"And I haven't set foot in Carver's Bend for three years."
Colette studied him. The denial came too quickly. Not frightened—practiced.
"Then tell me where you were on April 17th."
One of the younger gunmen snorted. "You expect a man to remember where he was every day of his life?"
Colette did not look at him. "A man usually remembers the days when somebody dies at his feet."
The young man shifted. Bragg raised one hand. "Hold, Rafe."
Rafe stopped, but his thumb remained hooked near his hammer.
Bragg looked back at Colette. "Wasn't me who killed your brother."
"That is not the same as saying you weren't there."
For the first time, Bragg's confidence slipped. Not much; enough.
"You rode a long way on the word of one frightened witness," he said. "Maybe you should ask yourself what fear does to a man's memory."
"Maybe you should tell me what you did to make him afraid."
Rafe took half a step from the porch. Bragg's head turned sharply. "I told you to hold!"
Rafe looked at the townspeople watching through windows, then at the woman who had challenged his leader in the middle of their street. He mistook Bragg's caution for weakness and reached for his gun.
Rafe's hand moved; Colette saw his shoulder move first. Her right-hand Colt cleared leather. One shot cracked across Hollow Creek.
Rafe spun against the porch post, his revolver falling before it left the holster. He clutched his upper arm and screamed.
Then the street broke apart. A second gunman fired from beside Bragg's chair. Colette dropped behind the horse trough. The bullet tore through her coat and burned a line across her left arm. Pain flashed white behind her eyes.
The shooter cocked his revolver again. He had already fired once at a woman half-exposed in the street; he was not lowering the gun, and he was not considering surrender. Colette rose just far enough to see his chest. She fired. He fell backward through the saloon doors and did not rise.