Others shouted that they were ready to ride, too.
Conn turned to the bartender. “You gonna let these cold-blooded murderers get away?”
The bartender frowned and lowered the shotgun. “You go ahead, I guess. But let the record show, boys, I tried to get the marshal involved.”
“Duly noted,” a barrel-chested man with red hair said. “Now let’s go shoot these vermin.”
12
They cleared the saloon. Outside, several curious townsfolk, including the doctor and the boy, watched as the volunteers—sixteen in all, not counting Conn—set to fetching their horses. Conn was appreciative of their help but increasingly impatient as the moment unfolded and it became clear just how drunk some of the men were.
Several hurried to spaces between buildings to empty their bladders, while several others retreated to parts unknown to get horses and firearms. Others staggered about, proclaiming drunken vows of vengeance that lifted into the air on frosty breath.
The black-haired man came over and introduced himself. “Bill Sheffield.”
“Conn Sullivan,” Conn said, shaking the man’s big, calloused hand.
“Rudy McKay,” the red-haired man said, offering his hand next.
“What do you want to do?” Sheffield said.
Conn glanced toward the confusion of bumbling volunteers. “We’ll give them another minute then ride out.”
Sheffield nodded. “You said the rest rode west. Where?”
Conn explained the crossroads where the group had split.
“I know that trail,” McKay said. “Runs to the mountains then splits north and south. They’re probably heading south. I’ll bet they cross the range by Four-Mile Creek Pass.”
“This time of night?” Sheffield said dubiously. “They’ll break their necks, even with the moonlight. More likely, they’ll hole up in the old trapper’s cabin close to the crossroads.”
“Guess you’re probably right,” McKay said. Then he asked Conn, “You know these men?”
“I know their names,” Conn said, and recited them from memory. When men kill your brother, there’s no need to write down their names. You hear them once, those names are branded straight into your mind forever.
“I’ve known Danny Bump since he was just a kid,” McKay said. “He’s been nothing but trouble the whole time. I’ve seen him palling around with some rough-looking men lately. Must be the ones we’re after.”
“Toole’s trouble,” Sheffield said. “You know him? Short fella, does some work for Joe Jacobs? Hangs around with Tripp Daniels.”
“Not anymore, he doesn’t,” Conn said. “Tripp Daniels is dead.”
Sheffield accepted this with a nod. “Toole’s a scrapper. He beat the tar out of Dale Jennings a couple weeks back.”
“Dale Jennings?” McKay said. “Name’s familiar. Is he a real tall fella?”
Sheffield nodded. “Tall, quiet. Real nice. Toole started in on him for no reason at all. Broke his jaw and his ribs, knocked out one of his front teeth. Made the man cry. In front of everybody. Jennings will move out of the country after that. And he’s just the sort we want here. Unlike Toole.”
“Let’s ride,” Conn said, tired of waiting.
Of course, that’s right when the marshal showed up.
Somebody had fetched him. He looked half asleep and sort of bewildered and carried a Winchester but didn’t point it at anybody, even once folks had directed him to Conn.
He introduced himself as Marshal Andrews and asked what happened, and Conn went back over it all again, hating the delay. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Marshal, we’re gonna go catch these men.”
“You can’t do that,” the marshal said.
“Watch us,” Sheffield said, heading for his horse.
