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ride off. Now, you ain’t ridin’ nowhere—’cept maybe to hell.”

Chapter Three
    The saloon on the other side of the street was doing business, as usual. Will saw that the bodies were still in the street, although there was a difference: the Indian’s bows, quivers, arrows, and moccasins were gone. The two drunks were drawing hordes more flies than the Indians, probably because of the manner in which the Indians had slaughtered them. The white man with the rifle lost his boots, horse, weapon, gun belt, and hat—and anything he had in his pockets.
    â€œOne hell of a sweetheart town,” Will said aloud, disgustedly. “Even in Dodge the furniture maker hauled the dead gunsels outta the street. ’Course he got money for boxin’ ’em up an’ plantin’ ’em.”
    An old gaffer with a patch over one eye sat on a bench in front of the mercantile—all mercantiles had to have benches—whittling aimlessly, not forming anything from the rough block of wood he held, merely cutting thin and narrow strips from it.
    â€œKids got the bows an’ the arrows an’ such,” the old fellow said. “Ain’t nobody in this here town got the balls of a turnip to touch One Dog’s men.” He thought for a moment.
    Will stepped toward the batwings.
    â€œ ’Course One Dog would up an’ gut them kids same way he would a full-growed man. Don’t matter none to him.
    â€œYou’re prolly wonderin’ why I got this patch over my eye. Thing is, there ain’t nuthin’ but a hole there. I lost the eye at Antioch to them sonsabitch bluebellies an’ their grapeshot.” He paused again. “I s’pose you wanna hear the story.”
    â€œNo—not at all,” Will said, pushing his way into the saloon.
    Will stood at the bar and swilled beer and the occasional shot of redeye. He hadn’t gone after One Dog immediately, suspecting that the posted guards would be the heaviest after the shootings in Lord’s Rest. His face throbbed with his pulse and his head felt as if someone had split it with a dull ax.
    The bartender fetched another schooner for Will and asked, “Want me to run a tab for ya for a couple days? Be easier than you haulin’ coins outta your drawers.”
    â€œNo. I’ll be ridin’ out early tomorrow. I’ll pay my way tonight.”
    â€œI don’t think you’ll be ridin’ out. We got a nor’easter comin’ on like a damn locomotive. Ain’t gonna be nobody ridin’ nowhere. You don’t believe me, you go on out an’ take a gander at the sky.”
    â€œI’ve rode in rain an’ wind before,” Will said. “I guess I can do it again.”
    â€œNossir. I don’t think so. Even the goddamn wooly hunters hunker down under cover when something like this comes on.”
    Will walked to the batwings and out onto the street, beer in hand. The sky in all directions was a roiled, dirty gray, like soiled, fresh-sheared wool,and the temperature had dropped like a rock down a well. Chain lightning flickered and flashed as if spearing the clouds, and thunder grumbled, although the sound was muffled, muted, like the sounds of a far-off cannonade.
    A few fat, stinging drops of rain struck Will’s face as he stood looking at the sky. The choice was an easy one: go back to his room at the cathouse or into the gin mill. He chose the saloon.
    â€œSee wad I mean?” the ’tender said. “An’ damn, I was supposed to git some bidness late tonight or tomorra—a bunch of fellas ridin’ through. Shit. They ain’t gonna be thirsty if they ride in this sumbitch storm, an’ that’s for sure.” He considered for a moment as if working a puzzle in his mind. “ ’Course they might like a taste of whiskey.”
    Will’s head was still throbbing. The stitches seemed to be holding well, weeping only minute