O'Hurlehy, the blue-coated sergeant who just moments ago had been headed to meet his Maeve aboard the ship.
"What in the devil's name is goin' on here?" O'Hurlehy demanded. "Speak up, before I arrest the two of ye an' throw ye in the stockade for murder."
"Nobody's lockin' me up fer shootin' that piece of scum," Kraylor protested, a thin trickle of blood dripping down into his beard. "I got me legal papers sayin' dead or alive. Dead suits me jist fine." He got to his feet, still rubbing his jaw, and pulled a rumpled WANTED dodger from his dirty shirt pocket. "He's half mine. Yew remember that." He shot Creed a meaningful look.
Creed barely controlled his impulse to strangle the bastard. Around them, the crowd pressed in and Creed felt like a caged animal in a traveling side-show. For the first time since the gunfight, his eyes were drawn to the girl he'd been sent here to meet.
Mariah Parsons—pale-faced and trembling—was being helped up out of the mud by her lady-friend. But Mariah's horror-stricken gaze was fixed on Creed. Her amber eyes accused him without a word, causing his anger to shift into something more closely resembling regret.
He glanced down at his arm, noticing for the first time the bloodstain spreading across his sleeve.
LaRousse's bullet had torn a furrow across the muscle in his upper arm. Suddenly it burned like hell.
Creed winced and covered it with his hand. Around him, the levee came back to life. People crawled from behind hastily assumed hiding spots and gathered around LaRousse's lifeless body.
"And what have you got to say for yerself?" O'Hurlehy demanded of Creed. "Are you a bounty hunter, as well?"
"Oui," he muttered.
"What?"
"Yes," Creed repeated louder. "I am a bounty hunter. This man was wanted for murder in the township of Bannack."
O'Hurlehy frowned at the piece of paper Kraylor had handed him. "You sure this was your man?"
"I'm sure," Creed answered, glancing back at the inert form of Étienne LaRousse.
O'Hurlehy nodded. "Well then, best be seein' to that arm after we get the particulars sorted through here."
Creed shrugged, sliding his gaze toward Mariah Parsons who had turned her back on him.
"Who should we see about the pay?" Kraylor demanded.
"Pay?" O'Hurlehy repeated icily.
"For the hide. Who pays for the hide?"
Creed smoothed a hand irritably over his disheveled hair and fitted his hat back on. "Shut up, Kraylor."
"Well, if them soldiers ain't gonna settle up," Kraylor went on, "I ain't haulin' the redskin back to Bannack with me." He fingered the old Green River knife at his belt. "That red bastard's scalp alone oughta be proof enough."
"Colonel Paullen will be able to take care of this whole affair back at the fort," O'Hurlehy replied grimly. Creed turned away, anxious to leave this business behind him.
"Wait a minute, Devereaux—" Kraylor called to him. "Where're yew goin'? Hey, don't yew want a piece o' this?"
"No," he muttered, then changed his mind seeing the eager disbelief on Kraylor's face. "Yes. O'Hurlehy, send my share to an Eleanor Wilcox in Bannack. LaRousse made her a widow. It's the least he can do for her now."
"Aye, that I will," the sergeant answered.
Creed nodded, then headed resolutely toward Seth Travers's woman.
* * *
At the edge of the levee, some twenty feet away, Mariah Parsons rubbed her aching cheek with the back of her muddy, shaking hand. She'd watched the men with growing revulsion. Bounty hunters. That's what they were. Hunters of men. Mercenaries of the worst ilk. And to think, only moments before, one of them actually tipped his hat to her. Her already shaky stomach had twisted another notch when she'd glanced back at him and found him staring directly at her. The nerve of the man! she thought, her cheeks hot with indignation. If Seth were only here, a man like that wouldn't dare look at her twice in such a way.
Yanking at the black satin ribbon beneath her chin, she tore off her hopelessly damaged hat. Her legs were
"What in the devil's name is goin' on here?" O'Hurlehy demanded. "Speak up, before I arrest the two of ye an' throw ye in the stockade for murder."
"Nobody's lockin' me up fer shootin' that piece of scum," Kraylor protested, a thin trickle of blood dripping down into his beard. "I got me legal papers sayin' dead or alive. Dead suits me jist fine." He got to his feet, still rubbing his jaw, and pulled a rumpled WANTED dodger from his dirty shirt pocket. "He's half mine. Yew remember that." He shot Creed a meaningful look.
Creed barely controlled his impulse to strangle the bastard. Around them, the crowd pressed in and Creed felt like a caged animal in a traveling side-show. For the first time since the gunfight, his eyes were drawn to the girl he'd been sent here to meet.
Mariah Parsons—pale-faced and trembling—was being helped up out of the mud by her lady-friend. But Mariah's horror-stricken gaze was fixed on Creed. Her amber eyes accused him without a word, causing his anger to shift into something more closely resembling regret.
He glanced down at his arm, noticing for the first time the bloodstain spreading across his sleeve.
LaRousse's bullet had torn a furrow across the muscle in his upper arm. Suddenly it burned like hell.
Creed winced and covered it with his hand. Around him, the levee came back to life. People crawled from behind hastily assumed hiding spots and gathered around LaRousse's lifeless body.
"And what have you got to say for yerself?" O'Hurlehy demanded of Creed. "Are you a bounty hunter, as well?"
"Oui," he muttered.
"What?"
"Yes," Creed repeated louder. "I am a bounty hunter. This man was wanted for murder in the township of Bannack."
O'Hurlehy frowned at the piece of paper Kraylor had handed him. "You sure this was your man?"
"I'm sure," Creed answered, glancing back at the inert form of Étienne LaRousse.
O'Hurlehy nodded. "Well then, best be seein' to that arm after we get the particulars sorted through here."
Creed shrugged, sliding his gaze toward Mariah Parsons who had turned her back on him.
"Who should we see about the pay?" Kraylor demanded.
"Pay?" O'Hurlehy repeated icily.
"For the hide. Who pays for the hide?"
Creed smoothed a hand irritably over his disheveled hair and fitted his hat back on. "Shut up, Kraylor."
"Well, if them soldiers ain't gonna settle up," Kraylor went on, "I ain't haulin' the redskin back to Bannack with me." He fingered the old Green River knife at his belt. "That red bastard's scalp alone oughta be proof enough."
"Colonel Paullen will be able to take care of this whole affair back at the fort," O'Hurlehy replied grimly. Creed turned away, anxious to leave this business behind him.
"Wait a minute, Devereaux—" Kraylor called to him. "Where're yew goin'? Hey, don't yew want a piece o' this?"
"No," he muttered, then changed his mind seeing the eager disbelief on Kraylor's face. "Yes. O'Hurlehy, send my share to an Eleanor Wilcox in Bannack. LaRousse made her a widow. It's the least he can do for her now."
"Aye, that I will," the sergeant answered.
Creed nodded, then headed resolutely toward Seth Travers's woman.
* * *
At the edge of the levee, some twenty feet away, Mariah Parsons rubbed her aching cheek with the back of her muddy, shaking hand. She'd watched the men with growing revulsion. Bounty hunters. That's what they were. Hunters of men. Mercenaries of the worst ilk. And to think, only moments before, one of them actually tipped his hat to her. Her already shaky stomach had twisted another notch when she'd glanced back at him and found him staring directly at her. The nerve of the man! she thought, her cheeks hot with indignation. If Seth were only here, a man like that wouldn't dare look at her twice in such a way.
Yanking at the black satin ribbon beneath her chin, she tore off her hopelessly damaged hat. Her legs were
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