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  “That ain’t goin’ to happen here,” Clay said.

  “I know it isn’t,” Boone said. “And I’m countin’ on you to see that it don’t happen.”

  “What about Matt Jensen?” Strayhorn asked.

  “Matt Jensen?” Clay said. “What about him?”

  “I heard he was livin’ in Cuchara right now. What if he gets word of what’s goin’ on?”

  “Don’t you be worryin’ none about Matt Jensen,” Clay said. He stood up and in a lightning draw, had his pistol in his hand. He fired three quick shots at an empty bean can, knocking the can into the air with his first shot, then shooting and hitting it two more times while the can was in the air. The sounds of his shots echoed and reechoed back from the surrounding hills. The horses, tied nearby, were startled by the unexpected gunfire, and they whinnied and reared back against their ties.

  Getting up quickly, Hennessey hurried over to calm them.

  “Goddamnit, Clay, what do you want to do? Put us afoot out here?” Boone asked angrily.

  “I was just givin’ you a demonstration as to why you don’t have to worry none about Matt Jensen,” Clay said. “I’d welcome the opportunity to go up against him.”

  “Would you now?” Strayhorn asked.

  “Yeah, I would. You seen what I did with that tin can, didn’t you?” Clay said.

  “Yeah, I seen,” Strayhorn said. “But what I didn’t see was that can shootin’ back.”

  “Maybe you want to take me on,” Clay challenged.

  Strayhorn, who was squatting alongside the fire, drinking coffee, stood up and poured his coffee out.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t want to take you on. As a matter of fact, I don’t want anything to do with any of this. If I’m going to take a risk in robbing a bank somewhere, then the bank is going to have to be big enough to make it worthwhile. I doubt there’s more’n five thousand dollars in this bank.”

  “Five thousand dollars is a lot of money,” Hennessey said.

  “It ain’t a lot of money if you’re dead.”

  “Look,” Boone said. “If you don’t want to be a part of this, why don’t you just ride on out of here.”

  “Yeah,” Clay said. “We don’t need no cowards ridin’ with us.”

  Strayhorn glared at Clay for a long moment before he spoke. “All right, I’ll just get my gear and ride on out of here,” he said.

  Clay turned to look at the others, and he laughed out loud. “I thought Strayhorn was a big brave outlaw. Did you see how I—ummph!!”

  Clay suddenly went down on his face. Standing behind him was Marcus Strayhorn, holding a good-sized club in his hands. When Clay tried to get up, Strayhorn hit him again, and this time Clay went down and out.

  “Did you kill him?” Coleman asked.

  “If I didn’t, I will,” Strayhorn said, drawing the club back for another blow.

  There was the sound of a pistol being cocked and, looking up, Strayhorn saw that Boone had a gun in his hand, pointing at him.

  “I don’t want him killed,” Boone said. “I may need him.”

  “If you are having to depend on him, all I can say is you are in bad shape,” Strayhorn said. He tossed the club into the fire, where it stirred up smoke and sparks before the flames began licking around it.

  “I expect you had better get on then,” Boone said.

  “Don’t worry. I don’t want no part of this,” Strayhorn said. He looked at the others. “Are any of you going with me?”

  “Yeah,” Teech said. “I’ll go with you.”

  Strayhorn looked down at Clay. “I won’t kill the son of a bitch,” he said. “But I’ll expect you to keep him from comin’ after us.”

  “He won’t be comin’ after you,” Boone said. “Not till after we pull this job, anyway.”

  Strayhorn nodded. “Fair enough. Come on, Teech, let’s go.”

  In silence, the two men saddled their horses, then rode off into the night. Clay regained consciousness about the time they were leaving, but he was still too groggy to do anything. After a moment, when the fuzziness went away and he realized what happened, he stood up.

  “That son of a bitch hit me from behind, didn’t he?” Clay said angrily.

  “Yes,” Boone answered.

  “Why that . . . ,” Clay reached for his gun, but his holster was empty. “What the hell? Where is my gun?”

  “I’ve got it,” Boone said.

  “Give it back to me.”

  “Not yet. Not until they are far enough away that I know you won’t be going after them. We’re going to rob a bank, and you’re going to make certain that Matt Jensen don’t interfere. After that, if you’re still alive, you can go after Strayhorn all you want.”

  Hennessey chuckled. “If you’re still alive,” he repeated. “That’s pretty good.”

  “Don’t you be worryin’ none about that,” Clay said. “I tell you true, if I ever get a chance to go up against Matt Jensen, he’ll be the one that is dead.”

  “Let’s get back to talkin’ about the bank,” Taylor said. “When do we hit it?”

  “Not for a couple of days. I want to go into town and check it out first,” Boone said. “I figure I’ll do that tomorrow.”

  “Good. I’d like to go into town and get myself somethin’ to eat other’n beans; maybe even have a pretty girl serve me a whiskey,” Hennessey said.

  “I’m afraid you’re goin’ to have to put that off for a while, Hennessey,” Boone said.

  “What do you mean? I thought you said we was a’goin’ into town tomorrow.”

  “Not all of us,” Boone said. “If we all ride in together tomorrow, then ride in again together the next day, some folks might find that a little strange. I’m only goin’ to take one person with me tomorrow.”

  “Well, then, take me,” Hennessey said.

  “No, I’m takin’ Clay,” Boone said. “I need him to get a good look at the lay of the town. If folks do get wind of what’s goin’ on and come after us, I want Clay to know where they would most likely be.”

  “Can I have my gun back now?” Clay asked.

  Boone handed the pistol back to Clay. “Clay, I want you to pay particular attention to anywhere they might be able to set up an ambush,” Boone said.

  Clay replaced the cartridges he had expended when he shot at the tin can. Then he stuck the pistol back in his holster.

  “You don’t have to tell me how to do my job,” he said pointedly.

  Chapter Three

  The next evening Matt walked from the boardinghouse down to the saloon to have an after-dinner beer and see if he could find a card game that would hold his interest. He stepped up to the bar, and slapped a silver coin down in front of him. The sound of the coin made the saloon-keeper look around.

  “Hello, Matt. How are you this evening?” the bartender asked.

  “Doing fine, thank you, Paul,” Matt replied. “Any good card games going?”

  “One back there in the corner,” Paul said as he drew a mug of beer then set it in front of Matt. “No opening right now, but I think I heard Kevin say he was about to leave. Kevin,” Paul called. “Mr. Jensen is looking for a chair in a game. Let him know when you leave, will you?”

  “I’m in no hurry,” Matt offered quickly.

  “No problem. Just a few more hands and I’m going to have to leave. I promised the missus.”

  “And believe me, she has him on a leash. If he don’t leave, why she’ll just jerk him out of here,” one of the other players said, and the others around the table laughed.

  Matt laughed with them, then picked up his beer, blew off some of the foamy head, and took a drink. It was now twilight, and as daylight disappeared, flickering kerosene lanterns combined with the smoke of cigars, pipes, and self-rolled cigarettes to make the room seem even hazier.

  “I thought you were going hunting,” Paul said.

  “I’m going out first thing in the morning,” Matt replied.

  “Is Mrs. Foley going to take care
of the deer if you get one?”

  “If he gets one?” one of the others in the bar said with a chuckle. “You ever know Matt Jensen to go after deer and not get one?”

  Paul laughed. “Well, you are right there,” he said. “What will you do with it, Matt?”

  “I’ve got a deal with Jason Cumbee over at the Mountain View Café,” Matt said. “I kill it and dress it; he’ll store it and cook it.”

  “You can’t beat that.”

  At the opposite end of the bar stood a slender young man with dark hair and dark eyes. There was a gracefulness and economy of motion about the way he walked and moved.

  The man had been watching Matt in the mirror, thinking that he had the luxury of studying Matt without himself being studied. In fact, quite the opposite was true. For although Matt had not looked directly at him, he already knew a lot about him. He knew that the man was wearing a quick-draw holster that hung low on the right side of a bullet-studded belt. In the holster was a Colt .44. And he knew, with the intuition of a survivor, that this man meant trouble.

  The man tossed his drink down, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, then took a deep breath and turned to look at Matt.

  “Hey, you.”

  Matt didn’t turn toward him.

  “I’m talkin’ to you, mister.”

  Matt looked around. The man at the other end of the bar was wearing a low-crown black hat with a silver hatband. The expression on his face was one of pure evil, but Matt had seen such expressions before, and this one neither surprised nor frightened him. He raised his beer mug toward the man in a silent salute. He did that, all the while knowing that the man was not addressing him by way of a simple greeting. On the contrary, there was challenge in the tone of his voice.

  “I heard you were here in Cuchara. That’s why I came here,” the man said.

  “Really? Do we know each other?”

  “No. We don’t know each other.”

  “I see,” Matt said. “So, you just wanted to meet me, is that it?”

  “In a matter of speaking that’s it. Though, truth to tell, there ain’t goin’ to be time for us to have what you might call a real friendship.”

  “What is your name?” Matt asked.

  “Rufus Clay,” the man said. He smiled a wide, toothy smile, but the smile did little to alter the evil look on his face. “But you’ve probably heard of me as Ruthless Clay.”

  Matt shook his head. “No, I can’t say as I have,” he said.

  The expression on Clay’s face grew even more evil as he frowned in wounded anger.

  “You’re lyin’,” he said. “I know damn well you’ve heard of Ruthless Clay. Anyone who has ever read a paper knows about Ruthless Clay.”

  “Now that you remind me of it, perhaps I have heard of you,” Matt said.

  Clay nodded, his smile actually broadening in appreciation of the recognition.

  “Well, I’m glad you have heard of me because I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Mr. Matt Jensen—Mr. Famous Gunfighter.” He set the last words apart from the rest of the sentence, and said it with a sneer.

  “Mr. Clay, I have a feeling we are getting off on the wrong foot here. Why don’t you let me buy you a drink?” Matt offered.

  “Huh-uh, buyin’ me a drink ain’t goin’ to do it,” Clay replied. By now, everyone in the saloon had picked up on the tension developing between Matt Jensen and Ruthless Clay, and all conversation had stilled as the patrons began following what was playing out at the bar.

  Clay, sensing the audience, spoke louder, playing not to Matt but to the saloon.

  “You’d like for me to just have a drink and go away, wouldn’t you? You’d like me to just”—Clay stopped, then shook dramatically to emphasize a point—“quake in my boots because I am in the presence of the great Matt Jensen.”

  Matt put the beer down with a tired sigh and turned to face his tormentor. “What is it, mister?” he asked. “Where are you going with this?”

  “You know where this is going,” Clay replied.

  Matt didn’t answer.

  “You haven’t really heard of me, have you?” Clay asked.

  “No, I haven’t,” Matt said.

  Clay nodded. “That’s what I thought. Everyone has heard of Matt Jensen, but nobody has heard of Ruthless Clay. Well, I intend to change that.”

  “How, by getting yourself killed?” Matt asked.

  Clay’s smile quickly turned to an angry snarl. “Draw, Jensen!” he shouted, going for his own gun even before he issued the challenge.

  Clay was quick, quicker than just about anyone in the saloon had ever seen. But midway through his draw, Clay realized he wasn’t quick enough. The arrogant confidence in his eyes was replaced by fear, then the acceptance of the fact that he was about to be killed.

  The two pistols discharged almost simultaneously, but Matt had been able to bring his gun to bear and his bullet plunged deep into Clay’s chest. The bullet from Clay’s gun smashed the glass that held Matt’s drink, sending up a shower of beer and tiny shards of glass.

  Looking down at himself, Clay put his hand over his wound, then pulled it away and examined the blood that had pooled in his palm. When he looked back at Matt, his smile had become almost whimsical.

  “Damn,” he said. “You’re good. I thought I could beat you. I really thought . . .” His sentence ended with a cough. Then he fell back against the bar, making an attempt to grab onto the bar to keep himself erect. The attempt was unsuccessful, and Clay fell on his back, his right arm stretched out beside him, his finger still in the trigger guard of his pistol. The black hat, with its silver band, had rolled across the floor and now rested against a half-filled spittoon. The eye-burning, acrid smoke of the two discharges hung in a gray-blue cloud just below the ceiling.

  Matt turned back to the bar where pieces of broken glass and a small puddle of beer marked the spot of his drink.

  “Looks like I’m going to need a refill, Paul,” Matt said.

  “Here you go,” Paul said, putting another beer in front of Matt. “No charge, the house is buying the beer in celebration.”

  Matt looked up sharply. “Celebration?” he said. He looked over at Clay’s body, now surrounded by the morbidly curious. Matt shook his head. “Thank you, but no,” he said. “I don’t celebrate a killing that was absolutely unnecessary.”

  Matt put another coin on the bar, then took his beer over to a table in the corner. If there were those who wanted to congratulate him, or bask in his presence, he showed by his demeanor that he wanted none of it. As a result, no one came to bother him, and he was able to sit alone.

  Nobody even noticed when Boone Parker left the saloon. He knew now that it was a mistake to bring Clay into town. All Clay had been able to talk about was his hope that he would have the opportunity to go up against Matt Jensen. Well, the fool got his chance, and he got himself killed.

  Boone had brought Clay into the group because Clay was very good with a gun. He knew it was a risk, even from the beginning, because Clay was also an arrogant and exceptionally vain man. His arrogance was predicated entirely upon his skill with the gun, though, because in Boone’s mind, there wasn’t anyone in his group who wasn’t a superior man.

  The irony was Matt Jensen was not going to even be a problem. Boone had heard Jensen say that he would be leaving on a hunting trip at first light in the morning. That meant that Boone and his men could come into town, rob the bank, and be gone without worrying about any interference from Matt Jensen. He wouldn’t even have needed Rufus Clay.

  Boone chuckled. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that Matt Jensen had actually done him a favor. This way, he wouldn’t have the arrogant and volatile young man to deal with, and best of all, he wouldn’t have him to share the take with. Everyone’s cut of the pie from the bank robbery just got bigger.

  When Matt returned to the boardinghouse, he was met by Mrs. Foley.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “You h
eard?”

  “Everyone has heard,” Mrs. Foley said.

  Matt shook his head. “I’m sorry about all this. I know it’s not the kind of notoriety you would want from one of your boarders.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Mrs. Foley said gently. “I know it couldn’t be helped.”

  “Thank you for understanding.”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Foley said, handing an envelope to Matt. “I don’t know how this got here or where it came from, but I found it in front of the door this evening. But it has your name on the envelope.”

  “Thank you,” Matt said, taking the envelope. He didn’t open it until he reached his room. When he did open it, he removed a single .50-caliber bullet, with the piece of paper held in place by a strip of rawhide. He knew what he would see, even before he unwrapped the paper.

  MATT JENSEN

  But this time, there was also a short letter.

  “I’m glad you were not killed tonight,” it said. “I am reserving that privilege for myself.”

  Matt sighed in frustration. For a while, he had entertained the hope that Clay was the mysterious man who was after him.

  Chapter Four

  Clouds, heavy with the promise of snow, clung to the tops of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains and drifted west toward Cuchara, Colorado. Despite that, or perhaps because people wanted to beat the impending storm, business was brisk. Wagons and buckboards moved up and down High Street, and bundled-up pedestrians, their breath forming vapor clouds, moved quickly along the boardwalks. Mrs. Emma Foley nodded in response to greetings from a couple of strollers as she stepped into the bank.

  The bank was empty except for one employee, and he was standing by the little potbellied stove taking in the warmth. He looked up and smiled as Mrs. Foley stepped through the door.