He did not turn his head but spoke to Piute. “Kick those corral bars down, Bill. We can’t stay long.”
Robbins had enough. He stepped forward. “You keep your hands off that corral,” he said, “and you, Galway! You get goin’ while you’re able!”
Gorman was in a quandary. They were four to two. Still, this man said he knew Cassidy, and —
Piute Bill had ignored Robbins. He rode to the corral and leaned toward the bars. Robbins, his face flushed with anger, turned back to Galway. “Stop him! Or I’ll kill you!”
Tom Galway’s lips smiled, but his eyes did not “Gorman, this kid’s askin’ for it.”
Robbins’ hand streaked for his gun and Galway’s sorrel sidestepped suddenly at a touch of the spur. Galway fired … then again.
Robbins, his gun half-drawn, stopped dead still, staring at Galway, his eyes blank and unseeing.
Swearing viciously, Gorman went for his gun, trapped into a gun battle he had not wanted. Galway fired, knocking one man into the cabin wall where he fell, knocking the man beside him off balance.
Piute Bill, half behind them, turned at the first shot and fired at Gorman, who went down, his fingers digging into the earth.
The last man dropped his six-shooter as if it were red-hot and flattened against the wall. Galway looked at him over his gun.
The horses were out of the corral and starting toward the bottleneck opening.
Piute Bill’s Winchester was ready, and Galway looked at the last man. “You tell Digger Cassidy to stay on his own side of the creek. Tell him Galway said that, Galway of Tombstone!”
He turned his horse away, watching the man. “And you tell Digger I didn’t start the shooting. It was that fool kid, Robbins.”
The horses would head for their own corral, now that they were free, but they could always hurry them along a bit.
They were almost out of the bottleneck when a sharp, feminine voice came from the aspens. “All right! Hold up there!”
A buxom, determined-looking young woman of perhaps thirty stepped from the trees. She held a double-barreled shotgun as if she knew how to use it.
Galway and Piute Bill drew up warily. A man with a shotgun was bad enough, but a woman —
“What’s the trouble, ma’am?” Galway asked politely. “Can we do something for you?”
“You killed my man back there, and if you think you’re gettin’ off scot-free, think again!”
Piute Bill started to speak, then swallowed and looked helplessly at Galway.
Lifting his hand slowly, Tom Galway removed his hat. “Now, I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am, but those men stole my horses and when I came after them they made the mistake of trying to shoot it out.”
He noted no sign of tears. “Ma’am? Which one was it, Robbins?”
“That puppy?” Contempt was in her tone. “He killed a few tenderfeet and figured he was a tough man. My man was Ned Wavers.”
“We’re almighty sorry, ma’am,” Galway said gently. “We came after our horses. We’d no intention of killing anybody.”
“But you did!” There was no grief in her tone, just a hard matter-of-factness. “Ned wasn’t much,” she said, “but he made me a home, and when he wasn’t drunk he took care of me. Now I’ll be left here for Cassidy and that bullyin’ Tinto Bill.”
Tom Galway smiled. “Why, ma’am, if you would rather not stay here, and if it is a home you’re looking for, we’ve got one for you!”
She was, Tom decided, quite a pretty woman. Moreover, she looked neat, and clean. “Of course,” he added, “you’d have to be able to cook.”
“There isn’t a better cook west of the Pecos,” she said flatly, “and I can make pies — ”
“Of course,” Galway said, smiling, “and we’ve got just the place for you! It’s a pretty little stone house by a creek, and a good, thoughtful man to go with it.”
“Hey!” There was sheer panic in Piute’s eyes. “Look, you can’t — !”
“A good, thoughtful man, ma’am, and a good provider. He’s one of the finest hunters around, always has meat for the table.”
The shotgun lowered. “What’s going on here?” The woman was puzzled. “Somehow, I don’t under — ”
“Ma’am” — Tom Galway rested his palms, one atop the other, on the saddle horn — “ma’am, this gent with me is Piute Bill. He’s a known and respected man. Now he’s a mite on the shady side of forty, but steady. He can fork a bronc with any man, one of the best hunters around and he’s got him that stone cabin I spoke of.
“It needs a woman’s touch, that’s all. The right woman. Needs a woman like you, a pretty woman who’s neat about the house and who will cook his chuck and keep the place revved up. I know he’d be speakin’ for himself, but he’s a shy man, not given to talking much.”
“Tom! Listen! For God’s sake!” His voice trailed off helplessly as Galway continued.
“He makes a little ‘shine now and again, but I’ve never seen him drunk. Don’t drink no more than to be sociable. He owns seven hundred head of steers and a milk cow.”
“Did you say a milk cow?” The woman looked thoughtful. “If he’s got a milk cow he’s a sight more of a plannin’ man than most. Mister, I reckon you’ve talked me into it!”
“Mount up, then!” Galway said cheerfully. “Mount up right there behind Piute and put your arms around him and hang on tight. By the time you get to his place on the creek I think he’ll be convinced!”
Piute Bill, his eyes vicious and his face red, helped the young woman up behind him. She flashed a smile at Galway which suddenly faded.
“Now see here! Ned wasn’t much and he beat me when he was drunk. I wasn’t sorry to lose him, him bein’ what he was, but we were all married up, fittin’ and proper!”
“Of course, ma’am!” Galway looked shocked. “I’ll ride into Ten Mile as soon as I get you to the house. We will have a preacher out here before sundown. The barkeep was tellin’ me there was a preacher there now. I’ll get him. Meanwhile,” he added, “you better just bake a wedding cake. Somehow without a cake a wedding doesn’t seem real, does it now?”
“Maybe the preacher won’t come?” Bill suggested hopefully.
“He’ll come!” Galway said. “I’ll see to that!”
“I just bet you will!” Piute said savagely.
Whistling, Tom Galway turned his sorrel toward Ten Mile. “Horse,” he said, “I’d make a poor Cupid but sometimes there’s things a man just has to do. And besides, she had a scatter-gun.”
When Galway rode into Ten Mile the only sign of life was around the Gold Camp Saloon. Galway tied his horse and pushed through the bat-wing doors. There were six men in the place. One sat alone at a table. He was a red-haired man, short and stocky, with a pious look.
Galway stepped to the bar, noticing one of the men was Digger Cassidy, another was Tinto Bill.
“Rye,” Galway ordered, and jerking a thumb toward the redhead he asked, “Is that the preacher?”
“It is.” The bartender looked up curiously.
“If you’ve got a horse,” he said to the preacher, “better get him saddled. I’ve got a wedding for you.”
“A wedding? Of course, but — ?”
“Everything is going to be all legal and proper, this woman wants to marry this man, and by this time,” he chuckled, “he’ll be wanting to marry her. If she doesn’t have him convinced by now she doesn’t have the taking ways I think she has. She looked to me like a woman with a mind of her own.”
“Who’s gettin’ married?” the bartender asked.
“Piute Bill. He’s been looking for a wife for a long time.”
“Who’s marryin’ him? There ain’t more’n three or four single women in the county!”
“Piute Bill,” Galway replied carefully, “is marrying Mrs. Ned Wavers.”
Tinto Bill choked on his drink. Digger Cassidy turned for the first time and looked right at Tom Galway. “Who?” he demanded, unbelievingly.
“Mrs. Ned Wavers and Piute Bill,” Galway repeated.
“They are getting married this evening. Soon as I can get the parson up there.”
“But she’s married!” Tinto Bill said. “She’s got a husband, and any time she hasn’t, I guess I’d be first in line.”
“There must be some mistake,” Cassidy said. The light was not good and Galway’s hat shaded his face somewhat. “Ned Wavers is — ”
“Dead,” Galway replied. “Mrs. Ned Wavers has been a widow for almost four hours.”
Digger Cassidy spoke softly. “You say Ned Wavers is dead.”
“That’s right, Digger. Seems some of your boys drove off some horses of mine last night, so I rode over to drive them back. Robbins made a fool play and Gorman and Wavers tried to back him up.”