The drop out the window was straight down, no roof to climb onto. Lessie regarded the ground warily. Waxillium shoved his fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply.

Nothing happened.

He whistled again.

“What the hell are you doing?” Lessie demanded.

“Calling my horse,” Waxillium said, then whistled again. “We can hop down into the saddle and ride away.”

She stared at him. “You’re serious.”

“Sure I am. We’ve been practicing.”

A lone figure walked out onto the street below, the kid who had been following Waxillium. “Uh, Wax?” the kid called up. “Destroyer’s just standing there, drinking.”

“Hell,” Waxillium said.

Lessie looked at him. “You named your horse—”

“She’s a little too placid, all right?” Waxillium snapped, climbing up onto the windowsill. “I thought the name might inspire her.” He cupped his hand, calling to the boy below. “Wayne! Bring her out here. We’re going to jump!”

“Like hell we are,” Lessie said. “You think there’s something magical about a saddle that will keep us from breaking the horse’s back when we drop into it?”

Waxillium hesitated. “Well, I’ve read about people doing this…”

“Yeah, I’ve got an idea,” Lessie said. “Next, why don’t you call out Granite Joe, and go stand out in the road and have a good old-fashioned showdown at noon.”

“You think that would work? I—”

“No, it won’t work,” she snapped. “Nobody does that. It’s stupid. Ruin! How did you kill Peret the Black?”

They stared at each other a moment.

“Well…” Waxillium started.

“Oh hell. You caught him on the crapper, didn’t you?”

Waxillium grinned at her. “Yeah.”

“Did you shoot him in the back too?”

“As bravely as any man ever shot another in the back.”

“Huh. There might be hope for you yet.”

He nodded toward the window. “Jump?”

“Sure. Why not break both my legs before getting shot? Might as well go all in, Mister Cravat.”

“I think we’ll be fine, Miss Pink Garter.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“If you’re going to identify me by my clothing choices,” he said, “then I figure I can do the same.”

“It shall never be mentioned again,” she said, then took a deep breath. “So?”

He nodded, flaring his metals, preparing to hold on to her and slow them as they fell—just enough to make it seem like they’d miraculously survived the jump. As he did, however, he noticed one of his blue lines moving—a faint but thick one, pointing across the street.

The window in the mill. Sunlight glinted off something inside.

Waxillium immediately grabbed Lessie and pulled her down. A fraction of a second later, a bullet streaked over their heads and hit the door on the other side of the room.

“Another sharpshooter,” she hissed.

“Your power of observation is—”

“Shut it,” she said. “Now what?”

Waxillium frowned, considering the question. He glanced at the bullet hole, gauging the trajectory. The sharpshooter had aimed too high; even if Waxillium hadn’t ducked, he’d likely have been all right.

Why aim high? The moving blue line to the gun had indicated the sharpshooter running to get into position before shooting. Was it just rushed targeting? Or was there a more sinister reason? To knock me out of the sky? When I flew out the window?