She didn’t give herself time to be disgusted. Mr. Boone’s body came up from the ground with a wet squelching noise and she dug her hands in the pockets of his leather chaps. Nothing.
A key could be anywhere around here.
“Son of a bitch!” Whiskey shouted from across the circle.
He was leaning against the door of the Water House. He looked dazed, blood dripping from a cracked lip, pointing his Glock past the far rim of trailers.
Bethany heard a truck’s engine turn over.
“Malacek’s getting away,” Whiskey shouted.
Sure enough, through a gap in the distant trailers, Bethany saw a pair of red taillights go bouncing away over the dark country.
She shook her head, wiped her sticky hands in the dirt. Mitchell and the others here had killed her man and ruined her life and nobody—nobody—was escaping from this place on her watch.
Bethany Tanner was the Sharpest Shot in the West. And she knew just where to get a rifle.