The three or four who’d ridden off for town, on the other hand, presented a more manageable target.
If he could track them down and keep one alive long enough to make him talk, he would learn things about the remaining seven or eight men, things that would help him find and kill them.
And that’s what he cared about. Tracking down and killing every last one of them, no matter how long it took.
That was his promise to Cole, to his wife, and to himself.
So he followed the smaller group and rode into town.
Even at high noon, Fairplay wasn’t much to look at. By night, it looked even less impressive, just a muddy lane lined in weathered false fronts and warped boardwalks.
Conn rode at the center of the street, scanning everything.
He passed the blacksmith’s shop. Inside, the forge still glowed red. Outside, a freight wagon sat half-unloaded, its canvas stiff with frost.
The wind was cold at his back. An icy gust set signboards to creaking in a chorus of despair.
Behind the darkened gun shop, a few dogs barked briefly. A man shouted at them, and they fell silent.
Closer, a lamp burned inside a shack. The shape of a woman appeared at the cracked window, looking out at Conn. Then the lamp winked out.
Coming to the center of town, Conn heard laughter and the sounds of a fiddle and thumping feet coming from the Fairplay Saloon, where he’d been only a short time before, when the world was still a very different place, and he, Conn Sullivan, was still a very different man, a man with a brother and a mercifully bright future.
Now, he stared grimly at the saloon. Yellow light bled through slatted shutters, reminding Conn of hellfire.
Were Cole’s killers in there, celebrating their dark deeds over beer and whiskey?
On the opposite side of the street, lights glowed in a doctor’s office, a strange thing at this late hour.
And lo and behold, three horses were hitched outside, their hides steaming in the cold night air.
He rode over to the horses and climbed down and tied his gelding beside them. The horses stamped their hooves at the intrusion, champing their bits and setting their tack to creaking and tinkling.
“You friends of theirs?” a voice called from the shadows in front of the next shop.
Conn pivoted, hand dropping automatically to his Remington, but he didn’t pull his weapon because he recognized the voice as belonging to a child, not a murderer.
A boy stepped into view, holding his hands in the air. But he didn’t look too worried. Of course, a boy running the streets of Fairplay at this time of night had probably seen his share of hard men and likely had some hard bark himself.
“Don’t shoot, mister,” the boy said, a grin coming onto his freckled face. “I was just being sociable was all.”
“I won’t shoot you,” Conn said.
The boy lowered his hands, the smile stretching wider. “Lots of action tonight. Saloon’s been lively. Then these three fellas rode in and pounded on the door until Doc Willis came down. He was none too happy, let me tell you. Are they friends of yours?”
“No.”
“Foes?”
Conn said nothing to that. “How many of them are in there?”
“Now? Just the one. He was hurt pretty bad. His buddies went across the street into the saloon.”
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know, mister.”
Conn stuck a hand in his pocket and came back out with a greenback. “Who are they?”
