been daydreaming since this morning. Heâs lost his edge. I hate to take money from a man when heâs in that state.â The speaker was a pole-thin man in a blue cotton shirt and leather leggings; his name was McKittrick.
âSuppose youâre right, Mac,â said Fagan. âAinât right to take advantage.â
But Hill wasnât hearing them. At six-three, two hundred pounds, he cut an impressive figure himself. He wore his auburn hair long and swept back from his tanned, angular face. His brown eyes were clear despite the heavy drinking of the past several days, his mouth straight and even. A bounty hunter like the other two, he wore trail clothes: a checkered shirt, dark heavy pants, low-heeled boots, and cowboyâs spurs that raked along the smelly blanket on the bed. A blue bandanna hung loosely around his neck, revealing a growth of whiskers several days old. In all, he was a rugged, handsome man.
Only coincidence had brought him into contact with the other two, Fagan and McKittrick. The three of them, professional manhunters, had come to Skyler in pursuit of the same bounty: Thomas Starbuck.
Thad Hill shifted uneasily, fingering the butt of his Smith & Wesson American Model .44 revolver. He wanted a bath, but he couldnât afford to pay for oneâa very unpleasant condition to be in. He recalled how frustrated heâd felt when he first arrived here, broke and dispirited. Then he had run into these two. For the first few days they had eyed each other warily and sparred verbally, testing strengths and weaknesses, probing to see whether the most profit lay in eliminating the competition or in joining forces. For now, they had agreed to stick together. With the prisoner under heavy guard in the jail, and several other parties interested in him, they found strength in numbers.
However, since he had seen the girl ride into town today and found out that she too was inquiring about Starbuck, Thad Hill had been less concerned with his quarry than with her. Who is she? he wondered as he lay back on the unwashed bed, ashes from his cheroot spilling onto his chest. The others retuned their attention to the game and left him to his solitary thoughts.
Hill had plenty to think about. His road to Skyler had been a long one, and now he traced his trail back to the source and wondered again, for the thousandth time, why he had chosen the path he hadâand if there was any other route he could have taken.
Born in St. Joseph, Missouri, thirty-two years previously, Thad Hill was the son of a preacher who drank too much and a simple woman who feared the Lord and her husbandâs fists. It didnât take the boy Thad long to realize that he wouldnât be around much longer. At sixteen, after a final confrontation that left the father bloodied from the sonâs fists, he hitched a ride West with a wagon train and never looked back.
Then there followed years of drifting, of working odd jobs on various ranches, of avoiding sudden death, of gambling and drinking and whoringâall of which added up to a big fat zero, by his calculations. He had come on bounty-hunting almost by accident. Heâd witnessed a killing in Caldwell, Kansas, at a saloon where he was losing at poker. Having known the victim slightly, he felt obligated to bring the murderer back to justice. He did. The reward was incidental but welcome. And it got him to thinking. He was good with a rifle, fast with a pistol, and a better-than-average tracker. Why not make those skills pay?
So for the last few years of his life he had worked as a bounty hunter. His work had taken him as far north as British Columbia and as far south as Mexico City. And heâd seen pretty much everything in between. It wasnât the best life a man could live, but it was better than starving. He thought about that for a minute. He was starving right now, goddamn it! And he needed a bath badly.
This Starbuck case had him thinking hard.
âSuppose youâre right, Mac,â said Fagan. âAinât right to take advantage.â
But Hill wasnât hearing them. At six-three, two hundred pounds, he cut an impressive figure himself. He wore his auburn hair long and swept back from his tanned, angular face. His brown eyes were clear despite the heavy drinking of the past several days, his mouth straight and even. A bounty hunter like the other two, he wore trail clothes: a checkered shirt, dark heavy pants, low-heeled boots, and cowboyâs spurs that raked along the smelly blanket on the bed. A blue bandanna hung loosely around his neck, revealing a growth of whiskers several days old. In all, he was a rugged, handsome man.
Only coincidence had brought him into contact with the other two, Fagan and McKittrick. The three of them, professional manhunters, had come to Skyler in pursuit of the same bounty: Thomas Starbuck.
Thad Hill shifted uneasily, fingering the butt of his Smith & Wesson American Model .44 revolver. He wanted a bath, but he couldnât afford to pay for oneâa very unpleasant condition to be in. He recalled how frustrated heâd felt when he first arrived here, broke and dispirited. Then he had run into these two. For the first few days they had eyed each other warily and sparred verbally, testing strengths and weaknesses, probing to see whether the most profit lay in eliminating the competition or in joining forces. For now, they had agreed to stick together. With the prisoner under heavy guard in the jail, and several other parties interested in him, they found strength in numbers.
However, since he had seen the girl ride into town today and found out that she too was inquiring about Starbuck, Thad Hill had been less concerned with his quarry than with her. Who is she? he wondered as he lay back on the unwashed bed, ashes from his cheroot spilling onto his chest. The others retuned their attention to the game and left him to his solitary thoughts.
Hill had plenty to think about. His road to Skyler had been a long one, and now he traced his trail back to the source and wondered again, for the thousandth time, why he had chosen the path he hadâand if there was any other route he could have taken.
Born in St. Joseph, Missouri, thirty-two years previously, Thad Hill was the son of a preacher who drank too much and a simple woman who feared the Lord and her husbandâs fists. It didnât take the boy Thad long to realize that he wouldnât be around much longer. At sixteen, after a final confrontation that left the father bloodied from the sonâs fists, he hitched a ride West with a wagon train and never looked back.
Then there followed years of drifting, of working odd jobs on various ranches, of avoiding sudden death, of gambling and drinking and whoringâall of which added up to a big fat zero, by his calculations. He had come on bounty-hunting almost by accident. Heâd witnessed a killing in Caldwell, Kansas, at a saloon where he was losing at poker. Having known the victim slightly, he felt obligated to bring the murderer back to justice. He did. The reward was incidental but welcome. And it got him to thinking. He was good with a rifle, fast with a pistol, and a better-than-average tracker. Why not make those skills pay?
So for the last few years of his life he had worked as a bounty hunter. His work had taken him as far north as British Columbia and as far south as Mexico City. And heâd seen pretty much everything in between. It wasnât the best life a man could live, but it was better than starving. He thought about that for a minute. He was starving right now, goddamn it! And he needed a bath badly.
This Starbuck case had him thinking hard.
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