The man was on the ground, behind a waist-high boulder, his rifle resting on the rock. He was sheltered and all but hidden from the trail, but from where Falcon was, his whole left side was exposed.

Falcon faltered as he realized who the man was. What could he have to do with the Pinkerton investigation of Oliver Hawkins? His thoughts chasing themselves around did no good, not right now. Right now, he had a would-be murderer to catch.

An inch at a time, Falcon brought his rifle down. Movement drew the eye, and he didn’t want the man’s intent focus on the trail diverted.

Falcon aimed, considering where to hit him to stop him.

His finger pressed on the trigger, as far as he dared. He breathed in deep and let the breath out halfway. Waiting for a second, going completely still, he fired. A bright bloom of scarlet exploded on the dry-gulcher’s shoulder. Very close to the spot where he’d hit Wyatt.

The man slammed backward onto the ground. His rifle flew over his head. The killer shouted and crawled toward the long gun. Falcon fired again and hit him in the leg, then again and blew the rifle to pieces. The man clawed at his pistol. Falcon smashed a bullet into the holster and the six-shooter snapped in two. The man’s fingers were stained with blood.

“Go.” He hissed down at Cheyenne.

She tore up the hill toward the man. Falcon was on the ground and after her, his rifle again slung over his shoulder.

“Knife!” Cheyenne hollered.

The man slashed at her, the knife held awkwardly in his left hand. She leapt away and landed on her backside.

Falcon, pushing hard, felt every second like an hour as the man came at his wife with a knife. He remembered his ma calling him a berserker and knew that was in him right now. He roared as the man staggered to his feet.

Jerking his head up at the sound as if he feared an approaching grizzly, the killer’s gunshot leg went out from under him.

Cheyenne, flat on her back, kicked the blade aside. He lost his grip, and fumbled at his right sleeve. Cheyenne twisted with the grace of a hunting wildcat, regained her feet, and stomped on the wrist he was trying for.

Then Falcon was there. He pounded a fist into the man’s face. Falcon grabbed his left arm as Cheyenne dragged a derringer out of his sleeve. Falcon slugged him again, and the man slumped to the ground.

“Don’t trust him,” Cheyenne said. “He acts like he’s passed out, but I don’t believe it.”

She held up the tiny, two-shot firearm. “Nice gun. Maybe I can keep it.”

Cheyenne pulled a length of leather off her belt.

“I must say I admire a woman who is always prepared to tie up a prisoner.”