“Not much to tell. Couple of good old boys. They’d give you the shirt off their back.”
“Right. Who’s faster?”
“Sir?”
“Who’s faster with a gun.”
“Arthur.”
“The skinny one?”
“Yes, sir. They say he’s like greased lightning. Bo’s no slouch, either, but he’s more of a rifleman than a pistolero. Look, mister, like I said, I’m real sorry we rode in there and gave you a hard time.”
“Give me all the names.”
“Sir?”
“I want the name of every man who rode in there tonight.”
“I don’t even know all their names, mister.”
Conn started to lift the Remington.
“Hold on now, I’ll tell you what I know. There’s Henry.”
“The leader?”
“Yeah, I guess. It was his idea, anyway.”
“Short, scarred face?”
“That’s Henry.”
“Is Henry his first name or his last?”
“It’s his first. Henry Toole.”
“And the others?”
“Well, I told you about Bo and Arthur. Then there’s Duncan and Rafe and one they call Dog. He’s about half an idiot, just pure mean is all.”
“Keep going.”
“There’s Jesse Turpin. Quiet, seems like a nice enough fella.”
Conn gritted his teeth. This Tripp Daniels was describing his bloodthirsty gang like they were members of the church choir.
“Toby rode with us,” he paused for a second, his mouth hanging open. “Oh yeah, and Blake. I don’t know his first name. Ben, maybe?”
Conn told him to describe the men.
Tripp described each of them, mildly at first, then in more detailed fashion at Conn’s coaxing.
Conn took it all in, memorizing the details along with the names.
“There, I told you everything. I wasn’t gonna do nothing to your wife. Honest. Henry told me to go fetch her, so that’s what I was fixing to do. Nothing else. You don’t cross Henry. He used to be a prizefighter. One of the best. And he’s not afraid to use them fists of his. Tell you the truth, I think he likes it.”
“What was he going to do with her?”
