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appearance. He was carrying a Spencer carbine and kept popping up high every few paces to see if he could spot Longarm and Beth, then dropping low again while he continued to move and to search.
    Longarm let the fellow come a little closer, then stood and demanded, “Drop the rifle an’ put your hands up. You’re under arrest.”
    The assassin jerked, his jaw suddenly slack with surprise. “How’d you—”
    He never finished the sentence. Instead he brought the Spencer up to his shoulder, pointing it in Longarm’s direction.
    Longarm did not wait to find out what the man might have done next. His .45 barked. And twice more.
    The shooter went down with a bullet in his chest and another in his belly. Longarm did not know where his third shot went.
    He hurried forward and snatched the Spencer away from the dying shooter, then knelt beside the man.
    â€œWhy’re you doing this?” he asked.
    But too late. The life went out of the fellow before he could have answered the question even if he had been inclined to do so.
    â€œShit,” Longarm mumbled.
    There had to be a reason these attempts were being made on him. Attempts to kill either him or Beth. He had no idea which. Or why. “Shit,” he said again.
    Then he stood and headed toward the spot where he had left her.

Chapter 31
    â€œI don’t . . . please, I really don’t want to look,” Beth protested.
    â€œDammit, woman, you got to. I got t’ know if you recognize this man or think you know why he might be tryin’ to shoot you,” Longarm insisted.
    Beth very reluctantly followed him back to the body of the man who had ambushed them. She stood over the corpse for some time, staring down at it, but in the end all she did was shake her head and say, “No. Sorry.”
    â€œYou’re sure?”
    Beth turned away from the dead man and said, “I’m sure. I can’t recall ever seeing this man before. I certainly don’t know why he would want to shoot me. Couldn’t he have been trying to shoot you instead?”
    â€œSure, but I ain’t ever seen him before either. I was hoping you’d know something.”
    Longarm lifted his Stetson and wiped his forehead then looked up toward the sun. “Reckon we’d best get started. I dunno how far it is to that relay station, but we need to get there however far ’tis.”
    â€œWouldn’t this man have had a horse?” Beth asked.
    â€œSon of a bitch,” Longarm said. “You’re right. I was so worried about him that I forgot that. Let’s see if can we find it.”
    Just after dark that evening, with Beth riding the dead man’s horse—sidesaddle as she had left her trousers behind and refused to ride astride and bare her limbs to Longarm’s view—light from the stagecoach relay station guided them in to baths and a hot meal.

Chapter 32
    â€œBacon? No, ma’am, with a name like that, I’d’ve been sure to remember it,” the stationmaster, a man named Sam Trydon, told them. “I’m sure he never came through here.”
    Beth described her husband in detail, but Trydon only shook his head and repeated that he never met Hank Bacon and would surely have remembered if he ever did meet the man. “I’m sorry, lady. I wish I could help you but I can’t.”
    Trydon smiled. “What I can help you with is something to eat. It isn’t much, but it’s hot and filling. Sit down, please. I’ll bring you some roasted prairie chicken. It’s as good as the real thing. The meat is a little darker, that’s all. Mighty tasty if I do say so.”
    He turned and called to the dark-skinned woman who was tending the stove, “Birdy, dish up some grub for these folks.”
    The woman, whose hair was as sleek and shiny as a crow’s wing, nodded an acknowledgment and began loading plates for the unexpected guests.
    â€œThere