The station agent looked wary. “Are you a friend of theirs?”
“Not at all.”
“Phew. That’s good. Because from what I understand, those are some rough hombres.”
Conn nodded. “They are cold-blooded murderers.”
“So I understand,” the man said. “You’re not the first to come hunting them. Fella came in here yesterday looking for them. A lawman.”
Conn frowned at that, figuring he knew who it was. “Thin man? Wearing his badge on a real neat, black coat?”
“That sounds just like him.”
“Did he hop the train, too?”
“No, sir. He got here too late for the train and rode out of town on a big, white horse.”
Conn thought about that. It was maybe fifty or sixty miles to Leadville.
Mayfield would get there by the end of today if he wanted to.
“When’s your next train to Leadville?” Conn asked.
“Real soon. It pulls out of here in about forty-five minutes.”
Conn bought a ticket and waited, realizing things had just gotten more complicated.
He didn’t just need to track down and kill Toole and the others.
He also needed to avoid Mayfield. At least until he had taken out the killers.
After that, if Mayfield wanted to settle their differences, Conn would be more than happy to oblige.
41
Henry Toole was sitting pretty.
It might not look that way, seeing as he was holed up in a ghost camp outside of Leadville, but he sure enough was.
As he’d expected, his elimination of Conn Sullivan and Bill Sheffield had tamped down any mutinous notions in his men, who’d been nothing but respectful the whole ride from Salida.
They were restless now but that was just because they wanted whiskey.
So did Henry.
And once he had that, he’d really be set. At least for now.
“What’s the plan, boss?” Jesse Turpin asked.
Boss.
Henry liked that, especially coming from the quick draw. There might be hope for Turpin yet, especially after Henry’s plans came to fruition.
“Right now,” Henry said, “we’re just taking it easy. We got everything we need. Eight horses, cash money, this place.”
“No whiskey, though,” Turpin said.
“Or women,” Duncan said.
