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  With a sigh, Bedwell started to unbuckle his gun rig, but Hank’s head shook. “No time for that. Tom’ll take that hogleg when you let him out. Get moving, old man. Now.”

  Bedwell nodded and passed Keegan on the way to the cell. For half of half of a second, Keegan considered the odds of him managing to jerk the pistol out of Bedwell’s holster and plaster Hank Benteen’s blood over the wanted posted by the door. The odds convinced Keegan to just stand here with that stupid grin on his face and his hands raised high, reminding him of just how bad he needed a bath, too.

  Besides, Bob Benteen, Uncle Zach, and anyone riding with the Benteens would likely be outside, spread out so not to get too much notice.

  “What time’s the hanging?” Keegan asked.

  “Two this afternoon,” Bedwell answered.

  “That late? Why not dawn?”

  “Big to-do.” Bedwell had the big key and jammed it into the lock. “Wanted to give folks plenty of time to get here. Everybody in this part of Texas wanted to see Lovely Tom swing.”

  “Watch your mouth, you dumb piece of horse dung.” Tom Benteen spit.

  The door opened, the iron bars moved in front of Keegan. Keeping the keys in his hand, Bedwell stepped back and raised his arms. Lovely Tom Benteen came out, jamming on his hat, then jerking the hogleg from Bedwell’s holster.

  “Vámanos, cousin,” Hank Benteen said. “Folks are startin’ their day.”

  “I’m comin’, Hank.” Tom grinned evilly, thumbed back the hammer of Bedwell’s Schofield, slammed the barrel into the old horse soldier’s gut and—as Keegan yelled, “Nooooo!”—pulled the trigger.

  The impact of the bullet sent the old-timer flying back to the town marshal’s desk, scattering papers, pencils, and an empty jar over the floor. Bedwell sat on the edge of the desk for a moment, trying to beat out the flames on his vest started by the closeness of the revolver. Then he gave up, stiffened, and sank onto the floor, blood spilling and sizzling against the burning cloth. The old man shuddered, gasped, and fell to his side in front of the desk.

  “You stupid chucklehead!” Hank roared. “The idea was to get you out of here quietly!”

  “I don’t take no insults, cousin,” Tom said, and started to turn around.

  All of this had happened in mere seconds, almost too fast for Sean Keegan, drunk as he was, to comprehend. But suddenly, he did not feel one ounce of all the rotgut liquor he had been drinking throughout the night and into the dawn. He became sober, alert, and intent.

  “Come on!” Hank Benteen turned and moved toward the open door. Outside, horses whickered, hooves stomped, and men cursed. Another pistol sounded from outside.

  “I’m coming,” Lovely Tom said, “But first I got to give this Irish pimp what he’s got comin’, too.”

  The cold-blooded killer was turning, but Keegan was already moving, gripping the iron bars and shoving the door with all his might. The connection of iron against bone and flesh sounded almost as loud as the deafening pistol shot that had left the room in a cloud of acrid, white smoke. Down went Lovely Tom with a thud, and the big Schofield slid across the room. Keegan caught just a glimpse of the killer’s bloody face, the broken nose, and the dazed eyes.

  He wouldn’t comprehend all of that until later, when he had the chance to recall everything with clarity—when he wasn’t so busy trying to keep from getting killed.

  Keegan slid past the iron-barred door and dived for Bedwell’s .45. He heard a curse from the doorway, then his ears were ringing and his cheek stinging as Hank Benteen snapped a shot from the doorway, the bullet hitting a bucket and sending slivers of oak into Keegan’s face. The next bullet ricocheted off the stone wall. By that time, Keegan had slid to the corner, pulled his legs up, and quickly fired a shot at the real Benteen.

  Benteen fired again, kicking up dust from the stone, and Keegan cocked the revolver. He glanced at Lovely Tom, who had rolled over and pushed himself onto hands and knees, shaking his head, trying to regain his faculties. If he lifted a leg, he’d look just like the pathetic, mangy cur dog he was. It took every ounce of self-control for Keegan not to put a bullet in the outlaw’s head. Titus Bedwell had served in this man’s army for forty years. They didn’t make a soldier any better. For him to be cut down, unarmed, for no damned good reason—Keegan slid down about a foot, then fired another shot at the doorway.

  “Tom!” Hank barked. “Get out now or get hung!”

  Horses thundered outside. Bullets started bouncing all over Purgatory City. Slowly, Keegan pushed himself up and peered around the corner. The door remained open, but outside about all he could see was dust. The Benteen gang was heading straight for the border, it appeared, and since Lovely Tom was a Lovely, not really a Benteen, the brothers had decided to “Vámanos.” Uncle Zach might shed a tear or two over his son, but the old man had better sons—the two who hadn’t taken the owlhoot trail. Not ignorant sons like that cold-hearted devil.

  Boots sounded on the floor, and Keegan turned his head to see that Tom Lovely had righted himself and began making for the open door. The Schofield in Keegan’s hand was already cocked, and he shifted his aim and was ready to blow a hole in the man’s back. He would have, too, but Lovely Tom slipped on the blood that had poured out of Titus Bedwell’s body. His feet shot out in front of him, and he landed hard, his head slamming against the floor. He groaned and rolled over.

  The only noise came from outside. Slowly the ringing left Keegan’s ears, and he stepped toward the dead hero and the lousy, groaning killer. Church bells—the town’s warning alarms—sang out across the city, and shouts, curses, but no more gunfire, echoed across the street. After lowering the Schofield, Keegan walked slowly to the two men, one dead, one about to be. He felt the urge to put a bullet between Lovely Tom’s glazed eyes, but a figure appeared in the doorway, then disappeared immediately.

  “Hell’s bells, boys!” the voice outside called out. “There’s a man in there with a gun!”

  “It’s me, ye blithering idiot!” Sean Keegan said, and yelled out his name. That caused a bit of silence. He figured the people in town now wondered if Keegan—the blight of the city, the county, and most of West Texas—had joined up with the Benteen brothers.

  “They’ve killed poor Titus Bedwell, boys. Shot him down in cold blood. But the one who murdered my friend is gonna live to face the hangman.”

  He waited. Then blew up with a stream of profanity that ended with ”Get your yellow asses in here, boys, and I mean now.”

  A head appeared. Then another. Finally two men slowly came into the marshal’s office and jail, keeping their hands far, far away from their holstered revolvers. Another man showed up, wet his lips, and leaned his rifle against the doorjamb. The first fellow had the decency to remove his hat and bow his head as he looked down at the late Titus Bedwell.

  “Where’s the marshal?” Keegan asked.

  “I don’t rightly know,” said another newcomer standing in the doorway.

  “Probably hiding under his bed,” came a comment from someone outside.

  “They kilt Titus,” said the second man to have entered the building.

  “This, me boys,” Keegan said, “is what you bloody well get when you don’t hang a vermin like Tom Lovely at dawn. When you want to wait to give more folks a chance to see his neck pop and his britches get soiled.”

  “Well . . .” some one said.

  Another person outside cursed.

  The church bells faded into mere echoes, and a moment later, the echoes even stopped. Nothing but silence, except for Lovely Tom’s groans.

  “My goodness,” said a woman’s voice somewhere on the street. “They went and shot down poor Mr. Kligerman as he was coming to do his job.”

  “Who the hell is Mr. Kligerman?” Keegan asked.

  The man in the doorway raised his head. “The hangman.”

  “Our luck,” said someone else outside. “Now we can’t hang Tom Benteen.”

  “The bloody hell.” Keegan tossed the S
chofield onto the marshal’s desk, marched over to Lovely Tom, and jerked him to his feet. The killer’s eyes fluttered then closed from the fist Keegan planted into his temple. The unconscious man flopped over Keegan’s shoulder, and the big Irishman marched him outside.

  “We shan’t be waiting till the crowds arrive this bloody afternoon, and we won’t let this piece of filth wait till the county can find another hangman.” Keegan stepped into the street, looked around, saw the gallows behind the courthouse, and made a beeline. “C’mon, boys, ladies, kids . . . you, too, Reverend. The hanging of Tom Lovely—like hell if I’ll call him a Benteen—starts right now.”

  “You can’t do that!” A white-haired woman gasped.

  “I suspect that the death warrant says this man dies today. It’s today, and he’s going to die today. It might not be two this afternoon in Purgatory City when he swings, but it’ll be two o’clock somewhere.”

  The crowd parted like the Red Sea, and Keegan moved like the old soldier he was, a body over his shoulder and fierce determination in his eyes. He rounded the corner and looked for the gate to the courthouse’s backyard.

  Purgatory City had become civilized at some point, and no longer let every man, woman, and child, come to see the hangings. These had become private affairs, with invitations extended and tickets sold, and carpenters paid to not only build a gallows but to put up a high fence to keep gawkers from watching a man, or woman, swing.

  He stopped long enough to kick the gate off its hinges, turned back, and yelled, “Come on, you yellow-livered trash. Lovely Tom murdered a good man in cold blood, without a care or concern or a moment of guilt, and he’s gonna pay for that. Not for whatever crime got him sentenced to die today—but die today he will. And I want everyone out on these streets to come see him swing.”

  He marched into the rear yard, saw the canopies and benches arranged for ladies or the weak of heart, saw a few carts for vendors. How much did the city council charge for those hawkers of peanuts and parched corn? He stopped briefly to look up.

  Good. They had already set the noose.

  He moved to the steps, and without breaking stride, climbed them. On the platform, he glanced to see several people actually coming into the gated enclosure. Keegan didn’t actually think the people of this town would have the guts to do it, but here they came.

  After stepping to the trapdoor, he gently lowered Lovely Tom to his feet. Holding him with his left hand, he slapped the man’s face several times with his right. The eyes finally opened, focused, then dulled,

  After another slap, a hard one, Lovely Tom moaned, “Stop hittin’ me, damn you.”

  “Can you stand?” Keegan asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Can you stand on your own without me holding you up?”

  “Oh.” Tom’s eyes rolled around. He drooled a bit and eventually made his head bob.

  Keegan released his grip, but remained tensed to catch him if Lovely Tom’s knees folded. When they didn’t, Keegan said, “Stay still,” and moved behind the man, grabbed the hangman’s noose, and slipped it over Lovely Tom’s bleeding head.

  “What the hell are—”

  Keegan choked off whatever else Lovely Tom had to say by quickly and roughly tightening the noose. He pulled it as hard as he could, and when the condemned man tried to reach up with his right hand to get out of the noose, Keegan jerked Lovely Tom’s arm out of the shoulder socket.

  Screaming in pain, the killer reached over with his left hand and grabbed his useless right arm.

  That should hold him long enough, Keegan figured, and he moved to the lever. He saw men, women, and a couple of kids. Blacks, whites, and Mexicans. Fat, skinny, and average sized. A preacher with his Bible, head bowed. A fellow with bare feet and just his longhandles on with a hat and a gunbelt around his waist. Even some of the boys he had tangled with in the saloon. More people shoved their way through the gate, but Keegan wasn’t going to wait on anyone else.

  “Do you have any last words, Tom Lovely?” Keegan called out.

  The murmur in the crowd stopped instantly. More people shoved their way into the enclosure.

  “What?” Tom Lovely turned his head and saw Keegan’s hands on the lever. His eyes widened. “Wait!” he called out. “No. You . . . Don’t!”

  Not the best last words a man ever said, but that was all for Lovely Tom. The lever yanked, the trapdoor opened, and Tom Lovely dropped into eternity.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  When the waitress from the Deep Flood café entered his room, Jed Breen frowned. He realized when the shooting started, he wouldn’t be the only person dead. Otto Kruger would kill the redhead, too.

  Kruger was savvy enough, experienced enough, and most certainly deadly enough, to stand back and find the perfect position where he could keep an eye on Breen and the handsome woman. His eyes seemed independent of one another; one looked at Breen, while the other focused on the girl. The Remington remained level at Breen’s chest.

  “Fräulein,” Otto said. “Ya put food here on bed and step back. Run, yell, try anyting and ya die. I vill kill ya. And him, too. Ruhe.” He motioned with his left hand toward the bed.

  The tray shook in the redhead’s hands.

  “Be quiet!” Otto shouted. “If people hear ya, I vill kill ya now.” He pointed the gun at her, and her Adam’s apple bobbed twice, but she somehow managed to stop shaking, and placed the tray on the end of the bed.

  A shot rang out outside, and the girl jumped back, almost turning over the coffeepot. Instinctively, she reached for it.

  Otto turned back, kept the gun aimed at Breen, and laughed as a second gunshot echoed outside.

  “Hans do good vork, ja?” He laughed again and drew careful aim at Jed Breen.

  The wide smile on Breen’s face stopped the German.

  “Vat make laugh?” Otto Kruger frowned. “Ya vant to die vith a smile on yer lips.”

  Breen’s head shook, and he laughed out loud as yet another gunshot came from the bank.

  “No. It’s just so damned funny.” He pointed at the waitress from Deep Flood’s only eating joint.

  Quickly Otto Kruger jerked his head toward the redhead, and that sent Breen diving for the Sharps. About to turn back and put a bullet into the bounty hunter’s head, the German instead raised both hands to protect his face and screamed. He screamed before the redheaded waitress tossed the scalding hot coffee into his face.

  Behind him, Breen heard the German shrieking in agony, writhing on the floor, and the redhead cursing him. The coffeepot clattered on the floor. The waitress kicked Otto Kruger—where it counted.

  Breen jerked back the heavy hammer of the Sharps, leaped to his feet, and swung it at the window. The barrel smashed the glass for he had no time to try to slide the barrel and its fancy brass telescope through the crack. He saw the horse, but only the tail, heard another gunshot, and then Hans Kruger was galloping out of Breen’s sight.

  “Damn,” Breen barked, and broke more glass from the window as he pulled the Sharps back inside.

  Otto, his face an ugly mess of red, white, purple (and brown coffee), rolled back and forth, gasping in pain from damage to his face, neck, and groin. The redhead didn’t look happy either, and she kicked the man in the shin.

  “No . . .” Otto Kruger found enough strength to push himself up. “Hussy!” He spit at the redhead.

  Breen brought the stock of the heavy Sharps onto the top of the outlaw’s head. Otto Kruger groaned, yelped, and slumped into the coffee that was slowly disappearing into the cracks on the floor.

  Outside and downstairs and even on the second floor hallway of the hotel, people began shouting and asking questions.

  Breen nodded at the woman.

  “You all right?”

  She didn’t answer. She pointed at Otto Kruger. “Who is that wicked, little weasel?”

  “Otto Kruger. Bank robber, ma’am. Now out of commission.” Breen lowered the rifle and grinned. “There’s a five hundred dollar reward on him.
I think it would be fair for us to split it.”

  He expected her to argue, but she just stopped and blinked, and looked down at him, then back at Breen.

  Her lips trembled. “What?”

  “The bank robber is a killer, ma’am. That was his brother down below, robbing the bank here in Deep Flood.”

  “Who are you?” she managed to ask.

  “Breen, ma’am.” He reached up as if to tip the hat that was hanging on the horn of a longhorn steer on the wall. “Jed Breen. I’m sort of what they call . . . a . . . man hunter. Part-time . . . um . . . peace officer.”

  “Bounty hunter.” Her eyes turned rigid.

  “Yeah. That’s another way of putting it. Five hundred dollars.” He pointed his chin at the unconscious outlaw. “For him. Two hundred and fifty suit you, ma’am?”

  “Keep your blood money,” she said. Then she spit on the floor, kicked the unconscious Hun in the ankle, and hurried out the door. As she disappeared, Breen heard the echoes of her heels on the stairs, then the front door slam.

  Eventually, another face appeared in the door. The man looked first at the door Breen had busted open, then at the coffeepot, eventually finding the broken window. He looked at length at the ugly face of the ugly bank robber, and then, finally, at Jed Breen.

  “What the hell has been going on here?” the hotel clerk said.

  “Fetch the town law.” Breen lowered the Sharps onto the bed and moved to the plate of steak and potatoes. But he lost his appetite. Seeing all the coffee and such over his meal, he figured it had been contaminated with Otto Kruger’s snot, hairs, and sweat.

  * * *

  Inside what passed for a lawman’s office, the constable of Deep Flood, Texas, rolled out the reward poster close to the still-unconscious face of the notorious man-killer and robber. “This is Otto Kruger.”

  Breen nodded and poured himself a cup of coffee since his supper was turning out to be the constable’s coffee. “Yeah. Once those scars are all set, there shouldn’t be any trouble in telling him apart from his brother, Hans.” The coffee tasted like lukewarm water flavored by two or three coffee beans.