.45-Caliber Desperado by Peter Brandvold

wounded in the skirmish with the townsmen on the Arkansas.”
    The old marshal turned to Donleavy. “I take it you have men tracking them killers?”
    Donleavy shook his head. “I came with only twenty men. There’s been an outbreak of typhoid at Fort Sewald. At the moment, we’re badly under-garrisoned. I’m hoping that Camp Collins is sending enough men that they can leave some to help out here and some to send after de Cava.”
    â€œHow long till they get here?” asked Mason, his blood up. The name Massey had lit a fire inside him. “De Cava’s probably headed for the border.”
    â€œAnother twenty-four hours by train.” The major blew a smoke plume through the open door and looked at Spurr. “By now, every lawman in Colorado, New Mexico, and Utah has heard what happened here. Thank god for the telegraph. Those lawmen will be keeping a close eye out for de Cava. I’m betting the gang won’t make it as far as Albuquerque.”
    â€œI wouldn’t count on that, Major.”
    Spurr stuck his cheroot between his teeth and walked over to a cherry table that sat beneath a large, framed, flyspecked map of Colorado Territory. On the table were four decanters of different colors and sizes. He turned a goblet right side up and poured a liberal jigger of what looked like brandy. He held the glass up and looked at the amber liquid, swirling it between his dirty, blunt fingers.
    â€œDe Cava is a killing machine. Every man ridin’ with him is mean enough to shoot his own mother for overcookin’ his eggs. There ain’t no local lawmen anywhere on the frontier ready to deal with a herd of wildcats like this bunch.”
    â€œWhat are you suggesting, Deputy?” The major looked piqued. “I have five men out chasing escaped prisoners. The rest I need here to keep the other monkeys in their barrel. I’d suggest forming a posse from Limon, but Overcast already tried that, and the undertaker there is making enough money to buy a stake and move to Sherman Avenue in Denver.”
    â€œI ain’t suggestin’ nothin’,” Spurr said, throwing back half the brandy. “I’m sayin’ someone’s gotta go after ’em now. While their trail’s still warm.” He threw back the rest of the shot and slammed the glass down on the table. “I reckon that means us, fellas,” he said raspily, the brandy searing his tonsils as he shuttled his glance to the four other lawmen in the room.
    McQueen and his two deputies, both in their early twenties, regarded him skeptically. He knew what they were thinking. Could the old man make it? They’d likely seen him struggle to get mounted this morning, in the wake of the mule kick to the chest he’d endured in the roadhouse the day before.
    He poked his cigar between his teeth, shouldered his rifle, and brushed past Donleavy on his way out the door.
    â€œHold on, hold on,” yelled Dusty Mason, quickly pouring himself a shot of the warden’s brandy, throwing it back, and choking on it. He’d arrested Massey, and he, by god, would make damn sure the lawman-killing younker whose fresh face belied his obviously black heart would pay for his sins.
    â€œWait for me, damnit, Spurr!”

10
    IT FELT GOOD, being free.
    Even better than he’d thought it would when he’d fantasized about it all those long months in the prison, figuring he’d spend the rest of his life there, brawling for the warden’s amusement, fighting for every drop of water, every bite of rancid food.
    But now that he was out he took special note of the grass and the sage and the hat-shaped bluffs and sand-colored cliffs cropping up around him here east of the mountains that loomed like a perpetual storm. He loved the sky here. It was all around, and clouds didn’t so much slide across it as pile up on top of him so that he had to stretch his neck back to get a look at those big,