The Rustler by Linda Lael Miller Page A

the Spit Bucket Saloon when she was sure no one was looking.

CHAPTER SIX
    H OW MANY RIDERS would it take to raise a dust cloud like that one? Wyatt wondered, as he moved briskly toward the jailhouse, hoping poor old Lonesome could make it that far without collapsing. Much restored by a little kindness and a lot of breakfast, the dog was puny, just the same. He’d need some time to heal up proper.
    Reaching Rowdy’s office, he had to pick Lonesome up in both arms to get him over the threshold. The critter’s tongue hung to one side of his snout, and he was panting hard.
    He settled Lonesome in front of the cold stove, took the washbasin outside, and pumped cold water into it. Then, having set the basin within Lonesome’s reach, he drew his Colt, spun the cylinder to make sure it was fully loaded.
    It was, since he’d had no cause to shoot, except to pick off the occasional rabbit for his supper out on the trail. Pappy had been a great advocate of regular target practice, but Wyatt hadn’t been flush enough to waste good bullets plunking at tin cans for a long time.
    Fortunately, Rowdy kept enough ammunition in the bottom drawer of his desk to supply an artillery regiment.
    Leaving the dog in peace, Wyatt stepped back out into the street.
    He guessed at least a dozen riders were bearing down on Stone Creek, and even though they were most likely harmless cowpokes, looking to wet their whistles with a little whiskey and maybe visit a loose woman, a familiar uneasiness prickled in the pit of his stomach. He’d felt it last just before the stampede, down by the border.
    There was no fear—just a sense of standing a rung or two above it on an invisible ladder. That was another thing he’d learned from Pappy—fear was a luxury an outlaw couldn’t afford. When trouble came, a man had to stand up on the inside, ready to play whatever cards he might be dealt.
    Wyatt looked up and down the street, found it deserted, where a quarter of an hour before, the place had been bustling with morning business. He spared a moment to wish that Sam and Rowdy were around, but no more than that. Clearly, if trouble was on its way, he’d be the one facing it down.
    The riders were getting close—he could hear the hoofbeats of their horses now—probably within minutes of town, and Wyatt’s thoughts strayed to the bank. Or, more properly, to Sarah.
    He headed in that direction, not at a lope, as instinct urged, but with long, sure strides. In his head, he heard Pappy’s voice, as he often did. You’ve got to look tough, boy, even if you’re down to your last pint of blood and plumb out of ideas. Show any weakness, and they’ll be on you like wolves.
    At the moment, Wyatt had only one idea, but his blood was pumping just fine. It wasn’t a matter of looking tough, either. He knew he was. Two years breaking rocks in the hot Texas sun had given him that, if nothing else.
    He reached the bank, tried the door, found it open.
    Sarah stood alone behind the counter, pale and straight-shouldered. Relief flickered in those astounding blue eyes of hers, though, and a little color came into her cheeks.
    â€œEverything all right here?” Wyatt asked.
    â€œSo far,” Sarah said, but a note of worry echoed in the air after she spoke.
    â€œYou’re alone?” He knew she was, but it seemed odd, so he had to verify the suspicion.
    â€œI was,” she replied. “Until you came. Is something wrong?”
    â€œProbably not,” Wyatt said, though his senses told another story entirely.
    â€œThomas has some silly notion that the bank is about to be robbed,” she said, in the same voice she’d used the night before, at supper, to offer him a second helping of fried chicken.
    â€œWhere is he?” Wyatt asked, watching the street through the glass window in the front door. He saw three riders in the lead, but there were a lot more coming up behind, raising as