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when we robbed a bank in Texas—” He caught himself and stopped with a wary look on his face. “I didn’t mean to say
we
. I meant to say
they
,” he corrected himself quickly. “I heard
they
robbed a bank in Texas and on the way outta town, Wes stopped and helped an elderly woman who had fallen in the street in front of us—in front of
them
,
that is,” he corrected himself again.
    â€œWait a minute,” Sam said, stopping him. “Don’t try telling me this story if you have to keep stopping to cover your tracks,” he said. “It’s hard enough to believe you without you stopping—”
    â€œOld habits don’t die easy, Ranger,” Hardaway said, cutting him off. “But the thing is, Wes was always doing stuff like that—giving outlawry a classy turn, if you know what I mean.”
    â€œAnd that favorably impressed you,” Sam said flatly.
    â€œYes, it did,” said Hardaway. “Leastwise, enough to make me feel bad about jackpotting them this way. All the time I rode with them, they never hurt anybody—maybe cracked a head or two. They only steal from banks and railroads. Let’s face it, banks and railroads are the worst thieves in the world. The Traybos haven’t killed innocent people. Just the railroad dogs out to kill them.”
    â€œIt might surprise you to hear this, Hardaway, but not everybody thinks the way you do about banks and railroads,” Sam said. “Anyway, the Traybos are outlaws. Let’s keep that straight. No matter how well they play their hands, sooner or later something will go wrong and some innocent persons will die. Maybe I can get to them before that happens and take them in alive—” He stopped short and looked off toward the trail they’d ridden up on, hearing a faint but familiar sound.
    Hardaway looked at him, knowing something was up.
    â€œWhat is it?” he asked in a whisper, his hand already closing around his gun butt.
    â€œHorses, coming up the other side,” Sam said under his breath.
    â€œHorses . . . ?” Hardaway said. “Are you sure?”
    Sam just gave him a look.
    â€œSorry,” Hardaway whispered. “Want me to kill the fire?”
    Sam considered it.
    â€œNo,” he said. He reached over to his saddle and drew his rifle from its scabbard. “Build it up some. Somebody’s on this trail, we need to find out who it is and what they’re up to.”

Chapter 7

    Artimus Folliard and another detective, a wiry little Arkansan named Suell Crane, were the first two members of the detective posse to walk their horses up from the trail into the outer edge of the circling firelight. The two stopped and looked all around from behind the cover of a rock, Folliard wearing a blue cloth wrapped beneath his chin and tied at the top of his head to ease the throbbing pain from his broken teeth. On either side of the flickering fire, they saw the outlines of two sleeping figures, each wrapped in a blanket lying back a few feet out of the firelight.
    â€œThis is too bloody good to be true,” Crane whispered to Folliard.
    Folliard’s covered jawline still revealed much of the swollen purple flesh left from the blow of his own gun barrel. Dried blood had formed in the corner of his mouth from the broken teeth.
    â€œYeah, wait here, watch the horses and keep me covered,” he whispered to Crane in a stiff and pained voice.
    â€œWhat?” Crane whispered, surprised, seeing Folliard start to move forward in a crouch.
    â€œI said
wait here
, damn it,” said Folliard. “I’m going to wake this bastard with my gun barrel staring him in the eye.”
    â€œGarand said wait until everybody gets this camp surrounded,” said Crane. “You best do as we’re told.”
    â€œI’m Garand’s huckleberry. I can do no wrong,” Folliard whispered confidently. “I’m not