“He said you carried him home. Ran the whole way.”
He nodded again.
“But you have a scar just like it,” Mary said. “Exactly like it. How?”
“A story for another time,” Conn said. “I’m going now. Here.”
He reached in his pocket and pulled out the wad of money he’d been planning to start a new life with. He handed most of it to her, keeping only enough to start after his brother’s killers.
“What’s this?”
“Money.”
“I know that. But why are you giving it to me?”
“In case I don’t come back.”
“You might not come back?”
“I’ll come back unless they kill me. And I don’t count on letting them do that. But you keep the money just in case. I reckon they took all of yours.”
She glanced at the open door of the house and finally nodded. “Cole said you’re awful tough.”
He nodded.
“Don’t let them kill you, then, all right? You kill them and then come back.”
He said that’s what he aimed to do. He took one last look at Cole then whistled to the gelding.
The horse trotted out of the darkness.
Conn opened his bags and gave Mary his blanket and jerky. He offered matches, but she already had some. He considered leaving his shotgun or rifle but reckoned she would probably be all right with the pocket pistol.
He, on the other hand, might need all of his weapons before this night was through.
With that thought, he retrieved the full bandolier from his saddle bag and draped it across his chest so a line of buckshot crossed his heart.
Then, having done everything he could for his brother’s widow, Conn climbed into the saddle, touched the brim of his hat, and set out after the men he had promised to kill.
9
Conn followed the tracks back out to the road. A mile from town, they split into two groups.
Most of the riders headed west on a side trail. A few rode straight toward Fairplay, the lights of which glowed faintly in the distance.
Conn hesitated at the crossroads.
What to do? Which trail to follow?
Part of him, the angry, impatient, bloodthirsty part—his heart, he supposed—wanted to follow the larger group and kill a bunch of them at once.
But another part of him, the colder, more patient, far deadlier part—his mind, he supposed—reminded him that he was riding blind.
He knew almost nothing about these men. There were eleven in total, including a short man who looked like a fighter.
That, and they were capable of cold-blooded murder.
Not much to go on. But enough to get killed on, if he rode recklessly into their camp.
