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He was in a small canyon, a place that looked as if it had been scooped into existence by God's own hand. Twisting, upthrust walls of multihued rock curled protectively around the valley, creating a haven safe from the fierce desert winds. Tucked into the corner was a squat, flat-roofed cabin, fenced by sagging strands of barbed wire and gnarled posts. Behind it, eight good-sized horses were clustered together against the coming night.
Killian moved slowly across the sandy yard and opened the slatted-wood gate. Tired hinges squealed at his touch; the sound melted into the melancholy whisper of the wind and disappeared.
He went to the
front door and knocked. The aged wood groaned.
Footsteps thudded behind the door. The wooden knob rattled, turned.
Unconsciously Killian straightened. His right hand glided downward slowly; his fingertips brushed the pistol's metal grip.
The door swung open. In the opening stood a short, stoop-shouldered man with a flowing gray beard and
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eyes like chips of granite. It was the face of a man who'd lived all his life in the harshness of a desert climate, chiseled and creased and darkened by the sun's unforgiving glare. His eyes narrowed suspiciously, raked Killian from head to foot. "Whaddaya want?"
Killian stood still. "I need two horses."
The man spat; a huge, spiraling gob of tobacco hit the dusty earth beside Killian's left boot and immediately disappeared into the moisture-deprived soil. His gaze flicked over Killian's guns, then moved up. "Uh-huh. On the run, are you?"
"That's a question best not asked, old man."
The man smiled, revealing a set of broken, tobacco-stained teeth. "You got my best interests at heart, do ya, stranger?"
"Something like that."
"Uh-huh." The man spat again, then cleared his throat with a phlegmy, hacking sound. "Were you thinkin' on stealin' 'em or buyin' 'em?"
Killian eyed the old man, watching him, weighing him, waiting for a stupid move. "That depends on you."
The man gave a throaty, loose laugh and started coughing again. "You ain't the first outlaw to stop by here. Butch and Elza were by once ... oh, back in eighty-nine. After the Telluride job."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I sold Cassidy a horse for sixty bucks." He shook his head and tugged on his beard. "He was a hell of a nice guy, that Cassidy."
"I'm not that nice."
The man looked up sharply, for the first time really looking at Killian's eyes. His rotten-toothed smile slowly faded into a frown.
Killian reached into his pocket and pulled out two
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wrinkled twenty-dollar bills. "I'll give you forty bucks for two horses."
"That ain't near enough."
Killian reached for his gun, slid one finger into the cold curl of the trigger. "I think it is."
The man's wide-eyed gaze fixed on the gun. He licked his fleshy lips and glanced behind Killian. His thoughts were obvious; Killian had seen them a thousand times. That first useless, groping reach for help. The realization of what it meant to be faced by a man who lived outside the law.
The old man wet his lips again and swallowed convulsively. His gnarled, liver-spotted fingers convulsed. He shot a nervous glance inside his cabin.
"You want to try to take me?" Killian drawled in a soft, almost seductive voice. "You gonna reach for that rifle you got propped just out of sight?"
