He scanned the area. Everything was old and dead except fresh tracks leading into Mercy Ridge and a thin tendril of smoke rising from farther on down the road.
Someone on the far side of this dead town had a fire burning. Maybe they were cooking up some grub to go with the whiskey they were expecting. Or maybe they were just preparing for another dark, cold night as the day faded toward dusk, bleeding light.
He stopped in front of the faded sign.
Mercy Ridge, Colorado. Population: 375.
This number had been crossed out and replaced several times, reflecting a declining population.
233, 112, 47, 9…
And finally, below that crossed-out number, some joker had written0.
But even if the joker had been telling the truth, the sign now lied.
Because even though the town ahead looked deserted, Conn knew it contained a population of three men.
He planned on putting truth back into that sign as quickly as he could. Because signs such as this did not tally the dead.
He got off the road, not wanting anyone to see him until he had the drop on them.
Three against one were poor odds, but he planned on mitigating his chances with surprise and a shotgun.
So he eased the gelding into the woods and ground hitched him among the trees and told him to be a good horse and wait there. He considered tying him up but wanted him loose in case something happened, and he needed to whistle for him.
He didn’t have much of a plan.
If it weren’t for Turpin, he’d wait for night and take them while they slept.
But they would be wanting that whiskey. Soon, they would grow agitated. Then they might start to wonder if maybe something had happened to Turpin.
Men like these, they’d probably leave him high and dry rather than risking their hides waiting for him. There is no honor among outlaws.
Which meant he had to take them now.
He wished he had a better plan, but for now it was pretty simple. Creep in there, get close, and use the shotgun on them.
Sometimes, simple is best. Sometimes, rather than overthinking things, it’s better to trust yourself and act decisively.
Their campfire gave him an advantage. He knew right where they were, and probably all three of them were in the same place.
They had no reason to be cautious. They thought he was dead and had no idea that Mayfield was on their tail.
And my tail, too,he thought.
Which was another reason he had to go for the throat.
Any minute now, Mayfield might come riding up the road and ruin everything. The marshal would’ve heard about the fight by now, and plenty of men had listened to Turpin’s dying words. Several had offered directions here.
So yeah, Mayfield would be along any moment.
It was time to move.
Conn crept forward, sticking to the trees. They grew right up to the town, which was built up against the base of the mountain overlooking Coldwater Creek.
He reached the easternmost of dilapidated false-front buildings, peeked around its warped corner, and surveyed Mercy Ridge.
Ancient ruts half-choked with sage and scree stretched the length of the main drag, cutting deep wounds in the space between the lost town's dead buildings, which leaned this way and that beneath bowed roofs beaten down by time and heavy Colorado winters. Faded signs offered goods and services that had vanished years ago.
