"What do you need?" she asked.
Colette studied the alley, the rear of the livery, and the narrow strip of afternoon light beneath the water tower. "I need them to understand they are no longer fighting one woman."
The blacksmith moved first. He crossed to the livery's back door and called the two men hiding inside. The stable boy slipped through a gap in the fence and returned with his father and another ranch hand. No one looked fearless; that was what made their decision courageous.
Colette took the lead around the building. The nearest outlaw heard her boots scrape stone and fired at the sound. His bullet struck a rain barrel; water burst into the alley. Colette saw his leg through the falling sheet and fired once. He dropped beside the tower, clutching his thigh.
The final gunman turned and found the blacksmith's rifle aimed from the livery, the shopkeeper's shotgun behind Colette, and three ranch hands spreading across the alley. His revolver slipped from his fingers.
"I'm done," he said.
Colette lowered her weapon. The gunfire ended. One man had died after firing first, three lay wounded, and two had surrendered. Bragg's six gunmen would trouble Hollow Creek no more that afternoon.
But Bragg himself had escaped. And when Colette turned toward the marshal's office, she saw its door opening for the first time all day.
Marshal Amos Whitfield entered the street with a revolver in his hand and outrage already arranged across his face. He was tall, clean-shaven, and dressed more carefully than any working lawman Colette had known. His boots showed no dust; his shirt remained dry beneath the arms. While bullets crossed Hollow Creek, Amos Whitfield had not run, fought, or sweated.
He looked first at the dead man, then at the wounded. Only afterward did he look at Colette.
"Put those guns down."
The townspeople fell silent. Colette kept her muzzles toward the dirt.
"Your prisoners need a doctor."
"They are not my prisoners."
"They collected money from this town under threat of fire."
"And you killed one of them."
"After he shot me."
Whitfield's eyes touched the torn sleeve and moved away. "I did not see that."