"I don't know. Perhaps through there." With one of my guns, I pointed out a dark cavity at the far end of the chamber.

We started toward it. To get there, we had no choice but to walk through the midst of the bodies, the staves with their hideous prizes, the torches.

We came upon a great heap of clothing. While I had noticed it before, I'd been too stunned and confused by the rest of the scene to give it much mind.

As we approached it, however, the notion struck me that Whittle might be buried within the pile. Hiding there, waiting for the proper moment to spring out and have at us. I halted and gave a nod to Jesse.

We trained three revolvers on the mound of garments. Then I commenced to scatter it, booting things this way and that. Near the top were men's duds-no doubt those taken from the posse. Mixed in among the shirts and vests and boots and trousers and long johns were gunbelts, six-guns, rifles and knives. They all flew about as I kicked. Soon, the pile shrank down to dresses and petticoats and such.

"I don't reckon he's in there," Jesse whispered.

She was likely right, but I waded in anyhow, stomping and kicking.

"By Jove, that is is you!" you!"

The merry voice, so familiar though I hadn't heard it for months, resounded through the chamber.

"Trevor Wellington Bentley! Is it possible? And in the company of a lovely young damsel! How utterly thoughtful of you to bring me such a gift!"

Whirling about, I tried to spot him.

Jesse did the same.

"Put down your weapons," he called, sounding quite pleased with himself. "I should hate to shoot either of you and ruin the sport." A gun blasted, its explosion crashing through my ears.

The bullet struck neither of us. I didn't see what it hit, for my eyes were drawn to the muzzle flash.

"There!" Jesse gasped.

"Yes, here," said Whittle. "Now drop your firearms."

He was forty paces away, his back to the rock wall, his front all but concealed behind the corpse of a woman. One arm was wrapped across its bare belly, hugging the body against him. I'd spotted this one before. The crown of its head was black and pulpy. The lips were cut away so its bared teeth seemed to grin most hideously. Nothing but holes remained where the eyes belonged. Both b.r.e.a.s.t.s were off. The torso was split open from throat to pelvis. I'd glimpsed this maimed horror before and averted my eyes fast, never suspecting that it might be shielding Whittle.

While one arm clamped it across the belly, the other jutted out straight from above the shoulder, pointing a revolver our way. Whittle's face showed beyond his gun arm. I couldn't see much of it, though.

"What've you done with her?" I asked.

"With whom do you mean?"

"The one who screamed."

"Ah, her. her. Rushed to her rescue, did you?" With that, he let out a shriek. It sounded for all the world like a woman crying out in the throes of h.e.l.lish agony. Rushed to her rescue, did you?" With that, he let out a shriek. It sounded for all the world like a woman crying out in the throes of h.e.l.lish agony.

"Quit it!" I yelled.

The scream trailed off into laughter.

"You knew we were out there?" Jesse asked.

"Oh, quite. Of course, I had no idea idea that one of the interlopers was my old mate, Trevor. And what would your name be, my dear?" that one of the interlopers was my old mate, Trevor. And what would your name be, my dear?"

"None of your nevermind."

Whittle chuckled. "I'll get it out of you later. For the present, it will suffice for you both to drop your firearms."

Jesse glanced at me, then turned her gaze toward Whittle.

"Shall I count to three?" he asked.

Jesse yelled, "Three!" and let fly.

I followed her example.

Side by side, we blasted away. I used both Colts at once. Our six-guns roared, and Whittle's spat back. I reckon his aim wasn't up to snuff, for neither of us went down. Ours were nearer the mark. He would've been a dead man for sure if the woman hadn't caught most of our slugs. They smacked into her chest and shoulders. They punched holes through her arms. They gouged her sides. But they couldn't get past her and find Whittle.

Jesse's gun went silent. I gave her a glance. She was commencing to reload.

Whittle fired again, and the bullet zipped past my ear.

I turned all my attention back to him, determined to kill him before my Colts ran dry.

All that actually showed was a bit of his face, so I raised my aim and went for that. It ducked out of sight just as I fired. My bullet slammed through the gal's upper teeth. The next pounded her brow and knocked her head back. The one after that ripped out the side of her neck and Whittle cried out. I thumbed back my hammers and squeezed my triggers. Instead of blasts, there came only quiet clacks.

Whittle shoved the body away from him. As it pitched forward, we faced each other for just a moment. Through the drifting shrouds of gunsmoke, I saw that my last shot had gouged his cheek. Other than that, he seemed unharmed. He wore a black satin nosepatch.

He didn't raise his gun at me, so I judged it was out of ammo. He only had the one. An empty holster hung at his hip. His chest was crossed by twin black belts, each holding a sheathed knife. They looked to be mighty big knives. Knowing Whittle, the knives came as no surprise. But the shiny star pinned to the front of his frilly white shirt surprised me considerable.

A badge!

I saw all this in just the blink of an eye, and then Whittle was dodging off to the side.

I whirled toward Jesse, shouted, "Get him!" and then realized she was still busy thumbing rounds into her Colt.

When I spotted Whittle again, he was racing h.e.l.l-bent for the end of the chamber.

But not the end that would take him deeper into the cave.

The end that led out.

I holstered, dropped to my knees and scurried about the scattered clothes and such until I wrapped my hands around a revolver. I cleared its leather and swung it round.

I got off a shot that kicked sparks off the cave's wall near Whittle's shoulder. Before I could fire again, he vanished into the darkness. I emptied the gun after him, anyhow, hoping I might catch him with a ricochet. He didn't cry out, though. I judged they'd likely missed him.

I threw down the borrowed revolver. "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l!"

"Don't fret," Jesse said, sounding mighty calm. She, too, was gazing toward the place where he'd disappeared. "We'll get him." She snapped the loading port shut on her Colt. "You might wanta reload, your own self, before he comes back shooting."

It was when I went to stand up that I noticed Jesse'd been hit. The left leg of her dungarees was all ashine with blood and clinging to her. The hole was high on her thigh. My insides went all cold and shaky at the sight.

"He got got you!" I gasped. you!" I gasped.

"Well, I reckon I'll live. I'll tend to it. You go on ahead and load up."

My hands shook so frightfully that I had a rather difficult time of it. Also, I kept an eye out for Whittle and watched Jesse while I worked at emptying out the used sh.e.l.ls and plugging fresh rounds into my cylinders.

What Jesse did was to sit down among the dead folks' clothes and pull the knife from her boot. Using that, she cut the leg off her dungarees. It put me in mind of the time she'd cut off the German's trouser leg to wear on her head. She'd gashed him some, but she didn't gash herself. Her hand was just as steady as you please.

Seeing the hole in her thigh, I dropped a couple of cartridges.

She turned her leg. It had a second hole on the outer side of the thigh, about three inches from the one in front. Blood was running out of both.

"It ain't still in me," she said.

"That's good, isn't it?" I asked, feeling awful trembly and weak.

"Well, I'd a sight rather have one hole than two." Looking up at me, she smiled.

I found the cartridges that I'd dropped, stuffed them into the cylinder, checked both guns to be sure they were fully loaded, then slipped them into my holsters and stepped over Jesse's legs. I crouched down beside the shot one.

"Does it hurt awfully?"

"Well, it don't feel good."

"Watch for Whittle, and I'll bandage you."

Nodding, she gave her knife to me. Then she leaned back. Braced up on one elbow, she lifted her revolver and rested it on her belly. She turned her head to keep a lookout.

"We near had him," she said.

"I took a piece out of his face."

"Too bad that's all."

I snagged up a calico dress with faded flowers on it. After some cutting and ripping, I had it in pieces. I folded one into a thick patch and pressed it gently against her wounds. It was large enough to cover both of them. I held it there for a bit.

She'd taken off the leg of her dungarees quite high up. Our positions were such that I couldn't help but view a region, overhung by fabric but plainly visible, that took out my breath. A flood of heat rushed through me.

I looked away quick and lifted my hand off the pad. It had a pair of red dots, but wasn't soaked.

"You don't seem to be bleeding terribly," I muttered.

"Reckon he'll ride off and leave us?"

"I doubt it."

"Hope you're right. I'd hate to see him get away."

"I just hope we we get away." get away."

With a long strip from the dress, I commenced to wrap the pad into place. Jesse eased her other leg aside so it wouldn't be in my way. That pretty much bared her center entirely. I tried not to look, but couldn't help myself. I did manage not to touch her there, though my hands got mighty close while I worked at winding the cloth around her.

She must've known what I could see, but she didn't complain or try to cover herself.

I felt lowdown for looking. But not so lowdown as to quit it. We were trapped inside a cave and surrounded by women in the most awful states of dismemberment and rot, Whittle was likely fixing to kill us, and Jesse was gunshot. Yet there I knelt, sneaking peeks and feeling like I might just explode with the thrill and wonder of it all.

After giving the strip of dress several turns around her thigh, I tied it secure with another piece.

"All set," I said, and found Jesse staring at me.

The torches gave off plenty of light for me to see she had the old gleam in her eyes. "You'd best take your mind off my southern parts and put it on Whittle."

I blushed so fierce my skin near caught fire.

I stammered something, trying for a denial.

Jesse sat up. "No call to fret about it. Give me back my knife."

I handed it to her. She leaned forward, hitched up the cuff of her remaining pantsleg, and slipped the blade into her boot.

"Perhaps you should carry it in the other boot," I suggested.

"The other boot ain't got a sheath sewed inside."

"Still, it would be easier to retrieve."

"That leg's ruined enough without getting knifed."

"Will you be able to walk?"

"Reckon we'll find out soon enough."

I got to my feet and held out a hand to her. When she took it, I hoisted her upright. She gasped and cringed. But she didn't go down.

"You can let go of me," she said.

I did so, and stepped back. After a quick check to be sure that Whittle wasn't lurking at the front of the chamber, I turned my eyes to Jesse. She took a couple of steps. Though she winced with each of them, she stayed up.

I stared at her. She was sure a sight. Standing there with a six-gun in her hand. Her hair all a mess but golden in the torchlight. Her left arm and leg both bare (except for the bandage around her thigh). Her skin moist and shiny. Her shirttails hanging out. The one leg of her dungarees. .h.i.tched up over the top of her boot with the handle of the knife sticking out.

"Whatcha staring at now?" she asked.

"You look glorious."

She reached down and touched the bandage. "Well, you got me into a dress. Reckon now I'm a regular Becky Thatcher."

"Becky Thatcher?" I asked, surprised and pleased.

"Ain't you never read about her and Tom Sawyer? They ended up in a cave, same as us."