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By Peter Brandvold

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Then, letting the Henry hang barrel down at his side, he turned away from Prophet and Louisa and blew the cigar smoke into the street. There was a low rumble from inside the saloon. Willis glanced over his left shoulder and said something that Prophet couldn’t hear. Then Willis turned full around toward Louisa and Prophet, and the bounty hunter jerked his head back behind the piling, hoping the post concealed him, wide shoulders and all. He stared at the coated wood before him in which someone had carved a heart between the letter L and the letter J.

Hell, on his worst, most hungover days with buxom whores still dancing around behind his eyes, he wouldn’t have let ... The echoing thumps of several pairs of boots echoed inside the saloon, growing louder until a short man in a yellow duster pushed through the batwings and onto the porch. He was flanked by Blanco Metalious, who wore a dusty, flat-brimmed black hat over his stringy, pale blond hair and was holding a Henry repeater in one hand, letting it dangle negligently down along his right leg that was clad in cheap orange-and-brown-checked wool.

Cottonwood. ” Prophet scowled at his comely partner, who turned to him with challenge in her clear, hazel gaze. “You’re wrong about the pine. ” He gave a caustic chuff, then booted the dun into a shallow ravine off the trail’s right side. He stepped out of his saddle, looped Mean’s reins over the branch of a small ironwood, and grabbed his sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun that had been secured to his saddle horn. He looped the leather lanyard over his head and right shoulder, then slid the weapon—none the less savage-looking for being so short—behind his back so that the double-bores peeked up above his shoulder.

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