His fingers opened. The revolver struck the floor.
"Kick it away."
He obeyed. Colette did not shoot him. That decision mattered more than the speed of her draw.
Outside, someone fired toward the saloon's front doors. The two men by the water tower had begun shooting at shadows, hoping fear would drive Colette into the street. She retrieved the revolver she had dropped and counted what she knew: one of Bragg's men was dead, two were wounded, one had surrendered, and two remained armed near the livery. Six men accounted for; Bragg was still missing.
"Use your belt," she told the surrendered man. "Tie your friend's good wrist to the rail behind the bar."
"You expect me to help you?"
Colette cocked the short Colt. "I expect you to remain alive."
He removed his belt.
At the rear door, Colette paused and listened. The alley beyond was narrow and cool, shaded by the saloon wall. The air smelled of ashes from the cookhouse and manure from the livery. Three townsfolk huddled behind stacked feed sacks: an elderly shopkeeper, a stable boy, and a broad-shouldered blacksmith holding a hammer as if he had only now remembered it could serve another purpose.
The shopkeeper saw the blood on Colette's sleeve. "You hit bad?" she whispered.
"Not yet."
The woman gave a nervous breath that almost became a laugh.
"There are two by the tower," Colette continued. "One behind the northeast brace, one beside the trough."
"We know," the stable boy said. "They've been collecting money from my father every Saturday. Payment for not burning this place."
The blacksmith tightened his grip on the hammer.
"Stay here," Colette told them.
The shopkeeper's lined face hardened. "We have been staying here for a year."
Colette looked at her. The woman picked up a discarded shotgun resting against the feed sacks. Her hands shook, but she kept the muzzle pointed at the ground.