CHAPTER SEVEN
Even if they used the shotgun and then went to their revolvers, it was a fight they couldn’t win without taking lead themselves. Red knew it and so did Buttons. The best course was to be downright sociable and see what happened.
They let the riders come in at a walk, three men on blood horses dressed in the rough garb of the frontier. Their oiled rifles glinted in the sun. As they came closer Red saw that their saddles, boots, spurs, and gun leather were of the highest quality, probably Texas-made. As a rule, outlaws threw away their ill-gotten gains on whiskey, whores, and gambling, but they didn’t stint when it came to spending considerable amounts of money on the tools of their trade—horses and firearms. The three hard-faced men who spread out as they approached the stage were no exception.
When they were within talking distance, Buttons, mighty affable when he had to be, said, “Howdy, boys. Shaping up to be a hot one today, huh?”
A rider with thick, black eyebrows and a huge cavalry mustache grinned . . . no, he didn’t . . . he snarled, showing teeth. “You, shotgun messenger, toss that Greener away and then sit on your hands.”
“Red, oblige the man,” Buttons said. “He asked you real nice.”
“Listen to your driver, feller,” Big Mustache said. “I see you even think about making a play, I’ll shoot you right offen your perch.”
“That’s telling him, Hank,” said another man, a towhead with crafty eyes.
Two rifles were trained on Red and he knew he faced a stacked deck. He dropped the scattergun over the side and said, “Abe Patterson ain’t paying me enough.”
“I call that being right sensible,” said the man called Hank. “Now both of you unbuckle the belt guns and toss them. Real slow now, like molasses drippin’ in January.”
Buttons and Red did as they were told.
A breeze came up, bringing with it the mummy-dust smell of the warming desert.
“I hate to let you boys down,” Buttons said, “but we ain’t carrying money. All we got is a stiff in a box, a gent by the name of Morgan Ford.”
“That’s who we want,” Hank said. “Now untie the coffin and ease it down.”
Red said, “Hell, mister, what kind of road agent are you? There’s no profit in a dead man.”
“There’s profit in that one,” Hank said. “Now get him down from there.”
“Hank, lookee,” the towhead said, surprise spiking his voice.
Hank turned his head, following the other outlaw’s eyes. Red did the same and saw what the road agents saw. Leah Leighton was riding toward the stage, her horse at a walk. She’d tipped her hat to the back of her head, held by a string around her neck, and her hair was unbound, cascading in glossy waves over her shoulders. Her top shirt buttons were undone, revealing the generous swell of her breasts, and her lips were parted in a come-and-take-me smile.
Hank grinned. “Boys, looks like we’re gonna have us some fun today.”
“Better we shoot them two on the stage afore the hootenanny starts,” the towhead said.
“Yeah, sure Bob, after they get the coffin down,” Hank said. Then, his grin widening, “Save our energy for better things.”
“You two, untie that box and ease it down here,” the towhead said.
“Go to hell.” Red was poised, ready to jump from the stage and grab for his shotgun and die in one hell-firing moment of glory rather than get slaughtered like a sheep.
The third outlaw, who was yet to speak, raised his voice in sudden alarm. “No, Hank, leave her be!” he yelled. “She’s poison. She’s one of them Talbot ranch hellcats. I seen them hang a man for rustling one time, and they’re all poison!”
To everyone’s surprise, the good and the bad, the man swung his horse away from the stage and headed east at a dead run, trailing a ribbon of dust.
“What the hell?” Hank yelled, startled.
With less than fifty yards to cover, Leah Leighton’s paint quarter horse was suddenly coming on at the gallop. Colt in hand, the woman let out a high-pitched shriek, half war cry, half banshee wail, and cut loose . . . and at once men’s lives were measured in seconds.
Hank took a bullet while he was still trying to sort out what the hell was happening. Hit in the chest, he swayed in the saddle and attempted to bring his unhandy rifle to bear. Leah shot him again as she barreled past, then her eyes instantly shifted focus to the shocked towhead. The man recovered and triggered his Winchester, but he fired too hastily and too high. The bullet cracked air inches above Leah’s head. A split second later, the towhead’s eyes crossed as though he tried to see the chunk of .45 lead that had entered the bridge of his nose and shattered into his braincase. Bob Roper was a rapist and murderer, and his dying scream echoed all the way to the portals of hell.
When the first shot was fired, Red had jumped from the stage and dived for his shotgun. By the time he got to his feet, the gunplay was over and Leah Leighton was in hot pursuit of the outlaw who’d fled.
“Red, over here,” Buttons Muldoon called out. “This feller is breathing his last, but he’s still alive.”
Red joined the driver and looked down at Hank, who was coughing blood and dying hard, fright in his eyes.
“As a representative of the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company, I advise you that you’d best make peace with your God, mister,” Red said. “You took a bullet over a corpse in a coffin, and sure as hell that can’t make your dying any easier.”
The man struggled to speak, and then managed a smile, blood staining his teeth. “Lucky cuss,” he said. And then his labored breathing stopped, and his open eyes stared into eternity.
Buttons shook his head. “I reckon that’s the kind of luck a man can do without.”