Ruby Read Free

cushion of fabric to tear away his flesh. The ambush had been carefully planned, giving him no chance to escape. “This is your hand, Boyd. Go ahead and play it.”
    “Oh, I’ll play it, all right.” The gunman’s weapon fairly shook with excitement. “I’m about to kill the meanest, toughest lawman in Texas. Maybe in all the West. You know how many men are going to look up to me when this is over?”
    “You’ll probably find a couple.”
    “More like hundreds, I’d say. Every outlaw from here to St. Louis is going to be looking to shake my hand.”
    Seeing the way the gunman was enjoying himself, the marshal said, “Oh, they’ll congratulate you. Then they’ll stalk you, just the way you stalked me. So they can brag about killing the man who killed Marshal Quent Regan. But, hell, Boyd, it’ll be worth it, won’t it? I mean, everybody will know your name. At least for a few weeks, until the next slimy coward comes along to make a name for himself.”
    “He’s right,” Ward muttered. He kept glancing over his shoulder, expecting a blaze of gunfire at any moment. “They’ll be gunnin’ for us, Boyd.”
    “You shut your mouth. He’s just trying to spook us.” Boyd cocked his pistol and reached out with his other hand to snatch the shiny badge pinned to the marshal’s cowhide jacket. “You won’t be needing this.”
    “And you will?” Quent Regan’s voice was carefully controlled, betraying none of the emotion churning in his gut. In all the years he’d worn that badge, it had been hit with gunfire, sullied with the mud of battles and the blood of outlaws. But until today it had never left its place of honor over his heart.
    “Always wanted one of these shiny tin badges.” Boyd shoved it into his pocket. “How about you, Ward? What do you want?”
    When the younger brother said nothing, Boyd taunted, “Come on. He’s not going to have any use for his things.” He glanced down. “How about his boots?”
    “They’re nice,” Ward admitted. “I guess I could use ’em. And the jacket, too.”
    “See there, Marshal? Looks like you’re going to die naked.” Boyd jammed his gun hard against the marshal’s temple. “We’ll take the jacket first.”
    Quent glanced down. “I seem to be restrained at the moment. Would you mind removing your whip?”
     
    “Don’t do it,” Ward called. “I don’t trust him.”
    “You shut your mouth.” Boyd uncoiled the barbed strips of rawhide that had become his trademark.
    When he was free, Quent reached a hand to the buttons of his coat, and Boyd jolted back, bringing both hands to his weapon.
    The marshal gave him a cool, appraising look. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
    “I’m not scared. Not of you. Just cautious.” The gunman swaggered a bit, to prove to his brother that he was still in control. “Now, take off the coat, nice and slow.”
    Quent did as he was told. When it dropped to the ground, Boyd picked it up and tossed it to his brother. “Sorry about the blood, Ward. But it’ll still keep you warm. Now the boots, Marshal.”
    “Might take some doing.” Quent motioned toward a nearby rock. “Mind if I sit?”
    “Not at all. But make it quick.” Boyd followed, keeping his pistol aimed at the marshal’s head.
    Quent sat and started working his foot out of the first boot. While he did, he assessed the situation. The younger brother, Ward, should be easy. As far as Quent knew, he hadn’t killed anyone. That meant he’d be reluctant to start with a lawman. Besides, he was already distracted, trying on the jacket. But the older one, Boyd, was another matter. He’d already killed six people that Quent knew of. And maybe more that he hadn’t heard of. That made this outlaw two things. Dangerous and desperate. What was worse, he was proud of his record as a killer, and was hoping to enhance it by adding a lawman to his list of victims. Boyd Barlow was a man who enjoyed killing.
    As he reached into the second boot, Quent’s