“That’s your idea of a better offer?” Calverson said, taking a step back and grimacing.

“It is,” Pritchard said. “A real bargain, too.”

“You think you’re pretty funny, don’t you, boy?” Calverson said. His hand slowly began to stray from his chin, down his vest, to his belt.

“No,” Pritchard said. “Not funny. Just fast.”

Calverson went for his gun.

Before he cleared leather, Pritchard had one of the Remington .44s out and the hammer back. He drilled Calverson neatly through the sternum. The pimp staggered, shakily withdrew the Starr, and tried to raise it. Pritchard fired again, and a hole appeared in the center of Calverson’s forehead. He dropped his gun and collapsed.

Pritchard spun to face the proprietor, who was reaching for the shotgun behind the counter. He needn’t have worried. The shopkeeper’s hand stopped when the barrel of Ditch’s Hawken rifle pressed against his neck.

“The lady’s waitin’ for her stew,” Ditch said.

Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Pritchard and Ditch rode up to the church at dawn. They would have preferred to be under cover in deep woods by daybreak, but were forced to deviate from their customary nocturnal travel routine on account of the girl.

After Pritchard shot Calverson, he untied her. Ditch noted the death-shadow, which had befallen his friend once again, faded almost as fast as it appeared.

With a blank expression on her face and no resistance, as if accustomed to being led places by strange men, the girl let Pritchard lead her to a seat at the table. He placed a bowl of stew and corn bread before her. She wordlessly began devouring the food.

“I didn’t see nuthin’,” the proprietor said. His hands were over his head and shaking. Ditch’s Hawken rifle was still against his neck.

“I don’t care if you did,” Pritchard said. “He drew first.”

Pritchard walked behind the counter and took the shotgun, broke it open, and removed the shells. “Put your hands down,” he said, “and fetch the merchandise we asked for.”

The proprietor scurried to the back room.

“Best accompany him, Ditch,” Pritchard said, “in case he’s got another gun stashed back there.” Ditch nodded and followed.

The girl wolfed down her bowl of stew, and Pritchard handed her another. If she seemed bothered by the death of Calverson, she didn’t show it. In fact, she showed no emotion at all. By the time she inhaled the second bowl of stew, the proprietor, with Ditch on his tail, returned.

Pritchard and Ditch each selected a pair of durable britches made of coarse cloth, wool shirts, socks, a pair of blankets, a bone-handled knife, a razor, a hatchet, a pan, a quantity of salt, grain, gunpowder, and a bottle of whiskey. Ditch even found a box of .54 caliber balls for his Hawken rifle, and some .44s for Pritchard.