"An old woman's memory."
"A frightened woman's memory," she corrected. "Not the same thing."
Colette watched Whitfield's trigger finger. "Put down the rifle, Amos."
"You do not give orders here."
"Neither does Bragg. Not anymore."
Whitfield's eyes flicked toward him.
Bragg smiled. "She knows about Carver's Bend," he said. "Whole town does now."
"Be quiet!"
"You should have paid me enough to leave."
Whitfield swung the rifle toward Bragg. Colette's hand moved to her right-hip Colt. Whitfield corrected his aim just as quickly, bringing it back toward Mrs. Holloway.
"Touch that gun," he said, "and the old woman dies."
Colette stopped.
The street held more than twenty witnesses now. Men and women stood behind barrels, hitching posts, and open doors; several carried weapons. None had a clear shot that did not risk Mrs. Holloway. Whitfield knew it.
"This is what happens next," he said. "You unbuckle that rig—all of it. Then you step into my cell. Bragg leaves town. By morning, the dead man on the saloon floor becomes your victim, and Mrs. Holloway decides she was mistaken."
"And if she doesn't?" Colette asked.
Whitfield's expression answered.
Mrs. Holloway lifted her chin. "I have been silent for eight months," she said. "You have already taken everything my silence can give you."
The rifle shifted toward her heart. Colette slowly opened the buckle of her four-gun rig; leather and iron dropped into the dust.