A Man Whose Business Is Death . . .

Slocum looked over his shoulder and saw his luck had run out. Throwing down on the revived shotgun-wielding man would result in death—the wrong one’s death, from Slocum’s point of view.

“Suppose I ought to talk to Hawkins.”

“That’s Mister Hawkins.”

Slocum saw the man’s finger curling back on the trigger and turning white with strain. He wasn’t going to crawl for anyone. Something in the set to Mac’s body—was it fear of disobeying Leonard Hawkins?—made Slocum relax just a little. When he stood, Mac motioned down the street with the muzzle of his shotgun. Aware that he might die at any instant in spite of the order to be brought in alive, Slocum set off. He saw how the townspeople hid. Fearful eyes peered out from around half-opened doors and through filmy curtains.

“Where are we going?”

“To the undertaker,” Mac said.