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Laredo slipped into the maze of parked trucks, satisfied to merely catch glimpses of Markham. He never caught Markham looking around to see if he was being watched. The man simply kept walking, lugging that oversized hamper, in no apparent hurry at all to reach his vehicle.
As Laredo suspected, Markham turned into the row of pickups parked in front of the barn. Within seconds he lost sight of him. Only then did Laredo quicken his pace, but it was an automatic thing, not done with any sense of urgency.
When he drew level with the spot, he glanced down the row. There was Markham’s Range Rover, the fourth vehicle from the end. Laredo headed in the general direction of a blue pickup parked beyond it close to the corral. He kept stealing glances at the narrow walkway on the driver’s side of the Range Rover, trying to spot Markham. The closer he got, the more uneasy he became.
Markham wasn’t there, not in the vehicle or anywhere near it.
Laredo grimly scanned the entire area. There was no one around except for two boys carrying fishing poles and a tackle box. Which left only one place where Markham could be—in the barn.
That uneasy feeling turned into a full-fledged fear that manifested as a kind of anger. Laredo swore bitterly under his breath, torn between wanting to warn Chase and needing to stop Markham. Instinct told him there wasn’t enough time to reach Chase. Knowing he only had one choice, he reached inside his boot and pulled out his pistol.
He yelled to the two boys, “Get Logan—and get him quick! Tell him we’ve got trouble.” Halting, they stared wide-eyed at the gun in his hand. “Run!”
Laredo heard the tackle box hit the ground, but he didn’t hang around to watch them take off. He moved to the side door and slipped inside. No lights were on, giving a shadowy darkness to the interior. He took a step to the side and listened to the eerie stillness. Markham had to be somewhere toward the back, but where?
Hugging close to the stalls, Laredo began moving along the alleyway, constantly scanning the shadows and upper reaches of the barn. His heightened senses magnified every sound from the whisper of his clothing to the hammering of his pulse.
There were too many places for Markham to hide in the massive old barn. Laredo knew he was running out of time to find him.
“I know you’re in here, Markham!” He lifted his voice, letting it echo through the timbered rafters. He strained to catch some sound that would betray Markham’s location, but all he caught was a faint scrape, coming from somewhere off to his left. “Give it up, Markham! Even if you get Chase, you’ll have to get past me!”
There was a faint thump mixed in with a muted chink. The tack room. Laredo remembered there was a window in it that overlooked the river and the barbecue site.
Laredo worked his way toward it, sinking deeper into the concealing shadows of the opposite wall. Markham had to be sweating now.
Determined to increase the pressure, Laredo called again, “Even if you get lucky and get past me, Logan will be waiting for you. Chase remembered everything. By now Logan’s already heard the whole story. And we both know ballistics will match the slug they took out of O’Rourke to your rifle. You’re finished, Mar—”
He was still in midword when the tack-room door flew open. Simultaneous with a muzzle flash was the reverberating boom of a high-powered rifle. At almost the same instant that Laredo squeezed the trigger, a board not three inches from his head exploded in a shower of splinters. The rifle clattered across the concrete alleyway.
The sudden silence was deafening. Wisps of gunsmoke hung in the air, its acrid odor mingling with the hay smell. Laredo kept his gun pointed at the bare-legged man lying motionless across the tack room’s threshold. Sweat ran down Laredo’s face, and his ears still rang with the thunderous clap from the rifle while his breathing ran shallow and fast. He worked to even it out.
The barn’s side door burst open, letting in a long flood of light. Laredo wheeled as Logan ducked inside, gun at the ready.
“It’s okay, Logan.” Laredo raised his weapon skyward. “It’s over.”
Still cautious, Logan moved out of the shadows and slowly approached the body. He kicked the rifle well out of reach, crouched next to Markham, and checked for a pulse.
He straightened. “He’s dead.”
“I can’t say I’m sorry.” Laredo joined him as Logan glanced into the tack room.
On top of the picnic hamper sat a wooden case that had held the rifle’s disassembled parts. Seeing it, Laredo remarked, “Want to bet that hamper has a false bottom?”
“No, thanks. I don’t like the odds.” Logan stepped back from the doorway and glanced at the gun in Laredo’s hand.
After an instant’s hesitation, Laredo offered it to him, butt first. “I imagine you’ll need this. That stall board over there will tell you it was a clear-cut case of self-defense.”
“I know. I heard you shouting to draw Markham’s fire.” Logan held the gun for an indecisive moment, then leveled his gaze at Laredo. “I assume this isn’t registered.”
“Not hardly,” he replied dryly.
“That’s what I thought.” Logan tucked it inside the waistband of his jeans. “It may be a bit easier for me to explain what I was doing with an unregistered firearm than it would be for you . . . considering you weren’t here when the shooting took place. Right?”
“There are two boys who might say differently,” Laredo reminded him, “although I’m grateful for the gesture.”
They both knew his past wouldn’t hold up to close scrutiny. Even if the shooting were ruled to be justifiable, there would likely be extradition papers waiting for him.
“Those are Triple C boys. They aren’t going to say a word,” Logan told him. He nodded toward the door. “Go on. Get out of here, and let Chase know what went down.”
