heard me.”
“You mean you two old cutthroats ran a load of freight all the way up there into them mountains and are only bringin’ down one hundred and fifty dollars for your trouble?”
Slash felt the flush of embarrassment rise in his leathery but clean-shaven cheeks. Pecos glanced at him. He, too, looked sheepish. It used to be they’d done jobs for thousands of dollars. They never would have done a job—taken down a train or a stagecoach—unless they were sure they’d take home at least three times what they were carrying today for a whole lot more work.
Now, here they were busting their backs several days on the trail for a measly one hundred and fifty.
“That ain’t so bad,” Slash said, indignant.
“And it’s honest,” Pecos added, defensively.
“Jesus Christ!” said the limey, glancing at the kid. “From now on, I reckon we’d best keep our sights on whole freight trains instead of single wagons.”
“And on younger men,” said the redheaded mongrel, Cord, mockery flashing in his eyes.
Slash said, “You could try makin’ an honest livin’ your ownselves.”
“We tried that,” Donny said. “We been bustin’ rocks for two summers. The winters damn near killed us. We found a little color, all right, but not enough for a stake. Hell, this is easier.” He moved toward Slash’s side of the wagon, keeping his rifle aimed straight out from his hip. “Throw it down.”
“We need that money more than you do,” Pecos said.
“You don’t need it.” The kid stopped and looked up darkly at the two former cutthroats, his mouth lengthening, though the corners did not rise. “You ain’t gonna need a dime from here on in.”
“What’re you talkin’ about?” Pecos said.
Quietly, the kid said, “Throw the money down, Slash Braddock. Just toss it down here by my right boot.” The kid tapped the toe of his boot against the ground.
Slash glanced at Pecos. Pecos looked back at him, expressionless.
Slash glanced at the limey, then turned to the kid. “If you’re gonna kill us anyway, why should I turn over the money we worked so hard for?”
“You never know,” the kid said with quiet menace, dark amusement glinting in his cold eyes, “I might change my mind . . . once I see the money. It’s enough to buy us all whiskey and girls for a coupla nights, anyway. We haven’t had neither in several days now.
“Throw it down, Slash,” the limey ordered.
Pecos turned to his partner, his eyes wide with fear. “Oh, hell—throw it down, Slash. Don’t give ’em a reason to kill us.” He glanced at Donny. “You wouldn’t kill two old codgers in cold blood, would you, boy? Throw it down, Slash. Throw it down, an’ let’s go home!”
“Yeah,” Cord said, moving slowly toward the wagon, stepping around the mules and striding toward Slash’s side of the driver’s box. The Mexican was sidling around toward Pecos. “Throw the money down, Slash . . . so you old cutthroats can go on home. Looks like one of you has lost his nerve in his old age.”
He stopped and blinked once, smiling.
“Oh, lordy,” Pecos said, throatily.
Slash glanced at him. “What is it, Pecos?”
“My ticker.”
“What?”
“My ticker. It’s . . . it’s actin’ up again.” Sweat dribbled down the middle-aged cutthroat’s cheeks.
“Ah, Jesus, Pecos—not now!”
“What the hell’s happening?” Donny said.
“Ah, hell,” Pecos said, leaning forward, dropping a knee onto the driver’s boot’s splintered wooden floor. “I can’t . . . I can’t breathe, Slash!”
“What the hell is going on?” asked the limey, striding down the slope, letting his rifle hang nearly straight down along his right leg.
“Can’t you see the poor man’s havin’ ticker trouble?” Slash said, dropping to a knee beside his partner.
“He’s fakin’ it,” said the kid. “He ain’t havin’ ticker trouble.”
Slash shot an angry look at him. “Yes, he is. It started a couple months back. We were hefting heavy freight down from the wagon box, and his chest tightened up on him and his arm went numb. He said he felt like a mule kicked him.” He turned back to Pecos, who was really sweating now, face mottled both red and gray. “Fight it, Pecos. Fight it off . . . just like last time!”
“I’ll be damned,” said the limey, leaning forward over the wagon’s left front wheel and tipping his head to one side to stare up into Pecos’s face. “I think he really is having ticker complaints.” He chuckled and glanced at the kid. “I think we done made the Pecos River Kid so nervous, his heart is givin’ out on him!”
They all had a good laugh at that.
Meanwhile, Slash patted his partner’s back and said, “We need to get him down from here. We need to get him off the wagon and into some shade. Anybody got any whiskey? The sawbones told him he should have a few swigs of who-hit-John when he feels a spell comin’ on.”
“Yeah, I got whiskey,” the limey said. “But I sure as hell ain’t sharin’ it with him.”
They all had another good round of laughs.
“Just hand the money down, you old mossyhorn,” the kid said, extending his hand up toward Slash, who’d stuffed the envelope into his coat pocket. “Then you can be on your way and get that poor old broken-down excuse for the Pecos River Kid to a pill roller . . . if he lives that long.” He snapped his fingers impatiently. “Come on, hand it down, Slash. I ain’t gonna ask you again!”
“Oh, hell!” Slash said, drawing the envelope out of his coat pocket. “Here, take the blasted money!” He threw the envelope down. In doing so, he revealed the small, silver-chased, pearl-gripped over-and-under derringer he’d also pulled out of his pocket and that was residing in the palm of his right hand.
He flipped the gun upright. He closed his right index finger over one of the two eyelash triggers housed inside the brass guard. He shoved the pretty little popper down toward the kid, who blinked up at him, slow to comprehend what he’d just spied in Slash’s hand, his mind still on the money beside his right boot.
There was a pop like a stout branch snapping under a heavy foot.
The kid flinched as though he’d been pestered by a fly. His eyes snapped wide. Instantly, the rifle tumbled from his hands as he lifted them toward the ragged hole in the right side of his slender, lightly freckled neck.
A half an eye wink after the derringer spoke, Pecos, recovering miraculously from his near-death experience, shoved his right hand beneath the driver’s seat just off his right shoulder. He closed his hand around the neck of the twelve-gauge
