hot that morning, and the air stank of the smoke pouring out of the stamp mills along the river. Reilly shot a glance at the rooftops, spotting the sheriff’s deputies and town marshal’s men in position, rifles ready, and made himself relax. K.C. Kraft wouldn’t try anything today. Not here. The only threat out in Charleston, he thought with a grin, was a case of the clap.
He kept his left hand on the door.
Marshal Zan Tidball had spent a lot of money on this prison wagon, and Reilly had decided it would pay for itself once he got the Kraft brothers to Yuma. If he got there. It was a black wagon—except for the freshly painted yellow wheels, and silver words, U.S. MARSHAL, ARIZONA TY., on the left side—with a wood bottom, housing an iron jail on the bed that would soak up the Arizona heat like the sand swallowed water. The iron bars allowed a breeze, at least, and they could chain the brothers to the floor if needed.
Marshal Ken Cobb, who typically oversaw the district that covered Cochise and Pima counties, had instructed Reilly to transport the prisoners in the wagon along the San Pedro River north to Contention City, where they would board the train to Benson, then catch the Southern Pacific all the way to Yuma, where they would deliver the two Krafts to the warden at the territorial pen.
Simple enough.
Except everybody in Arizona Territory knew about it, including K.C. Kraft, the third, and meanest, brother, who hadn’t been captured or killed. So Reilly had thought of something better, although he hadn’t gotten around to telling Cobb or Marshal Tidball, or anyone else. Hell, Reilly never had been good at following orders.
“All right, ladies,” he said easily. “Let’s make room for the gentlemen.”
He wore blue trousers tucked inside black, $15 stovepipe boots inlaid with green, four-leaf clovers; a mustard and brown-checked collarless shirt; faded blue bandana; and a wide-brimmed, flat-crowned hat the color of wet adobe. A six-point star hung from the lapel of his gray vest, and a long-barrel Merwin, Hulbert & Co. .44 fit snugly on his right hip, six shells for easy access on the tooled leather holster. He turned so that the Krafts couldn’t reach the revolver, and let the whores keep singing.
L.J. Kraft climbed into the wagon without a word, but W.W. stopped to hold out his manacled hands.
“How about taking these bracelets off, Mac?” W.W. showed his yellow, crooked teeth.
Reilly stared.
“Hell,” W.W. said, “I just want to feel Matilda’s tit-ties before I take my leave, and don’t want to hurt her none with this iron.”
Somewhere in the crowd, Matilda giggled.
“That iron,” Reilly said, “stays on till you get to Yuma.”
“You ain’t Cupid,” W.W. said, and climbed into the wagon with his older brother. Reilly slammed the door, locked it, and tossed the keys to Frank Denton.
“Gus,” Reilly told the young, pockmarked deputy, “get up there with Chisum. Frank, fetch our horses.” He looked at the rooftops again. A sheriff’s deputy nodded that everything looked fine. Reilly let out a breath.
“All this for just us two poor, misguided souls.” W.W. Kraft laughed. “We can’t be that dangerous.”
No, Reilly thought. K.C. was the dangerous one. The free one. That’s what worried him.
The whores started singing “Rock of Ages.”
Stepping back, Reilly wiped the beads of sweat peppering his forehead.
“Why don’t you shut them the hell up, McGivern?” Slim Chisum grumbled from the driver’s box. He hadn’t lowered the hammers of the scattergun.
Reilly shrugged. “Maybe I’m Cupid after all,” he said, but not loud enough to be heard, and walked across the street toward Denton, the horses, and, most importantly, Reilly’s .44 Evans Sporting Rifle in the saddle scabbard. Taking the reins from Denton, Reilly started to swing onto the buckskin gelding. That’s when he saw her, moving through the crowd down the boardwalk, past Wilbur’s Tonsorial Parlor, and into the sea of whores.
He almost didn’t recognize her, not wearing that French sateen skirt with the ruffled bottom and the silk ottoman wrap. Then again, he tried to think of how many times he had seen her with her clothes on. Not that many. At least, never for long.
“Oh, hell,” he said, and tossed the reins back to Denton.
She was moving fast, reaching into her purse.
The whores had started singing “Ar fin y don,” a Welsh tune he’d often heard Gwendolyn sing. That’d be ironic, he thought, shoving one strumpet aside.
One flailing arm knocked his hat off.
He kept moving.
She was standing in front of the bars now, right hand coming out of the purse. No, the purse was falling into the dust. No one noticed her. Not Matilda. Not the other whores. Not Slim Chisum, Gus Henderson, or any of the guards on the flat roofs. Not W.W. Kraft, whose hands gripped two iron bars, as he leaned forward and kissed a whore whose name wasn’t Matilda. Not L.J. Kraft, who sat in the shade, working on a mouthful of chewing tobacco.
She pulled out the sawed-down Colt, cocked it, and aimed the .36 at W.W. Kraft’s chest. Finally, one of the whores spotted her and screamed. W.W. Kraft pulled away from his lover. His mouth fell open. His brother spit between the bars.
Gwendolyn Morgan pulled the trigger.
The hammer caught Reilly’s left hand as it came down on the Colt, biting into the meaty flesh between his pinky finger and wrist. Blood spurted. It hurt like hell. He shoved Gwendolyn aside, felt the hideaway gun fall into the dust, and he kicked it underneath the wagon.
“What the hell?” Slim Chisum called out.
“She tried to kill W.W.,” a whore cried.
“Bitch!” Matilda snapped.
Reilly put his right hand to keep Gwendolyn back. He saw her now, the ugly bruise that blackened the left side of her face, down which tears streamed. Her eye remained almost swollen shut. Her lips trembled.
Blood dripped down Reilly’s fingers into the dust. W.W. Kraft giggled. “Gwen, ol’ gal, are you still mad at me?”
His brother shifted the plug of tobacco to the other cheek. “She come from Contention to see you off.”
“Hell, Gwen, you didn’t need to do that. We’s going to Contention City. I could have given you some good loving there.”
“Shut up!” Reilly snapped, and W.W.’s face froze. He pulled Gwendolyn away from the wagon, steered her across the street. “Gus, get that belly-gun from under the wagon. Now!” One of those whores would likely pick it up, slip it to one of the Krafts.
She was sobbing, shaking with rage, when they reached the boardwalk. Her head fell on his shoulder, and he let her cry.
Cupid, he thought, and cursed silently.
Slim Chisum had had enough. He braced the shotgun on his left thigh, and let one barrel sing. “I’ve heard enough music today!” he bellowed. “You strumpets,
