He was afraid. He was holding a gun, half-pointing it at her as he stumbled down the hillside, but he was afraid.
He had come here to rape her then kill her, just as he had come here before and killed her husband.
He looked weak and stupid and afraid, stumbling down the hill, waving the barrel of his pistol back and forth between her and the dog, almost begging her, “Make your dog stop, lady! He’s hurting Rafe!”
She lifted the gun and shot him in the chest.
He cried out and fell to the ground and tumbled the rest of the way down the hillside, where he crashed into a tree and lay crumpled in an awkward heap, barely twitching.
The other man screamed, flailing on the ground, blindly clubbing the dog, trying and failing to dislodge it from his leg.
She drew back the hammer again and pushed the muzzle against the man’s head, careful not to endanger the dog with its angle.
“This is for Cole,” she said, and pulled the trigger.
47
“Idon’t kill easy,” Conn said, hand hovering beside the Remington. “You’re Jesse Turpin.”
Normally, he would use the shotgun. But the place was crowded, and buckshot wasn’t discerning, especially out of a short barrel.
So he stood ready to draw against this man who’d made a name for himself as a gunfighter.
“Yeah, that’s me,” Turpin admitted, his shock rapidly giving way to sneering confidence. “But you’re about to wish it wasn’t. You might not kill easy, Sullivan, but you’ve never faced the likes of me.”
He had squared himself with Conn.
Both men stood staring at each other, ready to draw.
But Conn still wanted to know something. “Why did you do it? Why did you kill my brother?”
“I didn’t,” Turpin said. “That was Toole and Duncan. Toole gave the order. Duncan hung him. He likes doing that. Hanging people, hurting them. Me, I was just along for the fun. And that pretty blonde.”
Turpin grinned and gave a wink then went for it.
He was fast just like folks said. He cleared leather, leaning back and twisting his body as he shot from the hip.
But Conn was more than fast.
While his brother had been reading the Bible and working hard and saving his pennies, courting Mary and making plans and bringing those plans to fruition, starting a life together on a breathtaking patch of ground that promised years of hard work with hope of prosperity, Conn had been riding the hard trail, drinking and fighting and facing the Turpins of the world.
As the would-be gunslinger rushed his shot and sent a wild bullet past Conn’s ear, Conn drew just as quickly, extended his arm, and fired, putting one through the quickdraw’s guts.
Turpin winced and hunched with the blow but kept fighting. He was bringing the gun back around when Conn fired again.
With time to aim more precisely, Conn considered putting one between his eyes and snuffing his lights forever. But he shot him in the shoulder instead, putting him out of the fight, and leaving enough of him to question.
Turpin staggered into a barstool.
Conn closed the distance and lashed out with the Remington, smashing the barrel into Turpin’s temple, laying him open and dropping him to the floor.
For a second, Conn was afraid he’d hit him too hard and killed him.
But Turpin was young and strong, and a second later, he was sputtering and trying to lift the revolver again.
Conn stomped down and smashed his bootheel into the wounded man’s wrist, pinning it to the ground as the hand released the weapon.
“Where’s Toole?” Conn demanded.
