LITMIR.BIZ

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the freckle-faced young man enter the saloon and sidle up to the bar. It was doubtful the pup had yet reached his seventeenth birthday. Cole’s gaze dropped to the .35 resting in the kid’s holster—hand level for a quick draw. There was a cockiness about him that Cole easily recognized. He had seen it many times before.

      “Are you goin’ to call the bet or not?”

      Cole glanced down at the cards he was holding. A jack high. He called the wager and drew three cards. Tonight he’d barely been able to stay even in the game, but things were starting to look up. He’d just been dealt two jacks to go with the one he held.

      On the other side of the room the kid downed his drink, then turned. Eyes narrowed, he slowly, methodically scanned each man in the saloon.

      Cole dropped what was left of his cigar into the spittoon beside his foot. “Tell you what,” he said to the other four players. “Its been a long night, and I have to hightail it to Missouri on the next train. So, I’m going to make this my last hand.” He shoved his stash to the center of the table. “Anyone care to match it?”

      The banker shook his head and tossed his cards in. The barber thought a moment before calling. The other two also called, making it the biggest pot of the evening. The three jacks were good and Cole started raking in his winnings.

      “Cole Wagner!”

      The call was loud and the saloon was small. Everyone heard the name. Cole shoved his winnings into his coat pockets.

      “Has old age made you a yeller belly?”

      The other players at the table suddenly realized whom they had been sitting with. They made a dash to get away, knocking over several chairs in their haste. It had always amazed Cole how quiet a saloon could become when a gunfight was about to take place.

      “Well? You jest gonna sit there? Maybe you ain’t as good as I heard tell?”

      The chair scraped the wooden floor as Cole shoved it back and slowly stood. There were some things he just couldn’t abide. Being called yellow was one, and being called an old man was another. He started walking toward the bar, his body a taut spring waiting to uncoil. He smelled the rank odor of unwashed bodies, Rosebud whiskey and stale smoke. Even a whisper seemed amplified a hundred times. “You’d be wise to reconsider, pup.”

      “I didn’t ride no hundred miles for nothin’, old man.”

      “You’re not even dry behind the ears. It’s too bad you’re not going to live long enough to find out that thirty-two isn’t old.” When Cole came to a halt, there was less than twenty feet between him and the cur. With a resigned sigh he tucked the front of his black longtail coat behind his guns. His hands dropped to his sides ... ready...waiting. “It’s your move, boy.”

      Beads of sweat began popping out on the kid’s forehead. As usual, the mutt wasn’t as brave as he was making out to be. Then Cole felt the steel barrel of a shotgun jammed between his shoulders. It had all been a setup. The kid’s partner must have been waiting until he could get behind him.

      “I wouldn’t make a move for that gun, Wagner,” the man behind Cole warned. “It makes no difference if I turn you in dead or alive. All I want is the bounty.”

      “Damn you, Perkins!” the kid yelled. “What took you so long? Hell, I thought I was fixin’ to get killed!” He grabbed the neck of the whiskey bottle and with a shaking hand lifted it to his lips and guzzled the contents.

      Cole felt his .45 being lifted from his holster. As the bounty hunter came into view, Cole chuckled. The one with the rough voice was a skinny weasel, had a glass eye and was considerably older than his friend.

      “Dammit, Jake, get over here and tie him up!” Perkins yelled.

      The kid slammed the bottle down on the bar. As he hurried forward, he wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his dirty shirt.

      “Is he really Cole Wagner?” one of the patrons called.

      “The one and only,” Jake boasted now that he knew the outlaw couldn’t harm him. “Or maybe we should call him Sir Outlaw. Look at him. He was talkin’ real big a minute ago, now he ain’t nothin’. I’ll bet I could’ve outdrawn him.” He took the rope Perkins handed him. “He ain’t gonna be seein’ the outside of prison for a hell of a long time. If he don’t get hung, he’ll probably die there.”

      “You’d best hope so,” Cole warned, “’cause if I get out, you’re a dead man.”

      “Shut up, Jake,” Perkins ordered. “If you gotta act so almighty, do it after we get our money.”

      The saloon became a hubbub of voices as the two men marched their prisoner outside. Perkins was being especially cautious. Jake, on the other hand, kept giving the outlaw unnecessary shoves. As Cole swung up on his horse’s back and settled himself in the saddle, young Jake stepped forward, ready to taunt the prisoner again.

      With Jake between him and Wagner, Perkins couldn’t prevent what happened next.

      The outlaw swung his foot upward, the toe of his boot catching Jake beneath the chin. The boy staggered backward, falling into his partner, knocking him down. By the time Perkins had scrambled to his feet, Wagner had his horse galloping down the road. Perkins fired several times, but the wanted man had already disappeared into the night.

      Chapter One

      Independence, Missouri, 1874

      Bethany Alexander folded her hands in her lap trying to look pleasant, when in reality the chairs in her small hotel suite were most uncomfortable. “I was pleased to see you had the carriages waiting for our arrival.”

      The portly man seated across from her smiled.

      “Have my other instructions been carried out?”

      “I have done everything you requested in your letters,” John Smyth assured the wealthy and very beautiful redhead. “However, I did have a problem with your telegram.”

      “Oh?”

      “The telegrapher must have misinterpreted your message. It said something about buying an outlaw.”

      “What was confusing?”

      He cleared his throat. “How do you expect me to do that?”

      “I’m the one paying for your services, not the other way around. I’ve decided a bank robber or someone of such a nature would be perfect.”

      “Apparently you have not considered the impossibility of such a purchase, or the danger in hiring a man of that caliber.”

      “Oh, but I have, Mr. Smyth.” Beth leaned forward, excitement shining in her eyes. “I am looking for a man who can show me the real West, and who better to do that than a real outlaw?” She leaned back in her chair. “I’m disappointed that since my trip from Boston began, I have yet to see a man wearing a weapon on his hip.”

      “I can assure you the people hereabouts are just as civilized as they are in Boston. And, contrary to the picture you apparently have in mind, wanted men do not go about sporting hardware on their hips, nor do they make themselves available. They would be hauled off to jail.” Why would a woman of obvious quality even consider such a thing? Smyth wondered. It certainly couldn’t be for the money. Well, it wasn’t any of his concern. When she left Independence, he’d be finished with her.

      “If you are unable to get what I want,” Beth said calmly, “I will locate someone better qualified to handle the matter.”

      John frowned. “There is a jail, but I wouldn’t recommend—”

      Beth stood. “Good. I knew you would come up with something. We’ll leave immediately. I want to get everything settled as quickly as possible so I can be on my way.”

      John pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. It had been a tedious day. “Instead,

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