Wanted

Wanted By J.M. Snyder Four men rode into the ramshackle town of Defiance, the dust from the trail rising beneath their horses’ hooves, stirred up into low clouds that hung suspended in their wake. The hot Texas sun beat down on the black cowboy hats that shielded the men’s eyes and offered little relief from the heat. Few people strolled along the wooden boardwalks that lined the leaning buildings, and those that did turned from the hard gaze of Crazy Kit Connelly, leader of the ragtag gang of cattle thieves known in Kennett County as the Rustlers. Crazy Kit sat astride a bucking midnight steed that he barely held in check as his friends fanned out behind him. His eyes glinted like steel struck with flint, his gaze roaming the streets as if daring anyone to a fight. He was a hard, mean man, whose reputation came from rustling heads of cattle from local barons and branding them as his own before selling them to the slaughter houses in Abilene. He’d been known to kill cowboys who tried to stop his thieving—truth was, he needed little excuse to draw his pistol, and even less to shoot. To his right rode Joey Jacobs, Jr., a ladies’ man and incurable flirt, who tipped his hat at two women as they appeared in the doorway of O’Leary’s Market. Joey Jr. had a shock of boyish blonde hair that curled beneath his hat brim and made women sigh for want of running their fingers through it, and his dark blue eyes sparkled like the ocean. With a saucy wink, he blew the younger woman a kiss, and a blush crept into her porcelain cheeks as she hid her face behind a lacy fan. Across from him, on Kit’s left, was Diego Sanchez, a notorious card shark with a poker face and a penchant for drink. Diego claimed he was half Mexican, half Indian, though the tribe he came from changed with the wind. Some suspected he was just another gringo like all the rest, but few dared to contradict him. He had a quick, mulish laugh, which brayed out in triumph whenever he won a hand, and he was so crooked at cards, he’d cheat the Devil himself if given the chance. Bringing up the rear of the group was Jesse McCray, a quiet man with cold eyes like shards of ice who was the fastest draw south of the panhandle. Beneath his black cowboy hat, his shoulder-length hair was smoothed into a tight ponytail that coiled into a black knot at the nape of his neck. His black outfit was creased with fine, white dust and he didn’t bother to look around like Crazy Kit, or nod to the women like Joey Jr. One hand held the reins of his dark horse while the other rested in anticipation on the ivory handle of the Colt .45 holstered at his hip. Though many watched them ride through Defiance, and more than one wished they would keep on going, no one was brave enough—or stupid enough—to challenge the Rustlers as they headed for Billy’s, the only saloon in town.