The Rustler by Linda Lael Miller Page B

much dust as they had on the trail outside of town. He upped his estimate of their numbers to twenty.
    â€œHe was frightened, so I sent him home.”
    Wyatt gave a huff of disgust at that.
    â€œThere’s no cause for concern, I’m sure,” Sarah said brightly. “It’s payday on the ranches, being the last day of the month, and cowboys come from all over to spend their wages and—”
    Wyatt glanced back at her. “Just the same,” he said evenly, “you ought to slip out the back door, if there is one, and go on home.”
    She hoisted a shotgun in one hand. Evidently, she kept it stashed behind the counter. “I’m not afraid,” she said, straightening her spine to confirm the assertion. “And besides, those men are harmless. You’ll see.”
    He had to admire Sarah’s grit, though he still wished she’d do as he said and go out the back way.
    Out front, men began to dismount, leaving their horses untethered, and tromping, spurs jingling, up onto the wooden sidewalk.
    Three of them, the same men he’d seen riding in the lead, headed for the bank’s door.
    Wyatt stepped back to admit them. The .45 seemed to vibrate against his hip, the way the ground trembled when a herd was passing at a high run, but he didn’t draw. No cause for that—yet.
    The first galoot through the door was big as a mountain. Despite the heat, he wore a long coat, and every part of him, from the top of his hat to the worn boots on his feet, was covered in a fine layer of yellowish-red dust. Wyatt noticed immediately that he’d pushed the side of his coat back, so it caught behind his gun and holster.
    Wyatt’s nape tingled, but he stood with his arms folded, a slight but deliberately cordial smile curving at one side of his mouth. An experienced desperado himself, he figured the men would have worn bandannas over their faces if they intended mischief. On the other hand, though, word of Rowdy’s absence had probably gotten around that part of the territory. With the cat away, the mice were inclined to play….
    The big man’s attention went straight to the star pinned to Wyatt’s vest, and his eyes, small and set deep in their grimy sockets, sparse lashes coated in dirt, widened a little. He glanced toward Sarah, his countenance seeming to droop a little.
    â€œThought you was gone to Haven,” the giant told Wyatt, his tone moderately resentful.
    Two facts registered in Wyatt’s mind: the big man didn’t know Rowdy by sight, only reputation, and finding a lawman in the Stockman’s Bank put some kind of hitch in his get-along.
    â€œWould you like to make a deposit?” Sarah chimed sunnily.
    A muscle contracted, hard, in Wyatt’s jaw. It was no time for feminine chatter. While the situation looked ordinary on the outside, he knew in his gut it wasn’t.
    Two more of them crowded in behind the yahoo. Their eyeballs stood out starkly in their dirt-caked faces—they reminded Wyatt of coal miners, just coming up from underground, startled by daylight.
    â€œWhere can a man get a drink around here?” the big man boomed, suddenly jovial.
    â€œYou don’t want to make a deposit?” Sarah asked, sounding disappointed.
    Wyatt didn’t take his eyes off the trail bum. These men weren’t riding for a brand—they were on their own, and traveling in a bunch because, at the core of things, they were cowards. “Oh,” he answered dryly, his arms still folded, “maybe in one of the three or four saloons you passed getting to the bank.”
    More men crammed themselves into the doorway, clogging it like hair in a drain. The big man put up a hand to stop the flow from the street.
    Wyatt was Yarbro-fast with a gun, but he was only one man, Sarah only one woman, shotgun at the ready or not. With a score of men in the street and stuffed into the doorway, they wouldn’t have a chance. But Wyatt could