"You're probably right. But go anyway."

Ben handed Tracker the lamp and then chased after her.

Tracker stared at the bed. The last time he'd seen Liza was early that morning, after he'd pulled the berries from the creek. She'd become so upset over Jimmy's death that she'd started to cry. Andy sent her into the house, and that was the last he'd seen of her.

Could Jimmy's death be the reason she left town? It seemed unlikely. As far as Tracker knew she had nothing to do with the boy. Certainly, Sylvia would have tanned his hide if he so much as spoke to a wh.o.r.e. But even if that was her reason, it still didn't explain the hair dye.

As Tracker leaned forward to examine the stains, his boot b.u.mped something. A silver handled hairbrush poked out from underneath the bed. He picked it up. Strands of blonde hair dangled from the bristles. Liza must have left in a hurry to forget such a nice brush.

He lowered the lamp and knelt down. He peered under the bed.

A spool of red thread. An empty bottle of perfume. A sc.r.a.p of paper behind the bedpost. Dust.

He started to lift the lamp and then hesitated. He looked at the paper again. He grabbed it, sat up, and unfolded it. It was a note, written in a large, uneven scrawl. It read: Don't fret over her, it was for the best. Soon he'll be ded and we can be maryed. Starbit.

"Don't fret over her, it was for the best," Tracker repeated aloud. "Soon he'll be-dead, and we can be mar-married?"

The note was vague at best. First, it spoke of a woman, and then it seemed to say that a man was dead. Was it a mistake? Perhaps the writer had forgotten the s in he'll. It was clear a scholar hadn't penned it. Even Tracker knew how to spell dead.

Hearing someone coming, he jammed the paper into his pocket. Ben entered the room, saying, "Them fellas are gone. One's at the Doc's getting st.i.tched."

"What happened?"

"Delilah's boot. I don't think he'll be in the saddle for a while."

Standing, Tracker said, "Come on, Ben. There's nothing more we can do here." As they left the room, he saw the door at the opposite end of the hallway open a few inches.

A voice said, "Sheriff."

Tracker handed the lamp to Ben. "Wait for me downstairs." He moved closer, saying "Andy?"

There was no light on in the room.

"I filled in the creek," Andy said.

Tracker stopped in front of the door. "I saw that." He peered through the narrow opening. The funk of old sweat and wine drifted over his face. "I'm sure the Platters appreciate the gesture."

"I'm paying for the funeral and putting him in a fine casket. Bought him a suit and everything."

"That's very kind of you," Tracker said, "although I'm sure it wasn't necessary. You didn't hurt that boy."

The door shut.

"Andy?"

No response.

"All right. A good evening, then."

Tracker turned back and headed for the staircase. As he descended the stairs, he saw Delilah behind the bar and tipped his head toward the rear hallway. Delilah called for Agnes and then followed him. They stopped outside the wash room.

"Make it quick, Sheriff," she said. "I got a room full of thirsty men out there."

"Andy just told me he's giving Jimmy a funeral."

She glanced up as if she could see straight through the ceiling and into his room. "I know it," she said irritably. "Tomorrow morning, I'll be the one up at crow's p.i.s.s dressing that poor boy and putting the powder on him."

"The funeral is tomorrow?"

She nodded. "Andy thought it right to bury him as soon as possible. He said the family should start their mending. Sylvia and Tate agreed."

Behind them, Agnes shouted for help.

"I have to get back," Delilah said.

"Of course," Tracker said. "Thank you, Delilah."

"My pleasure, Sheriff. You come visit me whenever you please. Half price for lawmen." She winked at him and hurried back to the bar.

Chapter Twenty-Five.

"Come on out," Cole Smith said. "Do it quick, and do it quiet."

Jack thought about grabbing Charlie and retreating into the dark alley, but Cole would be prepared for that. He'd shoot them down before they moved an inch.

"He didn't do anything," Charlie said.

"He murdered a wh.o.r.e," Cole said.

"I don't believe that."

"It don't matter what you believe, redskin. Now get out of here before I do the army a favor."

"No," Charlie said.

"It's all right," Jack said, standing. "I'll not have you shot on my account." He stepped out of the alley and left the darkness behind him. In the light, Cole looked thin and haggard. His coat and hat were missing, his shirt tucked haphazardly into his trousers. His cheeks and chin were thick with growth. His eyes appeared larger in his gaunt face.

"How did you get out of the Badlands?" Charlie asked.

"I know people all over this land," Smith said. "Made it to a nearby farm and borrowed a horse and gun."

"Borrowed?" Charlie said.

Cole smirked.

"So you're just as much a thief as we are," Charlie said. "Aren't you afraid Jack will speak of your crime?"

"No," Cole said. "I am not." He motioned to a horse that sat tied to the Turtle Dove's. .h.i.tching post. "Up you get," he said.

Jack moved over to the horse, the shotgun barrel digging into his back. Reaching the post, he started unwrapping the reins. He tried to catch the eye of anyone who might help, but no one looked his way.

"Hurry up," Cole said.

With the reins free, Jack gripped the saddle horn and lifted his foot into the stirrup. Beside him, the Turtle Dove blazed with light, the windows trembling from the noise and music.

When would Cole do it, he wondered. When they reached the edge of town? Or would he lead him into the darkness of the prairie, far away from prying eyes.

"I said move," Cole snarled.

Jack made to pull himself up when he heard the unmistakable click of a hammer pulling back.

He shut his eyes.

Cole wasn't going to wait. He'd do it now, blow his head off for the whole town to see.

He's gonna put me down, just like a horse with a broken- "Hold it, mister."

That low, graveled rumble could only belong to one man. Opening his eyes, Jack turned his head to see Sheriff Garnell with his hand on the grip of his Remington. He'd discarded his coat onto the street. His badge glinted in the gaslight. "I like your shotgun," he said. "Have one like it myself. Is it a Colt?"

Cole hesitated, glanced across the street, and then nodded at the sheriff. He must have seen the two deputies crossing over; one was the same man who couldn't stop staring at Charlie, the other a younger man chewing a plug of tobacco. They both held shotguns, c.o.c.ked and ready to fire.

"Once shot me a bear with mine," Garnell chuckled. "Darn near blew its head off."

Now folks were interested. They stopped on the sidewalk, poured out of the Turtle Dove, ducked behind rain barrels. Cole looked at them, at the deputies, back to the sheriff. He looked nervous. He'd lowered the shotgun, but his knuckles were white.

"Yup. Fine gun," Garnell said, looking completely at ease as if talking weather with a local. "Unfortunately, I'm the only one allowed to carry her or any other firearm inside town limits."

"I was just leaving," Cole said.

"That boy going with you of his own accord?"

"No," Cole said. "He's a wanted man. I'm a bounty hunter."

"A bounty hunter?" Garnell said. "h.e.l.l son, I have blisters older than you."

"I caught w.i.l.l.y Thompson."

Garnell spat. "Who you got there?"

"Jack Devlin, wanted for the rape and murder of a wh.o.r.e in Gasher Creek."

"Gasher Creek?" Garnell said. "Sheriff Tracker still out there?"

Cole nodded.

"He sent you?" Garnell said, c.o.c.king an eyebrow. "Usually he sends Seth Manlin or Mad Dog Murphy."

"Well I ain't them, now am I?" Cole snapped.

The two deputies moved closer.

"Tell me," Garnell said, "how's Tracker's wife, Mildred, doing these days?"

Sighing impatiently, Cole said, "She's fine, now can I-"

"Caroline," Garnell interrupted him. "His wife's name is Caroline." Sticking his old, mottled nose into the air, the sheriff sniffed and said, "Something smells rotten here, boys."

The deputies nodded.

"You come all this way north, I a.s.sume you got a warrant for this boy's arrest."

"What?" Cole said.

"War-ant," Garnell said, clicking his teeth.

"Oh yeah," Cole said, stepping away from the horse. "I got one." He opened fire, shooting Garnell in the chest. Ducking, he rolled in the mud as the younger deputy's shot missed and hit one of the onlookers. Cole emptied his other barrel into the young deputy, then flattened himself against the street as the remaining deputy's blast went wide and tore a strip off the edge of the saloon.

Jack cowered on his knees, watching Cole pull a revolver from underneath his coat and fire, striking the deputy in the head. The deputy crumbled next to his shotgun.

When the smoke cleared, all three lawmen lay dead in the street.

Screams filled the air. The crowd trampled each other to get back inside the Turtle Dove. A man lay dead on the sidewalk. Jack couldn't see Charlie.

Cole pushed himself onto his knees, planted one foot into the mud, and stood. He gasped for breath. He looked down at Jack and said, "It wasn't supposed to happen this way. I was going to wait until we got out of town, save you a trial." He pointed his revolver. "But now you'll only slow me down."

Jack shut his eyes.

He heard the shot.

He tasted blood.

After a moment of clenching his teeth, he vaguely wondered how he could taste anything with a bullet in his brain. He opened his eyes and looked up. Cole faced the opposite way as blood spurted from a wound in his back. His head lay c.o.c.ked to one side. The fingers of his right hand twitched.

Then he fell onto his knees and pitched forward onto his face.

Jack wiped the blood from his eyes. He groped his skull, his neck, his chest. He was uninjured. It wasn't his blood. But Cole's gun lay next to him and he could feel its heat. It had been fired.

"Jack."

In the street, Jack spotted Charlie holding the deputy's shotgun.

"Charlie," Jack said. "What are you-"