whatâs going on.â
Longley glanced at the black sky. âHell of a night.â
âIs the only weather in this country wind and sleet?â Sullivan asked.
âI donât know. My first time here.â Longley shivered. âIt will turn to snow soon.â He looked back to the street. âTheyâre getting a man down from the box.â
âI got a bad feeling about this. I reckon Iâll go take a looksee.â Sullivan made a little bow and extended his arm. âAfter you, Bill.â
Longley thought that amusing. âIâd hardly shoot you in the back in front of all those people.â
âI donât think thereâs any way of telling what youâd do, Bill,â Sullivan said.
Longley adjusted the hang of his guns. âDamn, I just got my boots cleaned.â
âWe all have a cross to bear. Lead the way, Iâll be right behind you.â
âYeah? Well donât get any ideas, bounty hunter.â
Sullivan grinned. âMe, Bill? Why, I wouldnât dream of putting a bullet into the back of your skull.â
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The body lay facedown on the boardwalk and no one seemed willing to pull the arrow out of its back.
âHere, I recognize that ranny.â Clem Weaver lifted the dead manâs shoulder with the toe of his boot. âYup, itâs him all right. His name is Dan Culp, runs with a feller by the name of Jack Flood. He was here in town for a spell afore we run him out.â
Mayor York nodded. âI remember him. Chicken thief as I recall.â
âAnd a damned nuisance,â Weaver said. âHe shouldâve been hung fer a pest years ago.â
âApaches?â Tom Archer threw the question out to everybody.
Weaver shook his head and yanked the arrow out of Culpâs back, bringing blood, flesh, and bone with it. After a while he said, âItâs Ute. And itâs a war arrow, judging by the strap iron head. Ifân the savages had been hunting, theyâd have used flint.â
âWhat the hell are Utes doing this far south?â York said. âThey never come this far into Apache country.â
âLong time ago, they took a notion to mount winter raids against the Apaches. The Ute are friends with the Jicarilla and they know the young bucks like to hole up with their womenfolk and youngâuns in the cold weather, then raid into Old Mexico come spring. Thatâs how come the Utes figure December is a good month for hoss stealing.â Weaver nodded at the Culpâs body. âAnd thatâs how come heâs dead. Mustâve bumped into the Utes while they was out conducting business.â
âI say we mount a punitive expedition,â Archer said quickly, his anger showing. âMake those damned savages pay for killing a white man.â
The storeowner was met with blank stares and a stony silence.
Weaver said, âTom, Ute warriors are fellers you donât want to tangle with. Theyâre mean as hell and donât know when to quit.â
âSeems like youâre on your own again, Mr. Archer,â Lisa York said.
Sullivan whoâd been listening to the talk, wondered what she meant by that, then dismissed it from his mind.
Even at that late hour and in the middle of a sleet storm, she was so dazzlingly pretty that the big bounty hunterâs breath caught in his throat. Amid the gray night, surrounded by gray buildings, torn by a gray storm from a gray sky, Lisa York burned like a candle flame that lit up the gray recesses of his soul.
He admitted to himself that heâd . . . no, not loved her . . . but certainly admired her from the first moment heâd seen her. But sheâd never even glanced at him or acknowledged that he was alive.
He vowed to change that just as soon as he could.
âWeâll bury this man in the morning.â Mayor York looked around him. âJim, can we put him in your icehouse for the