Forty-FourEdmund Quincey sat at a window in Blazes Saloon and nursed his whiskey. It wasn’t often he killed three men before lunch — not since the war, anyway — and he needed to calm himself. The infuriating thing was that only one of them was intended, and the one he wanted most had got away, damn his soul. He focused all his attention on the liquor in the glass on the table in front of him, and on Sebastian Russell.
How had he done it? First that precipitous drop to the base of the mountain. That should have done for him there and then. Perhaps he was still up there, his mangled body in some crevice, and he just hadn’t been found yet. But even if by some remarkable feat of daring he’d got to the bottom, they’d had the dogs there. They should have picked up on him long before they had th
