Cord straightened up to stretch the muscles of his back and catch his breath. From this little grassy hump in the prairie, now eternal home to Wee Bill’s clay-mound grave, Cord could see a good part of the basin. Off to the south a half mile or so down the gentle slope, the windmill rose to mark the town of Enterprise. The other way, maybe ten miles north, a dark blot on the sea of grass, was the windbreak closing in the headquarters of Bliss Ranch. As far again past the big house, at the foot of the mountains at the bowl’s northwest rim, a line of trees marked the course of the little river that drained down from the high country and out through the North Gap, the other gateway of the otherwise-intact bowl. Cord wiped his fore-head on the back of his shirt-sleeve. The day was ascending steadily toward real heat, despite the denial of the old snow on the north face slopes.
Cord bent to his work again, grooming the mound over the hole that held the corpse of Wee Bill Blewin, shaping the dense soil symmetrically and precisely and trying not to think about how many other men he had buried. The breeze from the west had stiffened, dry and hot; this was a wind for late July, Cord thought, not springtime. Connaught’s horse looked up from where it was grazing nearby and snorted. The three of them had come out here on foot to do their burying, the body in its blanket slung over Connaught’s saddle.
Cord stepped back, examined his work critically, and was satisfied. “If you’ve got to say something over him,” he said, “now is the time.”
F. X. Connaught stood by the grave with head bowed for a long moment of silence, then began to recite biblical verses having to do with death. Cord hunkered on his haunches off to the side and smoked, feeling less than comfortable with this. Formal religion had made him uncomfortable since his Lutheran youth, and funerals struck him as morbid brooding that came too late.
Connaught replaced his hat on his head finally and went out to his horse. “I bear this message,” he said, picking up the bridle reins. “Mr. Bliss wishes to see you.”
“He is going to see me all right,” Cord said. “We have got things to work out.”
Connaught turned to mount up.
“Alto,” Chi said. Connaught turned. “Are you a part of what goes on in this basin?”
Connaught regarded her. “In my way,” he said. He looked off toward the ranch headquarters. “I have been with him near twenty years,” he said. “When we met up, he was gathering west Texas range stock no one else wanted. Rib-scrawny cows on the hoof weren’t worth two dollars, and we lived in dugouts and soddies and never ate nor drank anything that wasn’t two parts dust.”
Connaught looked back to Cord and Chi. “Mallory Bliss persevered, and then he prospered, as the Book promises a man will. Seven years ago this spring, with Texas closing in on him and his cattle, he started north. Late in the summer, when the first snows had already fallen in the mountains, he came into this place when there was, in that day, nothing but a garden of grass and that windmill, like to beckoning him in to make this country his own.”
“Well, he did,” Connaught said, “and now he is afraid others will try to seize it. He will do most anything to keep what is his.”
“Including lynching,” Cord said.
“ ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged,’ ” Connaught quoted. “You cannot begrudge the man his ambition.”
“Yeah,” Cord said, “but there are other things I personally hold against your Mallory Bliss.”
“He is not a bad man.”
“People keep telling me that,” Cord said. “Why is it I have so much trouble buying into the idea?”
Connaught seemed to think about that for a moment, as if the question were not rhetorical. “I will tell him to expect you.”
“You do that,” Cord said.
Cord shouldered his shovel and wiped his face again, watching Connaught ride off north toward the ranch. Chi appeared beside him. Get it over with, he thought. Remind me of that old business if you got to, but get it done.
But it turned out that her concern was not the past after all. “What now?”
“What do you figure?”
“Forgive and forget, maybe.” But then she had to put in the needle. “Ride on to our sweet Bitter Root ranch.”
“You are still feeling some edgy.”
“I guess I just wonder,” Chi said. “You never know. We might get out there sitting in one place and not like what we find. We might not even like each other.”
The notion shook Cord, but he could see what she was talking about. “Homebodies,” he said, smiling a little.
“We could turn out to be people we don’t even know. Maybe it’s too late for change, you some farmer and me some farmer’s woman—that’s a big bite to swallow whole.” Chi looked at him ruefully, like she was sorry but couldn’t explain it better.
“What do you want?” Cord demanded. “You want to die with your boots on, like in the dime books?”
“Maybe that is the only way,” she said.
“Oh, hell,” Cord said. “We both know better than that stuff. We’ve seen plenty of dying with your boots on. Nothing good about it.” Cord turned into the hot wind. “Pretty soon the idea of gunfighters is going to be a bad joke. There’ll be no place left for people like me and you.”
“All right, then,” Chi said. “If we are going to change, might as well do it all at once. Quit it cold.”
Cord touched at the rope burn around his neck. “The thing is, I’d get to seeing this mark, and after a time I’d start waking up in the middle of the night from dreams of being hanged. Unless I get it fixed right now.”
“Well, Mr. Cord,” Chi smiled slyly, “maybe you are not so ready to change as you think.”
“Soon as this is over.
“Certainly,” Chi said solemnly. “Por supuesto.”
Cord took a last drag on his smoke, spit into his palm, and put it out there. These handmade cigarettes would generally go out when dropped, but there was no sense in taking chances, not in this odd intemperate spring heat. “Let’s get it done with,” Cord said. The hot wind poured down toward the enisled town, swirling the blades of the tall windmill into a gray blur.
The café was empty, the table cleared, and the door locked, but the Enterprise Saloon was open for business now, if there were any business to be had in this basin. Cord followed Chi through the bat wings into its dimness.
The barroom, like the cafe, was neat and plain and mainly unpopulated. The tables were bare-topped but mostly free of scratches and cigarette bums, new as everything else man-made in these parts. Carlisle presided here as he had in the cafe that morning, stationed behind one end of the simple bar that ran along the back wall of the room, facing his only customer, Doctor Fiona Cobb.
The two of them were bent over coffee cups, heads down and close together. A whiskey bottle, about two-thirds full, sat between them and just to the side; it occurred to Cord that were this business to come to a fighting head, the doctor and the librarian would not be much use. But then he remembered he was not sure which side they were on anyway.
“Come on in,” Carlisle said. “Take a drink on the management.” Fiona Cobb did not look around at them.
“Where is everyone?” Chi said.
“They just left,” Carlisle rejoined. But Cord’s attention was on the other end of the bar. A five-gallon jug of heavy clear glass stood there, the sort in which vitriol was sometimes stocked. Its wide mouth was stoppered with a cork in which airholes had been bored, and something was moving inside. Cord bent to see better, squinting through the glass’s distortion, his nose a couple of inches away.
The thing inside uncoiled itself, and Cord realized he was looking at a live rattlesnake—a split second before it struck at him. Cord yelped, “Holy Jesus!” and jerked away as the snake’s twin fangs pinged against the inside of the thick glass. The back of Cord’s legs hit a chair and he sat down heavily, almost toppled over. “What the hell?” he bleated. His heart was thumping. He hated snakes.
Carlisle was laughing. “It amuses the customers.”
“Not this one.” Cord got shakily to his feet. Chi was watching him with a serious, sympathetic face except for her eyes, which were laughing gaily. “We playing tricks or talking business?” Cord asked gruffly.
“We heard tricks are your business,” Carlisle said.
“I’ll show you a trick or two,” Cord warned, “if you don’t start getting down to cases. You were going to tell me about a job.”
“But first tell us about the money you’ll pay,” Chi cut in. “That is the way we work.”
Cord came down the bar, looking over his shoulder at the snake and feeling foolish.
“You will find us generous,” Fiona Cobb said.
“Try to put a dollar figure to it,” Chi said. “It’s the only way you can compare offers.”
Fiona Cobb looked puzzled. “I beg your pardon?”
“Soon as you’ve said your piece, I’ll bet we will go out and ask your Mallory Bliss what he wishes to bid.”
Cord shot her a look. She had figured something out that he had not yet come to.
Chi leered at the doctor. “You’d better come up with your best offer right off the bat.”
Fiona Cobb looked genuinely surprised. “My interests and those of Mallory Bliss are identical.”
“More or less,” Carlisle put in.
“You offered a drink, Richard,” Fiona Cobb snapped. “Fetch it.” Carlisle straightened as if she had raised a hand to him. “We are partners,” Fiona Cobb went on, turning back to Cord. “Mallory and I. He rules the range, but the town is mine.”
“Your own town,” Chi said. “Nice.” Carlisle placed shot glasses in front of her and Cord, and snaked the bottle over in front of them. Cord put his hand palm-down over his glass. There would be no drinking for him until a bunch of items were settled.
“I was here first,” Fiona Cobb said. “I have my rights.”
“Time for a tale,” Cord muttered under his breath.
“She fixed you up,” Chi reminded him. “Be polite.”
“I learned surgery from my father,” Fiona Cobb said. “In New Haven, where I was raised. He was a professor at the medical college at Yale, and Cobb was one of his students. He was a good man,” Fiona Cobb said, “but a poor doctor. A woman died in surgery and my husband was charged with murder.”
“So you lit out for the territories.” Carlisle offered the bottle.
Fiona Cobb nodded and watched him top off her coffee. “Our money ran out along the road here. That was eight years ago, in the springtime, and no one in this country except Blackfeet, Crow, a few wolfers, and one or two trappers who could not give it up. Settlers had passed it by for waterless, except for that bit of a river up north and that tiny creek you passed coming in. But we found a little cold spring that trickled out enough for the two of us. We thought we would fatten our stock on the free grass for a season, sell it out, and move on to San Francisco. Perhaps after a time my husband could safely practice medicine again.”
“Things change,” Chi said, glancing at Cord. But he was impatient and only half listening.
“Yes, they do,” Fiona Cobb agreed. “My husband, for example, changed into a drunk. My luck was that he drilled this deep well and built that windmill and tank before he died.”
Cord perked up. “Of what?”
“Gambling and bad timing. My husband went up to Fort Benton to spread the word of sweet water in the basin. First, though, he needed a drink, and in a riverfront saloon he got into an arm-wrestling tussle with a pilot. My husband bet fifty cents on himself and broke the pilot’s wrist.” Fiona Cobb looked into her cup and dropped her voice. “He was a powerful man despite his disgrace. Well,” she went on more briskly, “he knew anatomy and leverage, and he broke the man’s wrist and laughed. The pilot took three quick drinks for his pain, then went out and came back with a gun. The pilot had to shoot left-handed, so he stood close and fired off all six rounds.”
“Lo siento,” Chi said politely. Fiona Cobb had been civil to her so far.
Fiona Cobb nodded her acknowledgment. “A week after I buried my husband, Mallory Bliss, with his foreman, our Mr. F. X. Connaught, drove their Texas range stock into the basin and set up in a soddy.” She drained her cup. “As the years followed, we prospered, jointly and severally.”
“And into this Eden,” Carlisle picked up, “came I.”
“The snake?” Chi asked.
“Oh no,” Carlisle told her. “The snake is in that jar over there.”
“Make it short,” Cord said to Carlisle.
“It all pertains,” Carlisle insisted. “I arrived last summer. By then, Bliss was established and this town half-built.”
“Why would someone like you come here?” Chi asked.
“Why not?”
“He was kicked off the monthly stagecoach,” Fiona Cobb said. “For cheating a whiskey drummer out of thirty dollars in a game of cribbage.”
Carlisle examined his nails. “He would never have caught me,” he said, “if I hadn’t been drunk. The funny thing is that I don’t usually cheat.” He smiled at Chi. “Anyway, not at cards. That drummer had cheated first.”
“Is that the way you remember it, Richard?” Fiona Cobb asked.
“Sometimes,” Carlisle said serenely. “I landed at Doctor Cobb’s feet and was taken in like a lost lamb. The gods do conspire.”
“Really interesting,” Cord said, “your life stories and all. I could go on listening all the day long, but I’ve got another appointment later on.” Cord placed both hands flat on the bar and leaned a little toward Carlisle. “Now tell me what I want to know: How did that windmill in the prairie turn into this spanking new empty town? Who made you the saloon keep—nobody would trust their whiskey to you.”
“Temporary post,” Carlisle said. “Like I told you, I’m a librarian.”
“And I am Prince Albert.” Cord turned his stare on Fiona Cobb. “What about you, Miss Doctor. How is the healing business hereabouts?”
“More to the point,” Chi said, “whom do you wish killed?”
“Take it easy,” Carlisle said.
“I have been.” Cord spun on his heel. “But now I am getting worked up,” he warned.
“Good time for it,” Chi said calmly.
Cord didn’t get what she meant for a moment, but then he heard the horses too. A moment after that, they came into view, four mounted men. The frame of the saloon’s front window cut off their heads, but Cord could see plenty enough: in one set of stirrups, blocky square-toed steel-lined fighting boots; above another saddle, the empty right sleeve of a flannel shirt pinned to the shoulder.
Cord edged back against the bar, where he could cover the sweep of the room. “Trouble, maybe,” he said, watching the door.
“No maybe,” Chi said. “I am going to make some trouble for sure.”
Cord was startled at her vehemence. She looked at him and smiled bitterly. “Don’t you understand how badly I hate what they did to you?”
Cord was pleased to hear that, but by then bootheels were clattering up on the boardwalk and there were new matters on which to concentrate. The one in the fighting boots led them in, and right away Cord was certain that despite the hoods the night riders had worn, this was not the man who had been so hot to see him swing, over Bliss’s argument. This man was too slim and narrow-shouldered, and he carried himself all wrong: He was about twenty and twitchy, as if, unable to wait for an excuse for trouble, he might manufacture his own.
If Chi didn’t beat him to it. Cord heard her angry derisive snort at this boy and recognized her impatience as the sort that often led to bad times for whoever was annoying her. These men were night riders for certain: There would not be two men in this basin with only a left arm, and the kid’s boots were no coincidence.
The kid and the one-armed man came into the barroom. The other two slipped in behind and took up positions flanking the door, watching Cord and Chi with aggressive curiosity. One was a barrel-chested flat-nosed jasper in a derby hat, the other a thin light-skinned Negro with wavy, hennaed hair.
The kid moved up to the bar, slapped his palm on its top, and gave Chi a lickerish leer. Cord ignored him and said to the one-armed man, “I bet they call you Lefty.”
“They always try to,” the one-armed man said. “But Pincus is my name, and I make them use it.”
“A one-armed man can’t hide under a hood,” Cord said. “You ought to wear a flour sack, right down to your knees.”
“It’d be hard to shoot,” Pincus said.
Cord smiled pleasantly. “How would it be,” he inquired pleasantly, “if I tore your other goddamned arm out of the socket right now, you night-riding son of a bitch? How hard would it be to shoot then?”
“Hard for me,” Pincus said flatly. “For Magee and Sheeny over there”—he nodded over his shoulder at the man in the derby and the Negro, both of whom now stood with hands on gun butts—“not so hard probably.”
“Yeah, it would.” Chi’s right hand was under her serape. “Hard as hell with holes in their guts.”
Carlisle broke from where he stood and came down the bar. “What do you want?” he said to the kid, not nicely. Fiona Cobb had not moved. Cord wondered if she were drunk, or braver than he’d thought.
“A bottle of the good stuff,” the kid snapped. He pulled a gold coin from his vest pocket, held it on edge, and set it spinning with a flick of his forefinger. Carlisle snatched up the coin, set out a glass, and filled it from a bottle with a gold label.
“You gonna shoot me for taking a drink, dark lady?” The Negro gave Chi a too-bright look as he ambled toward the bar.
“Come ahead and see,” Chi said.
The Negro looked uncertain. He spotted the big jar and veered that way, pretending to look it over with interest. But then he spotted the rattlesnake and stopped pretending. “The hell is this supposed to be for?”
The kid drank his drink and grinned over at the Negro. “You ain’t been in here before, Sheeny.” The kid slid down the bar. “I’m gonna show you a trick.”
“I got a trick for you, pendejo,” Chi said.
“I’ll get to you by and by, lady,” the kid said, not looking at her. He had no idea how close to the edge she already was, Cord saw. Pincus stepped back to watch the goings-on from one side, and Magee looked alert from his position by the door.
“I bet twenty bucks,” the kid announced, “that you can’t keep your hand flat on the bottle glass when the snake strikes at it.”
“Say what?” Sheeny said.
“Human nature. You’ll jerk back like you was really bit.”
“Likely I would,” Sheeny said. “Except I ain’t playing.”
“You figure he is gonna come right through that glass?” the kid taunted. “You think that is some kind of ghost snake from one of your mammy’s fairy stories?”
“Easy now, Short String,” Sheeny said in a soft, careful voice.
The kid went rigid. “What was that name again?”
“Luke,” Sheeny said sullenly. “The name is Luke.”
Luke produced a twenty dollar gold piece. That would be most of a month’s salary for a cowhand in these parts, Cord guessed, but then these boys were not cowhands. “Play my game, Sheeny,” Luke smirked, shooting a prideful glance at Chi, as if assuming she had to be impressed by his manly behavior.
“I do not like this boy’s manner,” Chi said clearly.
“It’s his boots that get my goat,” Cord said.
The kid whirled. “Too bad,” he said. “Too bad what you don’t like.” Cord wondered again how fast he would be with his left hand, if it came to that.
“Okay, Luke,” Sheeny said quickly. “If the only thing’ll make you happy is to see a nigger jump, I’ll go along. But I ain’t paying you a double sawbuck for the privilege.”
Luke stared at Cord, as if gazes were gunfights. “Drink,” he snapped, and looked away. Carlisle refilled his glass and the kid poured it down.
“Here is a muchacho who needs a lesson on what makes a man,” Chi said.
At the door, Magee looked less sure of himself. “Look, here goes,” Sheeny said quickly. Get the boy out of here, Cord almost said. But he saw the way Chi was looking and checked himself. She had something in mind—though he was not sure exactly what it was and thought he would not like it so much if he did.
Sheeny placed his hand on the glass. The snake lay in an oblivious coil. Sheeny tapped a fingernail on the other side of the bottle, and the snake stirred. A bit of sweat shined on Sheeny’s brown-yellow forehead. Cord watched, fascinated despite himself.
The snake lifted its head and pivoted the upper half of its three-foot body. Its rattle began to chatter, the sound deadened by the bottle’s cork stopper. Sheeny worked the tip of his tongue over his lower lip.
The snake struck, its triangular head bouncing off the glass. Sheeny jerked back his hand and barked, “Damn!”
“He get you, Sheeny?” Luke laughed. “You need someone to cut you and suck the poison?”
“¡Muchacho!”
Luke turned slowly away from the Negro, putting on his dirty smirk. “Hold your water, lady.”
“Now we will play,” Chi said. “You and me.”
Luke looked pleased. This woman had picked him out of the crowd. “You want to hold onto a snake,” Luke said, “I got one you’ll like.”
“You are a filthy little boy,” Chi said. “I am going to teach you a lesson in manners.”
Pincus snickered. Luke shot him a furious look.
“I am ready,” Chi said. “Bet me two hundred dollars I can’t keep my hand on the jar.”
She was pushing all the way now: Trouble was here.
“Maybe you don’t have two hundred dollars,” Chi said.
“I got it,” Luke said in a husky voice. He took out a pocketbook and currency, showed it to her. He removed bills, fanned them out like a poker hand, then squared them and stuffed them in his shirt pocket. “Let’s see yours.”
Chi smiled maliciously. “No.”
Fiona Cobb looked up for the first time. Her expression was almost clinically curious as she examined Chi, as if she had just discovered a new subspecies among human females. Well, she sure as hell was that, Cord thought.
Luke’s expression turned tentative. He was starting to get the idea that the water was rising and wondering how deep it was going to get. Over his head, maybe.
Chi stared at him and placed her hand on the jar.
The snake struck.
Chi did not move a muscle.
“You got to watch him!” Luke bleated, like a kid in a school yard.
“Okay.” Chi smiled at Cord. “If the chiquito moves, kill him.”
“My pleasure.”
“I got my boys with me!” Luke whined.
“Do shut up, sonny,” Carlisle said. Even the bartender was pushing Luke around now.
Chi put her hand on the glass again and slowly lowered her head to watch the snake. She stared at it while it struck a second time, a third, a fourth, its rattle chattering madly. Chi slowly removed her hand. “Probrecito,” she said to the snake. “You will break your fangs.”
She smiled prettily at Luke. “Give me my money, cabrónito.”
“You go to hell.” Luke turned away. “Let’s get out of here.” Sheeny and Pincus were ahead of him as they went toward the door.
“You forgot your whiskey,” Chi said softly. “Didn’t you want to take the bottle?”
Luke looked from the liquor on the bar to the other three men waiting by the door, Magee and Sheeny and Pincus. He licked his lips, knew where he was now but too late to do anything about it. Chi had him buffaloed—and yet only the yellowest of dogs would allow himself to be hazed out of there this way.
Hazed out by a woman.
Luke turned, took two steps back toward the bar. As he reached out, the bottle exploded.
Chi’s hand was clear of the serape now, and her Colt was in it. She turned the gun on the three bunched near the door.
“You tried to hang my partner,” she said.
“We didn’t, though,” Pincus said gently.
“You are dog-assed mobsters, afraid to even show your faces. Deny it.”
“We are members of the Bliss Basin Vigilance Committee,” Pincus said, “maintaining order in absence of established law.” Magee edged a step away to one side.
Carlisle reached back and set another bottle on the bar. Chi’s back was to him.
Luke reached for the second bottle, and Chi fired across her body and blew it to pieces. She had barely looked to aim; she was doing magic today.
She said, watching the men at the door, “Give me my money, or I will take it off your corpse.” She let Luke have a quick look at her expression. “You bet more than you could afford, and you lost. Now you’ve got to pay up.”
Cord saw that there would be a fight. No stopping it now: One on one against the kid, but it would be like killing him in cold blood. She was faster, no question in the world.
Still, Cord liked it not at all. It wasn’t one on one, and when the indiscriminate shooting started in this place, no telling who would get hit. Well, it looked too late to stop it now. Besides, she must have a reason for doing this deadly thing, and she was his partner. Cord would back her play no matter what.
Fiona Cobb moved around behind the end of the bar then, where there was cover behind which to duck, though she did not look frightened but rather anticipatory, a bit flushed. Carlisle stayed where he was, both hands in sight. “You got your choice,” Chi told the kid.
Luke was thinking hard and coming up empty. Without taking his eyes from Chi, he said to Cord, “You let your woman fight your battles for you?”
“You made the bet, boy.” Cord laughed; best to keep the edge on the other side. “She always shoots for a man’s right eye. Ask me why.”
Luke was in alien territory. “Why?” he rasped.
“It disturbs his aim.”
Chi laughed.
Luke blanched. “Listen up,” he said. But it was too late for this Short String: The first gun went off.
The shot, very loud in the room, came from the rifle that had suddenly appeared in Carlisle’s hands. It cracked through the wood of the door between the gunmen there, Magee on one side, Pincus and Sheeny on the other.
Magee was frozen with his revolver barrel nearly clear of his holster, facing Chi’s Colt.
“What now, little man?” Chi swept aside her serape to expose her holster, dropped her Colt into it. “Now you are way ahead of me. Maybe here is your lucky chance.”
Magee hesitated a long beat—and went for it, tried to draw on her. She beat him by a lot and put a clean shot right through his pump. Blood splattered the wall behind him.
Chi watched Magee’s body ooze down the wall. “Maybe not,” she said.
It could have ended there—should have, if the boy had sense. But then the moment was gone, and he was proving he had none at all, pulling his gun and giving out a hard grunt. Cord beat him left-handed and shot him from the side. Luke screamed and spun away and went down.
“That’s enough,” Carlisle ordered. He was covering Sheeny and Pincus with his rifle. They kept their hands carefully clear of their weapons.
“Doesn’t have to be over yet,” Chi spat at Sheeny and Pincus. “We can have lots more fun at your expense.” She looked mad enough to chew nails.
“It is, though,” Pincus said quickly. “Over and done.”
“Not quite.” Chi went up to Pincus, her gun on him all the while. “There is one more piece of old business. Who leads the night riders? Who was so itchy to kill my partner?”
“Mallory Bliss,” Pincus said. “Everybody knows that.”
Chi placed her gun muzzle against his one elbow.
“A man called Stringer,” Pincus said.
“Big wide man?” Cord asked. “Rides a black horse with three white stockings, and wears fighting boots like that boy?”
“That’s him.”
“You tell him that we have got some things to settle,” Cord said.
Pincus glanced at Luke’s bleeding body. “You’ve got that right, pal,” Pincus said. “You just killed his kid brother.”
But Cord had already guessed that part. “Take your trash and give us some peace.”
“I got a feeling you are going to see us again,” Pincus said malevolently.
“Better bring an army,” Cord snapped. He never felt good after a fight. “Now do what I say.”
Pincus and Sheeny came forward, got the corpses under the arms, and started to drag them out.
“Hold it,” Chi said. She bent and pulled the two hundred dollars from Luke’s shirt pocket, watching the two men, challenging someone to object. “Now it is all right,” she said.
Everything hung silently while Pincus and Sheeny drug their drinking cronies out the door. Cord watched through the window as they loaded the bodies over their saddles and tied them on.
Chi turned away from the door, her expression composed. Cord was annoyed. He’d already told her clearly that he meant to do something about the men who tried to hang him, but here she had nearly taken the play away from him. Instead of deliberation, she had acted with something near to craziness.
“Well, now,” She put her gun away under her serape, gazing back at him. “Maybe one more drink for the road.”
Cord stared at her. The oddest hunch crossed his mind: For some reason unexpressed but likely having to do with whatever was eating at her, had she chosen to challenge their mortality? Cord felt hot: Where was her right to draw him into her quick mad life-and-death games?
“All right?” she said lightly, and moved past. Well, it had turned out all right, that he must admit. Then he realized the rest of it. She had turned away from the boy Luke, put her back to him and left her protection to Cord’s weak left hand, because she knew: as always, one-handed or no, Cord would be ready, and able, to cover her. The old instincts and cues of partnership remained intact. What happened in Livingston was behind them.
She was correct after all: they still worked together pretty damned effectively. What else did she know, Cord wondered …
He jammed his Colt back into the holster and turned back to the bar. Carlisle let the hammer down on the rifle. “For a librarian,” Cord said, “you are pretty damned fast with a long gun.”
Carlisle lay the weapon on the bar and looked as if he would say something. Instead, he merely shook his head. His face was a little paste-colored.
“If you have any other colorful secrets,” Chi said, “now is the time to lay them out.”
“You gonna shoot me in the elbow if I don’t talk?” Carlisle snapped. But his voice sounded reedy, and all of a sudden he crossed his arms and lay his head down on the bar top.
“Richard!” Fiona Cobb said with concern. She filled a shot glass with whiskey and pressed it into Carlisle’s hand. He raised his head and sucked it down. Fiona Cobb poured a refill.
Carlisle straightened, holding the glass. “We are done,” he said in a voice thick with despair. He gestured with the glass. “To happier trails,” he said miserably, and drank the whiskey.
“It could be okay, Richard,” Fiona Cobb said urgently. “We still have them.” She waved in Chi’s direction without looking toward her.
“I don’t like being talked about that way,” Chi said. “Like I’m not here.”
“You’re right,” Fiona Cobb said quickly. “I am sorry.”
“That’s better.” But Chi looked a bit surprised at the apology from this lady.
“Run out if you must, Richard,” Fiona Cobb said. “It won’t be the first time.”
“For either of us.” Carlisle reached for the bottle.
Fiona Cobb snatched it back away from him. Carlisle blinked. The doctor set the bottle on the back bar. “To now we were not involved in any way with Stringer’s mob.” She turned to face the three of them. “Mallory is responsible for them.”
“No blood on your hands,” Cord said.
“Two of his men died in our place,” Fiona Cobb said. “We’ve taken a side—at least Stringer will see it that way. You don’t know him.”
“Maybe we do,” Chi said.
Fiona Cobb was not paying attention. “You are right, Richard. We must decide now whether to stay or go.” She looked up at Cord and Chi. “And so must you.”
“But bear this in mind,” Carlisle warned. “If you stay, you are in on the trouble. You got no choice at all.”
“I can’t stand being told to fight or run,” Chi said.
“Not that it hasn’t happened before,” Cord muttered.
“Well, if I’ve got to hear it,” Chi said, “I better be told the whys and wherefores. I want to know every damned thing.”
“Before we make any rash decisions.” Cord was still thinking about the late gunfight.
“Time for true talk,” Chi said.
“Yes,” Fiona Cobb said, as if that had not occurred to her. “Of course.”