sprout when one needed licking. Maybe she and Ben had a few more years left in them before they had to start that print shop of his.
• • • •
Wash Jones came to on the floor by the Pioneer's big fireplace, his head ringing from that woman's pistol butt. Groaning, he sat up and took stock of his surroundings. The saloon was still quiet, waiting for the evening flow of miners to bustle through the door. Boots stood behind the bar, diligently wiping it down with a cloth. Wash pulled his feet under him and stood up, gripping his forehead as it throbbed in protest.
"Tough day," Boots said without looking up.
Wash nodded, his eyes closed. He stood with his head down until he heard the sound of a glass being placed on the bar. Opening an eye, he watched Boots fill it with whiskey and nod at him. Wash smiled his thanks, walked over, and tossed it back.
"That Cora Oglesby made a fool of you."
The young gunman didn't appreciate the remark, but his head hurt too much to teach the bartender a lesson. He could only nod again, fingering the empty glass. To his surprise, Boots refilled it. Wash shot him a questioning look.
"I can't imagine that sits very well with you, Mr Washington Jones."
"Ain't you a sharp one," Wash said.
"I pay attention." Boots leaned on the bar. "As it happens, I have an interest in her myself."
"What sort of interest?"
"An interest in seeing her dead."
Wash looked up at him in surprise. The bartender returned his gaze, eyes gleaming as a grin spread across his round face. "You see, she once made a fool of me as well. I've been looking for her for a long time so I might settle the score. Now I've found her at last, but I will need help in bringing her down. As you may have noticed, she is a formidable opponent."
Wash stared into his glass, not sure if the whiskey or the smack on the head was causing him to hear what he was hearing. He looked at the bartender again. The same gleam burned in that red face, regarding him with a sinister intelligence.
"You ain't just a bartender, are you?"
The grin widened. "Not anymore."
EIGHT
"Well, we wasn't expecting much, anyway."
Cora stood in the post office, a small box in her hands. The letter attached to it was from Father Davidson in Boston. Ben picked it up and read it aloud.
To Cora Oglesby,
Greetings in the name of our Holy Father and His Son Jesus Christ. I have enclosed with this letter twelve bullets blessed by the shaman of our local Indian tribe. I will send more if I am able. Until then, please take these weapons and use them to strike down the unholy abomination plaguing the town of Leadville. I will pray for your success.
Yours in Christ,
Father Abraham Davidson
"Only twelve?" Cora opened the box. A dozen points of light glimmered from their bed of crumpled newspaper. "That priest must want us to die."
"Maybe he just has a lot of faith in us," Ben said.
"A little too much, I reckon." She picked up one of the rounds and rolled it between her fingers. "Oh, hang it all. These are .45s."
"Are you sure?" Ben leaned over to look.
"Of course I'm sure," Cora said. "Shot them for years, didn't I?"
"You still got that old gun?"
"Sure, in a box in San Antonio. I left it back there when I got the new .38." She dropped the bullet back into the box. "You ain't got your .45 with you, do you?"
"Back in the room," Ben said.
Cora led the way back to the hotel room. Once inside, she knelt by the bed and pulled out their traveling trunk. After a few moments of rummaging, she finally found what she was searching for. A moan that was half disgust and half dismay rose from her lips as she picked up what the rust had left of Ben's revolver. Grimacing, she tried to pull the hammer back. It was locked in place. The cylinder refused to rotate.
She glared up at him. "Ain't you been oiling this regular?"
Ben looked sheepish. "Well, I thought I had been."
"You should go see the priest about this. Why, this is profane, treating a weapon of the Lord's work like this." She tossed the rusty Colt back in the trunk and stood up. "Well, now we're in a fix. We got a monster we can't kill unless we use bullets we can't shoot."