“Don’t blame me—Arthur’s the one who wants it tight. He likes it when the hands turn purple.”
The talker sheathed his gun and then tied a firm knot; the tight binding cause Oswell’s middle and ring fingers to twitch. Arthur grabbed Godfrey by the collar and pulled him to his feet.
The talker turn to the east and waved, and Oswell looked over his shoulder. The tops of four horses and the riders whom they carried glided across the settling dust like swans atop water. Slung like a rice sack over the rear of one of the steeds was Dicky, inert and covered with grit. The rancher had presumed that the gambler had died at the gazebo, but seeing him captured—and neutralized for certain—dashed his last reasonable hope of regaining his freedom.
“So now there’s only one more—that dumb giant—and I’m
