“We’re with the territorial militia,” Fry informed him. “We’re making calls on every settler in the valley to see how many fighting men we can call on if we were to have Indian trouble.” He flashed a wide smile for Cochran’s benefit. “Are there more menfolk living here that we can count on in a pinch?”
“Ain’t nobody here but me and the missus,” Cochran said. “Hell, they coulda told you that in the settlement—saved you a ride all the way down the valley.”
Fry’s smile returned. This time it was genuine. “No trouble at all. We had to ride down here anyway, to chase the war party off.”
“War party? What war party?”
“Why, the one that’s fixin’ to burn your place,” Fry replied and nodded to Pitt.
Without hesitating, Pitt turned the rifle that had been resting across his saddle, pointing it directly at John Cochran’s forehead. The look of surprise became a permanent feature of the dead man’s face as Pitt’s rifle ball made a neat black hole just above Cochran’s eyes.