1881
Strident voices drifted through the open window.
“I’ll kill them sons a bitches this time, Ike, I swear to God I will. They won’t get away with treating us like dogs no more.”
“Frank, you got to calm down. I don’t even have a gun. Them bastards took it.”
As I leaned over and peered out the window, the book I’d been reading when I dozed off tumbled to the floor. Five men stood below with a couple of horses, and I recognized all of them—Cowboys.
Movement up the street caught my eye. Three men dressed in black strode purposefully towards the corral, their boots kicking up little puffs of dust. I dropped the curtain and fumbled through some of the buttons on my dress.
When I pulled back the curtain again, a fourth man—one I knew well—came around the corner, his long black duster doing little to disguise the shotgun in his right hand. He stood beside the other three, a silent choir of dark avenging angels.
“Throw up your hands, boys. I’ve come to disarm you.” Virgil’s voice was clear and steady.
Hell had come to Tombstone, and I was riding on its coattails.