlin', you gave me my money's worth."

     "Too bad you can't take advantage of a special offer I have," Lucy
said.

     "Now, what offer would that be?"

     "My two-for-one sale."

     Joe put the money on a bedside table, then smiled at her.  "And just
what makes you think I can't take advantage of it?" he asked, moving down
to take one of her nipples into his mouth.

     "Oh, my," Lucy said, feeling him growing again.  "You are quite a
man!"

     One hour later, Win, Joe, Sue, and Dexter were having lunch together
at Little Man's.  Sue was bubbly and almost openly flirtatious with Win.  A
couple of times, Win caught Dexter looking at him, the expression in
Dexter's eyes indicating that he suspected something may have happened
between Win and Sue.  That same expression, however, said that Dexter, who
was just beginning to put his own life back together, wasn't about to
criticize his daughter for anything she might have done.

     After lunch, the four of them walked over to the telegraph office to
see if there was any reply to Joe's telegram.

     "I've got it right here," Arnold Stone said, handing Joe the message
sheet.  "I've got a feeling this isn't what you expected, though."

     "What do you mean?" Joe asked, looking at Stone suspiciously.

     "Maybe you'd better read it," Stone suggested.

     Joe read it to himself.  "What the hell?" he said.

     "Read it aloud, Joe," Win said.

     "This will confirm that all mineral rights, surface and subterranean,
now relating to claim 2514 in the Monitor Mountain range henceforth and for
a period of forty years, appertains to Judge Preston Coit," Joe read.

     "What?" Win asked.

     Joe looked up from the telegram.  "How the hell did that son of a
bitch get my claim?"

     "I don't know," Dexter replied.  "But the fact that he has explains a
few things.  Win, Judge Coit wasn't trying you.  He was using the law to
steal your brother's claim and to murder you."

     "And he damn near did it," Win said.

     "Yes, but what I want to know is ... how the hell did he know I had
filed a claim in the first place?" Joe asked.

     "Yes, and how did he know about me?  He not only knew I was your
brother, he knew exactly where to find me."

     "I might be able to answer that," Stone said.

     Joe looked at the telegrapher.  "What do you mean?"

     Stone cleared his throat.  "I, uh, am supposed to be sworn to
secrecy," he said.  "I'm not supposed to ever reveal anything that I send
or receive.  But, Mr. Jacoby does represent the law so I ... uh, thought it
would be all right."

     "What are you talking about?" Dexter asked.

     "Marshal Moe Jacoby asked me about you," Stone said to Joe.  "He knew
you had sent a telegram to someone, and he wanted to know who you sent it
to."

     "You told him, I suppose?"

     "What was I to do?" Stone asked.  "As I said, he is an officer of the
court.  I figured I didn't have any choice in the matter."

     "Yes, but how did he even know to ask?" Joe asked.

     "I didn't say anything in the telegram about the claim."

     "Maybe you didn't, but Dempsey did," Stone said.  "He was all excited
about it, and he sent a wire to the county clerk of claims and deeds,
telling about the ore that was brought in."

     "When did he do that?"

     Stone started looking through his records.  "Here it is," he said.
"He sent his telegram on the same day you sent yours.  There was less than
an hour between them."

     "You said Jacoby asked about Mr. Coulter," Dexter said.  "By any
chance, did Jacoby send a telegram?"

     "Yes, I believe he did send one," Stone said.  "It was in answer to a
message he received from Judge Coit."

     "He got one from Coit?  What did that one say?" Win asked.

     Stone shook his head.  "I'm sorry, that was official county business.
I can't tell you that."

     "Mr. Stone, you know those toothache nostrums they sell next door?"
Joe asked.

     "Yes?" Stone replied, guardedly.

     "If you don't help us out here, there won't be enough nostrums in the
entire apothecary to take care of you."

     Intimidated by Joe's inference, Stone, with shaking hands, began
riffling through his filed messages until he came up with one.  "This is
the one that came from Judge Coit," he said.


GOLD FOUND NEAR TYBO.  CLAIM FILED BY JOE COULTER.


     Win read the message, then passed it around to the others.

     "What did Jacoby say in answer?" Joe asked.  Stone handed yet another
message over to Joe.


INFORMATION HERE IS THAT JOE COULTER HAS BROTHER IN REVEILLE NAMED WIN.
WILL TAKE CARE OF THE SITUATION.


     "I can't believe they would actually put in the telegram that they are
going to try and kill us," Joe said.

     Dexter chuckled and shook his head.  "My boy, you should look at
things with a lawyer's eyes," he suggested.  "Whereas we don't have the
slightest doubt as to what they are talking about, there is not one
intimidating word in either of those telegrams."

     Ten minutes later, the four were discussing all their options at a
table in a saloon called The Tybo Watering Hole.

     "Here you are.  Three beers and one ..."  the waiter paused, then let
the word slide out derisively.  "Sasparilla.  You are a little old for this
kind of drink, aren't you, mister?"

     The four had just ordered drinks, and it was Dexter's request for a
sasparilla that brought on the waiter's sarcasm.

     "Waiter," Joe said easily.  "Is there a good doctor in this town?"

     "Yes, there's ole Doc Kincaid.  He has an office over the general
store.  Why?"  He glanced toward Dexter.  "Are you afraid the sasparilla is
too strong for your friend?"  The waiter laughed at his own joke.

     "No," Joe said.  "I was just wondering who we could summon to pull my
boot out of your ass."

     The waiter looked at Joe as if about to respond, then noticing Joe's
size, made a quick reassessment of his options.  He chose the wiser course.

     "I'll, uh ... be over there if you need any more drinks," he said,
beating a hasty retreat.

     Dexter laughed.  "Watching the expression on that man's face was
almost worth having to drink this," he said, holding the soft drink in
front of him and studying it without enthusiasm.  "If I am honest with
myself, I'll never again drink anything any stronger than this."

     Sue put her hand on her father's arm.  "I'm very proud of you, Pa,"
she said.

     Dexter put his hand on his daughter's.  "That, alone, is enough to
make me drink this stuff."  He took a swallow.  "It's not all that bad," he
said as he screwed his face up in distaste.

     The others laughed.

     "Joe, when you found the ore, did you make a quick claim?" Dexter
asked.

     "Yes, I did."

     "Were there any witnesses?"

     "No.  I just wrote it out on a piece of paper, signed it, put it in a
tin can, and buried it."

     "Too bad there weren't any witnesses," Dexter said.  "If there are
witnesses to a quick claim, and that quick claim pre-dates a filing with
the office of claims and deeds, the quick claim will be accepted as the
more valid of the two documents."

     "Why don't we witness it?" Sue asked.

     Dexter shook his head.  "We can't," he answered.  "As I said, the date
of witnessing must precede the date of filing."

     "Who would know?" Sue asked.

     "I would know," Dexter replied.  "And as an officer of the court, for
me to do such a thing would be the same thing as committing perjury."

     "You would let something like that stand in your way, even though you
know that Coit and Jacoby are stealing the claim from Joe?" Sue asked.

     Dexter shook his head, then looked across the table at Win and Joe.
"I'm sorry, Win, Joe," he said.  "I hope you understand."

     "Don't worry about it," Win said easily.  "I'm pretty sure we'll find
Coit and Jacoby out at Joe's claim.  And if they are there, we'll just have
a face-to-face meeting with them.  I'm sure we will be able to negotiate a
solution to our problems."

     "Would you let me go with you?" Sue asked.

     "Sue, don't talk nonsense," Dexter said.  "Coit and Jacoby are
dangerous men."

     "Jacoby was one of the men who raped me," Sue said.  "And I know now
that Coit not only knew it, he countenanced it.  He denied us justice the
last time, but I will have my day in court."

     "Then I'm going, too," Dexter said.

     "Pa, there's no need for you to put yourself in danger."

     "You don't really think I would let you go by yourself, do you?"

     "I won't be by myself.  Win and Joe will be with me.  That is ... if
you will let me go," she added, looking directly at Win.

     "I never try and talk another person out of doin' what has to be
done," Win said.  "If you want to come with us, come ahead.  That goes for
both of you," he added."

     "Then, I'm coming as well," Dexter insisted.


                                Chapter 21


     Joe led Win, Sue, and Dexter into the monitor Mountain range, to the
general area where he had made his gold find and staked his quick claim.
It was dark by the time they got there and, ahead of them, they could see
the faint glow of a campfire.  Joe pointed out that the campfire was almost
exactly where his claim was.  "You think its Coit and Jacoby?" Sue asked.

     "Could be.  Why don't you two wait here while Joe and I take a look,"
Win said.  His suggestion, which was more in the form of an order, wasn't
questioned.

     Pistols in hand, Win and Joe started toward the glow of the campfire.
Within seconds they were swallowed up by the darkness so that Sue and
Dexter, even though they knew Win and Joe Were nearby, suddenly felt as if
they were all alone.  An owl hooted.  A distant coyote called.  The wind
whistled.  Sue shivered.  "Are you cold or afraid?" Dexter asked.  "A
little of both," Sue admitted.

     "Yes," Dexter replied.  He put his arm around his daughter.  "Me too."

     A quarter of a mile away, Win and Joe were moving quickly through the
night.  By now they were close enough to the glowing campfire to overhear
voices and Win reached out to touch his brother in a signal to stop.

     "That's Coit's voice," he whispered.

     "I can't believe you could be so damn dumb that you didn't even check
this out," they heard Coit saying in a loud, angry voice.

     "You didn't say anything about checking out the claim site," another
voice answered.  "All you said was to take care of the Coulter brothers."

     "Yes, well, you couldn't even do that, could you?" Coit said.

     "The Coulters ain't ordinary men."

     "I only heard Jacoby's voice one time," Joe whispered.  "But that
sounds like him."

     "Are you saying there's no gold here at all?" a third voice asked.
Neither Win nor Joe were able to recognize the voice.

     "That's what I'm saying," Coit replied.  "We've done all this for
nothing."

     "But what about the ore Coulter brought in?" Jacoby asked.  "Before I
killed Dempsey, he told me he was holdin' at least a thousand dollars'
worth.  Where did that come from?"

     "Yeah, that had to come from somewhere," still a fourth voice said.
"It didn't just drop out of the sky."

     "As a matter of fact, it did fall from the sky," Coit said.

     "What do you mean it fell from the sky?" Jacoby asked.

     "Five years ago the Culpepper mine had about a week's worth of ore,
all dug up waiting to be hauled out.  They also had a lot of powder on
hand, to use to open up another shaft.  Somehow the powder exploded and it
caused a rock slide, including the ore.  From time to time, some of that
ore is still being found.  Coulter just happened to stumble across a little
pocket of it, that's all.  He thought he had hit the mother lode.  In fact,
all he found was a scrap pile."

     "Did he get all of it?"

     By now, Win and Joe were close enough to see the four men sitting
around the campfire.  "Maybe there's some left."

     "Anders had more gold in that tooth of his than there is here," Coit
replied.

     "No gold?  Damn," Joe said quietly.  "And all this time I thought we
were rich."

     "Which one is Jacoby?" Win asked.

     "He's the short, hairy son of a bitch," Joe said.  "Oh, and I've run
across those other two bastards, too.  They are the ones who jumped me in
Reveille."

     Suddenly a fifth voice called out.  The voice came from the dark, from
the left, or south side of the campfire, Win and Joe having approached the
fire from the east.

     "Judge!  Don't shoot!  I'm comin' in, and I've got some people with
me!"

     "Who the hell is that?" Joe asked.

     "Sounds like Elam's voice," Win replied.

     "Come on in, Elam," Coit called back, confirming Win's suspicion.

     Win and Joe watched as three figures moved into the golden bubble of
light.

     "Oh shit!" Win said.

     Walking in front of Elam, with their hands raised, were Dexter and Sue
Davenport.

     "Only one of us should've come," Joe said.  "The other one of us
should have stayed with them."

     "Too late to worry about that now," Win replied.

     "Well, well, if it isn't two thirds of Horseshoe's legal community,"
Coit said in a sarcastic welcome.  "Where did you find them?"

     "I found them about a quarter of a mile back," Elam said.

     "What are you doing up here?" Coit asked.

     "As you know, I haven't had that much success as a lawyer lately,"
Dexter said.  "So we came up here to prospect for gold."

     Coit laughed, a sharp, brittle laugh.  "I have to hand it to you, Mr.
Davenport, you do have a droll sense of humor."  The smile left his face.
"I'll ask you again.  What are you doing here?"

     "There's two more out there somewhere," Elam said.  "I found four
horses."

     "Four horses, you say?  Interesting.  Who is with you?" he asked.
"Where are the others?"

     "Nobody came with us," Dexter answered.  "The other two horses are
packhorses, in case we found gold."

     "Packhorses with saddles?" Elam scoffed.  "Who are you kidding?"

     "I must give you credit, Mr. Davenport.  You are displaying more
courage than one might expect from a drunken fool."

     "My father is no longer a drunk," Sue said resolutely.

     "Perhaps not.  But he is still a fool.  All four of you are thinking
you could get the better of me.  Now, who is with you?"

     "Whoever it is, I'll get them in," Jacoby said.  He drew his pistol
and pointed it at Sue's head.  Sue closed her eyes tightly.

     "Jacoby!  No!" Dexter shouted.  "If you must shoot someone, shoot me!"

     "Oh, I will," Jacoby replied.  "I'm going to shoot both of you if your
two friends don't come in with their hands up ... right now."

     "Judge Coit!  You can't let this happen!" Dexter pleaded.

     Coit shrugged his shoulders.  "I'm like Pontius Pilate," he said.  "I
wash my hands of this.  I'm sure you know that Mr. Jacoby is a man with a
violent nature.  If he says he is going to shoot your daughter unless your
friends show themselves, then I have no doubt that he will."

     "If anyone is out there," Jacoby said.  "This is your last chance."

     After Jacoby's call there was a beat of silence, broken by the sound
of the cylinder being engaged as he pulled the hammer back.  "No, please!"
Dexter shouted.

     "Hold it!" Win called from outside the bubble of light.  "Don't shoot
her.  We're coming in!"

     With their hands raised, Win and Joe emerged from the darkness.

     "It's good to see you again, Mr. Coulter," Coit said to Win.  Jacoby
was still holding the pistol to Sue's head.  "Or, should I say the misters
Coulter, since you are obviously Joe Coulter."  Joe said nothing.  "You may
lower the pistol, Mr. Jacoby."  Jacoby lowered his gun.

     "You are the son of a bitch that nearly blinded me," one of the men
said bitterly, looking at Joe.  His face, as well as the face of the man
standing next to him, was discolored with bruises.

     "I'm sure you recognize these two gentlemen," Coit said, nodding
toward the two men.  "When I learned you had gone to Reveille, I sent Mr.
Pugh and Mr. Chandler here to kill you.  They failed, and I must say, they
came out somewhat the worse for their encounter with you."

     "That's what happens when you send boys to do a man's job," Joe said.

     "Critchlow, Tombs, Anders, Taggert ... they're dead too, because of
the two of you."

     "Judge, what do you want to do with them?" Elam asked.

     "I know what I aim to do with this one," Jacoby said.  He looked at
her with eyes that were deep and evil.

     Reflecting the flickering light of the flames, it was like looking
into hell itself.  Shivering, Sue moved toward her father.  Dexter put his
arm around her.

     "No need goin' to your daddy, little girl," Jacoby said.  "He can't
help you."  Jacoby rubbed himself.  "It was good last time ... but it's
goin' to be even better this time."

     "Don't you touch her," Dexter said.

     Jacoby laughed.  "You couldn't do anything about it last time, what
makes you think you can this time?"

     "That's enough of that," Coit said.  "Mr. Elam, you raised a good
question.  What are we going to do with them?"  He looked toward Win.  "Of
course, Mr. Win Coulter's fate has already been decided.  I sentenced him
to hang, and he is going to do just that."  He looked at Joe.  "And so will
this one, for interfering in the discharge of a court-ordered execution."

     "You can't hang them," Dexter said.  "The governor granted a stay,
pending a new trial.  And everyone in Horseshoe knows that by now."

     "An astute observation, Mr. Davenport, but I have no intention of
returning to Horseshoe," Coit said.  "As a circuit judge, I have the
authority to incorporate a community anywhere three or more people request
incorporation.  Gentlemen ... and lady," he said, with a deferential nod
toward Sue, "I hereby incorporate this site as the town of Goldslide.  And,
until such time as an election can be conducted, I appoint you, Mr. Pugh,
as the mayor, and you, Mr. Chandler, as the town marshal.  Gentlemen,
disarm the prisoners and carry out the sentence."

     Grinning, the newly appointed "marshal" and "mayor" started toward Win
and Joe with guns drawn.  Dexter, who had moved slowly, and unobserved,
toward the fire, suddenly kicked up a burning brand.  Glowing cinders went
into Elam's eyes, and with a shout of pain, he dropped his pistol.

     "Now!" Win shouted.

     With Pugh and Chandler momentarily distracted by Dexter's action, Win
and Joe were able to draw and fire.  The night was lit by gun flashes.
Pugh and Chandler, both of whom already had their weapons drawn, fired, but
their missiles flew harmlessly into the dark, whereas both Win and Joe's
bullets found their mark.

     "No!  No!  Don't shoot!  Don't shoot!" Coit shouted in fear, throwing
his hands in the air.  Jacoby, not willing to go against the Coulters
alone, followed suit.  Elam had no choice but to follow, because Dexter had
picked up Elam's dropped pistol.  The positions were now reversed.  Those
who had, but a heartbeat earlier, been the captors were now prisoners.


                                Chapter 22


     The sun was full, firing the mountains with color and pushing back the
chill.  Win was sitting near the fire, drinking coffee.  Joe was chewing on
a piece of jerky.  Looking sullen and a little frightened by the change in
their fortunes, Coit, Jacoby, and Elam were sitting by the fire.  Dexter
was poking at the fire with a stick.

     Sue was still asleep.

     "I gotta piss," Jacoby said.

     "So, piss."

     "How'm I goin' to do that?  My hands is tied."

     Win started over toward him to untie his hands.  As he did so, he saw
something in Jacoby's pocket.  "What's this?" he asked, reaching for it.

     "That's mine," Jacoby said.

     Win pulled it out.  "I know this watch," he said.  He remembered now.
This was the watch Karen had worn on the dress she called her schoolmarm
dress.  "This belonged to Karen McKenzie.  Joe told me she had been
murdered, but I didn't think it had any connection to this.  You killed
her, didn't you?"

     "What if I did?" Jacoby replied.  "It's not like anyone is going to
cry over her.  Hell, she wasn't nothin' but a whore.  Killin' her was as
easy as steppin' on a bug."

     Win felt the anger boiling up inside.  He drew back his hand to hit
him, then turned and walked away to keep from hitting a man who couldn't
hit back.

     "Where you goin'?  I told you I have to piss," Jacoby said again.

     "Piss in your pants, you son of a bitch," Win growled.

     "What do you plan to do with us?" Coit asked.

     "I don't know.  Turn you over to the law, I suppose."

     Coit laughed.  "What law?  I'm a judge, Jacoby and Elam are law
officers.  Do you really think anyone would take your word against mine?
Especially when I tell them you killed Mayor Pugh and Marshall Chandler as
they were discharging their duty as officials of Goldslide."

     "There is no town of Goldslide," Win said.

     "Oh, but there is.  As a circuit judge, I have the authority to issue
a court order declaring the incorporation of a town and I have incorporated
Goldslide."

     Win looked at Dexter.  "Is that right?"

     "As ludicrous as it may seem, circuit judges do have the right to do
that," Dexter said.  He held his arm out.  "Welcome to Goldslide,
population, seven."

     "There is a way out," Coit suggested.  "Let us go, and I'll reverse my
decision.  I'll declare you innocent in the Taggert case.  I'll also rule
that you killed Pugh and Chandler in self-defense."  Coit looked at Dexter.
"I'll even reverse my decision on the rape case.  I'll declare Taggert and
Jacoby guilty."

     "Hold it!" Jacoby said.  "You're turnin' on your own friends?"

     "Jacoby, disabuse yourself of any idea that you and I were ever
friends," Coit said.  "You are a pig of a man.  You have been useful to me,
but you have never been and could never be a friend."

     "You know, Coit, I should've killed you a long time ago," Jacoby
sneered.

     "What about my offer?" Coit said to Win.

     "We're supposed to do this and just all go on our way?" Win asked.

     "Sure, why not?" Coit replied.  "It turns out there's no gold here
anyway.  We have no reason to fight."

     "Are we also to just forget about the innocent people who were
murdered?" Dexter asked.  "The assayer and the girl in Reveille?"

     "I didn't kill them.  Jacoby did," Coit said.  "Besides, that has
nothing to do with what is going on here."

     Win stood up and walked away from the others.  He looked out across
the valley.  The closest mountains were gold and silver in the morning sun.
Each range beyond the first range progressed in color, from bright blue to
deep purple.  If such a place as Goldslide really did exist, its residents
would have a beautiful view.

     Suddenly Win smiled then turned and walked back to the fire.  "We're
going to have an election," he said.

     "What?" Dexter asked.

     "Mayor Pugh and Marshall Chandler are dead.  The town of Goldslide
needs new officers.  Dexter, I nominate you as mayor, my brother as
marshal, and myself as judge."

     "What are you doing?" Coit asked.  There was a frightened edge to his
voice as he began to consider the possibilities.  "Are there any further
nominations?"

     Joe and Dexter stared at Win as if he had suddenly gone mad.

     "No?  Then all nominations are closed.  Those who are in favor of the
slate of candidates as presented, signify by raising your right hand."  Win
raised his hand, followed by Joe, and then, rather reluctantly, by Dexter.
By now they realized that Win had something in mind, but they didn't know
what.

     "The slate of candidates has been duly elected."  He turned to Coit.
"Now, I can turn you in to the law," he said.  "In fact, I'm turning you
over to myself, because you, Jacoby, and Elam are going to be tried for
murder in the court of Goldslide."

     "What?  Don't be ridiculous!  You can't do that!" Coit said.

     "Oh, but I can ... and I will," Win said.  "And, thanks to your court
order ... it will be legal."

     "Wait a minute, Win, are you serious?" Dexter asked.

     Win looked at the three prisoners.  "I'm dead serious," he said.  "We
are going to try these three men right now, right here, in this newly
incorporated town of Goldslide.  And after we find them guilty, we are
going to hang them from that cottonwood tree right over there."

     Coit, Jacoby, and Elam blanched.  In the morning light, their faces
looked gray as mud-clay at a spring.

     "You can't do this," Jacoby said.  "You got no right to do this."

     "Oh, but I do.  Judge Coit provided the authority for me to do it.  In
fact, he was going to hold court himself, I believe."

     "What about counsel?" Coit asked.  "You can't have court without
counsel."

     "By a fortuitous set of circumstances, we have two lawyers here," Win
said.  By now Sue was awake, and, quietly, Dexter was filling her in on
what was going on.  "I intend to appoint one of them as your defense
counsel and the other as prosecutor.  You have your choice as to who you
want."

     "Some choice we have," Coit said, scoffing.  "He nodded toward the two
Davenports.  Either a drunk or a female who hasn't yet passed the bar."

     "That may be, but it is the only choice you have," Win said.

     The three prisoners huddled together for a moment, then Coit spoke for
them.  "If there is no way out of this ... then we choose Dexter Davenport
to defend us."

     "So ordered," Win said.  Dexter and Sue came over to speak to Win.

     "You didn't ask us how we feel about this," Dexter said.

     "How do you feel about it?"

     "We don't want to do it."

     "All right," Win said easily.

     "That's it?  You've changed your mind?  You aren't going to have the
trial?"

     "Coit's right.  We can't have a trial without lawyers, and you don't
want to do it.  So, I may as well shoot them," Win said.  He started toward
the prisoners, pulling his pistol as he did so.  "Wait!" Dexter called out
to him.  Win paused and looked back at him.  "What are you going to do?"

     "I told you, I'm going to shoot them," Win said easily.

     "Just like that?"

     "Just like that."

     "How can you do such a thing?"

     "Were you in the war, Dexter?"

     "Uh, no," Dexter replied.

     "I didn't think so.  Let me tell you, Dexter, there were a lot of men
killed during the war.  In fact, I killed a lot of men during the war.
Many of the men I killed ...  I would say that most of the men I killed ...
were good men.  Family men, many of them, with a wife and kids at home.
They were in the war fighting for what they believed in ... just as I was.
Now, I don't feel good about having killed those good men, Dexter, but it
was war, and good men were killing good men on both sides."

     Win pointed at the three prisoners.  "Now, as far as I'm concerned,
these men aren't good men.  They are pond scum.  Now, after all the good
men I've killed, do you think I would have a moment's hesitation in
shooting men like these?"

     Win raised his pistol and pointed it at Coit, then came back on the
hammer.

     "Wait!" Dexter called.  "We'll do it!  We'll hold the trial."

     An eagle soared overhead with a struggling mouse in its talons.  Below
that majestic bird's flight path, a strange scene was taking place on the
side of a mountain.

     Six men and one woman, isolated from their fellow creatures by many
miles, dotted the landscape below in a precise manner.  Win was sitting
authoritatively upon a log.  Sue stood just to one side of the log, while
Joe sat on a rock a few feet away.  Coit, Jacoby, and Elam stood with their
hands tied behind them.  Dexter conferred earnestly with them.

     "I now call this court to order," Win said.  He nodded toward Joe.
"Joe will act as a juror.  I will be both judge and juror.  We are convened
to try Preston Coit, Moe Jacoby, and Burt Elam on the charges of murder,
conspiracy to commit murder, rape, misappropriation of a mining claim, and
robbery.  How do you plead?"

     "Your honor, defense moves that the charge of rape be dropped from the
indictment," Dexter said.

     "Are you arguing that Jacoby did not rape your daughter?" Win asked,
surprised by Dexter's petition.

     "I am not arguing that," Dexter said.  "Whether he did or did not rape
Miss Davenport is irrelevant."

     "How can it be irrelevant?"

     "He has already been tried for that charge and found not guilty.  The
principle of double jeopardy prohibits him from being tried for the same
charge a second time."

     "All right, the charge of rape is dropped," Win said.  "How do the
defendants plead to the remaining charges?"

     "They have refused to plea, Your Honor, so I will enter a plea for
them.  I plead not guilty."

     "Mr. Davenport, you know damned well they are guilty," Win said in
exasperation.  "How can you plead them not guilty?"

     "If they remain mute I have no choice but to plead not guilty on their
behalf," Dexter replied.  "If this court is to have any validity at all,
then we must follow the law."

     Win stroked his chin for a moment, then he nodded.  "All right," he
said.  "Court accepts a plea of not guilty.  Prosecution, you may begin."

     "Your Honor," Dexter said again.

     Win sighed.  "What now, Mr. Davenport?"

     "Your Honor, not only have the defendants refused to plead, but they
have also refused to testify."

     "No problem.  I'll just order them to testify."

     "You can't do that.  No one can be forced to testify against
themselves."

     "Whose side are you on?" Win asked in exasperation.

     "I'm an advocate for the defense, but I am on the side of the law,"
Dexter said.  "What I'm saying is, since the defendants refuse to testify
in their own behalf, we have no witnesses.  With no witnesses, I see no
need for opening statements.  If there is no objection from the
prosecution, I recommend that we go directly to summation."

     "Do you object to that, Miss Davenport?" Win asked Sue.

     "I have no objections, Your Honor."

     "Very well, the court will hear summation.  Mr. Davenport, you may
begin.  But, before you begin, let me tell you that you cannot make the
argument that this court has no jurisdiction.  You will make your summation
exactly as if you were trying this case in any city in the country."

     "Your Honor, under ordinary circumstances, I would petition the court
to sever the case so that each defendant could stand trial on his own.
Since these aren't ordinary circumstances, I will plead as if the cases are
severed.

     "I begin with the case against Burt Elam.  I have personally known
Elam for at least five years.  I know him to be a man of less than average
intelligence, who is mean-spirited and foul-mouthed.  Such a person can be
easily led by someone in authority, such as Preston Coit.  Elam wears a
badge, and Coit is a circuit judge.  Therefore, Elam's very presence here
is the result of his genuine belief that he is acting in the line of the
duty of his office.

     "Low intelligence, mean spirit, a foul mouth, and acquiescence to
authority are not, of themselves, violations of the law.  I have never
witnessed Elam commit murder, conspire to commit murder, nor indeed, break
the law in any way.  And I am certain this court will be unable to produce
a witness who will testify otherwise.  I therefore suggest that Burt Elam
be found totally innocent of all charges.

     "With regard to Moe Jacoby, I plead not guilty."

     "How can you plead him not guilty?" Win demanded.  He pointed to
Jacoby.  "He confessed to killing Karen McKenzie."

     "Your Honor, please.  Allow me to conduct my case," Dexter said.

     "Yeah, all right.  Go ahead," Win said.

     "Jacoby is not guilty by reason of insanity.  You are correct, Your
Honor, when you say that, with our own ears, we heard Jacoby admit to
murdering Karen McKenzie.  We also heard him say that killing her was no
more traumatic for him than stepping on a bug.

     "I submit to you that no one can kill as easily as stepping on a bug,
unless it is the result of an aberrant mental condition.  Another word for
aberrant mental behavior is insane.  And, in our legal system, someone who
is insane--even criminally insane--cannot be held accountable for their
actions.  Moe Jacoby is obviously insane and, therefore, not guilty.

     "And, finally, we come to Judge Preston Coit.  Judge Coit is,
admittedly, the most difficult of the three to put a handle on.  He is a
brilliant and learned man, who, for some time, has occupied a position of
power and prestige.  Such men sometimes step outside society's boundaries,
simply because the temptation to do so is matched by the power to do so.

     "There is no doubt that Judge Coit is such a man.  However, we are
convened to try him, not for malfeasance in office, but for murder and
conspiracy to commit murder.  And, whereas we have validation from Jacoby's
own lips that he committed murder, we have no such confession from Judge
Coit.  I submit, therefore, that without compelling evidence, eyewitnesses
who can testify to fact, or his confession, we have no choice but to find
Preston Coit not guilty.  Defense rests."


                                Chapter 23


     Although Dexter Davenport was defending the man who had raped her, as
well as the man who had given the rapist a pass in that mockery of a trial
two years earlier, Sue Davenport was never more proud of her father than
she was at that very moment.  There, on the side of a mountain, in a raw
and lawless land, she had seen law practiced by a man of principle and
dignity.

     "Is prosecution ready for summation?" Win asked.

     "I am," Sue said.

     "I hope you are," Win said.  "Because the truth is, your father has
put up a powerful defense for the indefensible."

     Sue looked over at her father and at the three defendants.  "He has,
hasn't he?" she said proudly.

     "Make your case, girl," Win said, not as a judge, but as a man who
truly wanted to see justice done.

     "Your Honor, the defense made an effort to sever the case in his
presentation.  It is his contention that Burt Elam is not guilty by reason
of low intelligence and lack of self esteem ... that Moe Jacoby is innocent
by reason of insanity ... and that Preston Coit is not guilty because of
the lack of any factual witnesses or a confession.

     "But I would argue that the case cannot be severed.  We cannot plead
their cases individually, because while we are dealing with more than one
person, we are also dealing with the unifying charge of conspiracy.  A
conspiracy is a whole, and once something becomes whole, it can never again
be separated.  Apple pie consists of apples, sugar, flour, cinnamon, and
butter.  Those are all individual things, but once they are assembled and
baked, they become a pie, and no matter how small a piece you cut ... you
always have apple pie.

     "That being the case, Your Honor, the guilt of one of these defendants
is the guilt of all of them.  Therefore, as the prosecutor, I am going to
focus on the one for whom we do have hard evidence, in the form of a watch
that he stole from the body of his victim.  We also have a confession.

     "By his own words, Jacoby is guilty of murder.  We don't know how many
more murders he has committed, but we do know that he attempted to murder
Win and Joe Coulter.

     "Defense has suggested that Jacoby might be insane, for no sane
person, he says, could kill someone as easily as stepping on a bug.  But I
say we must disallow the plea of insanity, in order to find this man, and
these men, guilty as charged.  But how can we find him sane?  For what sane
man could commit crimes with such lack of passion?

     "The answer is ... no man could, if we gauge sanity by the standards
of moral men.  But this man ... these men ... are not moral.  Therefore the
only test of sanity we need to hold up to the light is whether he was a man
of reason when he committed the crime.  Was Moe Jacoby a man of reason?

     "I call your attention to the fact that he held a gun to my head.  He
then announced in a loud voice that he would shoot me ... and my father.
His reason for that was to force you, Your Honor, and you, Mr. Juror, to
come in from the dark with your hands in the air.  He was therefore aware
that the threat to kill me was something that would disturb you.  He could
not reason such a thing unless he had the tool of reason in the grasp of
his mind.  He could not threaten if he was not aware that killing was an
evil thing.

     "Therefore, Your Honor, I submit that Moe Jacoby is fully in
possession of reason and is aware of right from wrong.  That awareness of
right and wrong is all that is required for him to be legally sane.

     "If you accept this logic, then you must declare him sane, and if he
is sane, then he stands convicted, and condemned by his own words.

     "If justice is truly to be served in this court of ours, if the truth
will come out here on this lonely mountainside in the midst of some of the
most beautiful country God ever created, then there can be only one verdict
rendered, and that verdict is guilty.  And, because they are part of a
conspiracy--part of a whole--the guilt of Moe Jacoby, is the guilt of them
all.

     "The prosecution rests."

     "Court will recess while the jury decides," Win said.  Nodding at his
brother, he got up from the log and the two of them walked away for a
little distance to discuss the verdict.

     "What do you think?" Joe asked.

     "The girl was good, wasn't she?" Win asked.

     "Yes, she was.  But so was the father," Joe replied.

     "Yeah.  Especially his argument about Elam.  I think he's right.  I
think Elam is just an ignorant shit that got caught up in this.  He was too
damn dumb to get out of it."

     "What about the girl saying you can't separate them?" Joe asked.

     "She made a good point, I agree.  But I figure this is a hanging case,
and like Dexter said, a fella ought not to be hung just because he's dumb.
I say we find Coit and Jacoby guilty, and we cut Elam loose."

     "All right," Joe agreed.  Returning, Win called the court back to
order.

     "It is the decision of this court that the defendant, Burt Elam, be
found not guilty."

     "What?" Elam said, a broad smile on his face, "You're findin' me not
guilty?"

     "Untie him, Joe."

     Joe untied Elam and Elam began immediately to rub his wrists.

     "Step away from the other prisoners please," Win said.

     "Yes, sir!" Elam said.  He started toward his gun, then stopped and
looked up at Win.  "Is it all right if I pick up my gun?"

     "Yes," Win said.  "But keep it in your holster."

     "What about us?" Coit said.

     "The court finds Preston Coit and Moe Jacoby guilty and sentences you
both to hang.  Sentence to be carried out immediately.  Elam, help my
brother get these two mounted."

     "Yes, sir," Elam said, as subservient now to Win as he had been to
Coit before.

     "No!" Coit shouted.  "No, you can't do this!"

     "I can and I will," Win said.

     Protesting every inch of the way, the two men were set on horseback
and moved into position under the tree.  Joe and Elam threw ropes over the
limb, then tied and looped nooses around the necks of the condemned men.
All was ready.

     "Have you men any last words?" Win asked, looking up at them.  He
stood on the ground nearby with his feet set wide apart.

     Coit shut his eyes and shook his head, but said nothing.  "Yeah,"
Jacoby said.  "Yeah, I got me somethin' to say."  He looked at Sue
Davenport.  "Come over here honey," he said.  "Open up your shirt and show
me your titties while my neck's bein' stretched.  That way I'll have
somethin' to tell ole Taggert when I run into him down in hell."  Jacoby
began to laugh.

     "Carry out the sentence," Win said to Joe, but before Joe could do so,
Dexter, with a yell of rage, startled both horses and they leaped forward.
The ropes pulled the men out of the saddles, choking Jacoby's laughter off
into a death rattle.

     It was deathly quiet, save for a creaking sound as the two men turned
slowly at the end of the ropes.  It had been nearly five minutes since the
horses bolted, almost four minutes since the last twitch from either of the
bodies.

     "Cut them down," Win ordered.

     Joe and Elam cut the men down and laid them out under the tree.  Win
looked over at Sue and saw a pinched, uncertain expression on her face.

     "Are you all right?" he asked.

     "I don't know.  I've never done murder before," she said in a small
voice.

     "This wasn't murder.  This was an execution."

     "But ... was it legal?" Sue asked.

     "Yes," Dexter said resolutely.

     "Pa, do you really think so?"

     Dexter nodded.  "I must confess that I had some reservations about it
at first, but I now believe it was legal," Dexter said.  "We are legally
constituted as a town, and as such, are empowered to elect officials,
including a judge.  In the past several years there have been scores,
perhaps hundreds of hangings in the West, with no more validity than we
have.  And those that have been looked into by higher courts have, for the
most part, been upheld.  It's a brutal business, but we live in a brutal
world."  He looked at Coit's body.  "Poor Coit.  By making Goldslide a
legal entity, he was the instrument of his own destruction."

     "Yeah," Elam said.  He giggled, madly.  "I reckon he's already holdin'
court down there in hell."

     "Elam," Win said.  "Yes, sir?" Elam replied.

     "Have you ever been to California?"

     Elam shook his head.  "California?  No, I never been there."

     "GO."

     "I beg your pardon?"

     "Get on your horse and go to California," Win said.

     "I ain't got nothin' to see in California.  Besides, I'm the sheriff
of Horseshoe."

     Win shook his head.  "Not anymore," he said.  "And if I ever see you
in Horseshoe again ... in fact, if I ever see you anywhere in Nevada again,
I'll kill you."

     "But ... you said I was innocent."

     "This has nothing to do with guilt or innocence.  This has to do with
I don't like you."  Win took Karen's watch from his pocket and looked at
it.  "If I were you, I'd start now," he said.  "If you are still within
rifle range two minutes from now, I'll shoot you.  Do you understand that?"

     Elam didn't even try to answer.  Instead he ran to his horse, leaped
into the saddle, then, slapping his legs against the animal's side, rode
away at a gallop.  As he rode, he was chased down the Mountainside by the
laughter of the last four residents of the town of Goldslide.