New Mexico Territory, 1884.
Six gunmen had their hands near their holsters when Silas Bragg looked at the lone Colt on Colette Marsh's right hip and laughed.
"One gun won't save you."
Colette opened her coat. Three more Colt revolvers caught the afternoon light: one at her left hip and two shorter weapons crossed beneath her shoulders.
"Who said I brought only one?"
The laughter died. So did every ordinary sound in Hollow Creek. No boot scraped the saloon porch. No harness chain rattled at the hitching rail. Even the flies seemed to vanish from the heat above the street.
Seven men watched Colette standing beside her horse: Bragg in his chair, and six members of his gang spread across the porch behind him. But Colette had not ridden into Hollow Creek to fight seven men; she had come to kill one. And before the sun went down, she would discover she had chosen the wrong one.
Hollow Creek tasted of grit, horse sweat, and heat-baked pine. The false fronts of its buildings leaned toward the street as if years of wind had taught them to listen. Colette had watched the town from a ridge since sunrise. She knew which alleys ended at fences, which roofs joined at the back, and which door of the saloon opened beside the livery. She also knew where Marshal Amos Whitfield's office stood. Its door had remained closed all morning. That told her something; she did not yet know what.
Bragg leaned forward in his chair. He was heavy through the chest, gray beginning to salt his beard, but his eyes were small and quick. They moved over Colette's rig without missing a buckle.
"Four Colts," he said. "Must make you feel like an army."
"No."
"No?"
"They make me feel prepared."
Bragg's mouth tightened. Mockery worked best on people who hurried to defend themselves; Colette offered him nothing to push against.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"The truth about my brother." The words crossed the street without rising in volume. "Thomas Marsh. Killed eight months ago in Carver's Bend. Shot outside the Golden Rail after a card game. A witness saw a bearded man standing over him: cold eyes, heavy shoulders. The man rode west before dawn."
Bragg's expression did not change at the description. It changed at the name—only for a heartbeat. But Colette had spent eight months learning how much truth could live inside a heartbeat.
"Never heard of him," Bragg said.
"You just did."