He acknowledged their arrival with a glance over his shoulder. “Getting him used to the sight and feel of a rope.”

“Never thought I’d see it,” Barker said, sounding proud.

“We’ve got a long way to go,” Thatcher told him. “At this point, he trusts me only so far.”

Thrasher hung the lasso on his shoulder and rubbed the stallion’s neck with both hands while softly commending him for being so cooperative. “But you’ve had enough for today.” He stroked his forehead and muzzle, then left him and joined the men outside the corral.

“Impressive,” Bill said.

“You know horses?”

“Know enough to stay off them unless I can’t help it.”

Thatcher grinned. “I’m happy to give you some pointers.”

“Sheriff!”

The three turned in unison to see Harold jogging toward them and Roger rounding the corner of the stable.

The next sequence of events happened with lightning-bolt suddenness.

Thatcher’s right hand smacked his right thigh, then, in a single, fluid motion, he jerked the Colt six-shooter from Bill’s holster and fired at Harold, who fell back onto the ground.

Fred Barker slapped his hand against his heart.

The stallion went berserk.

Bill heard the report before it had even registered that Thatcher had disarmed him and fired his weapon.

By the time he gathered his wits and realized what had happened, Thatcher had lowered his gun hand. He calmly turned to Bill and extended him the pistol, grip first.

Barker blurted, “What in tarnation?”

The gunshot had stopped Roger in his tracks. Now he ran over to where Harold lay prone and called to them excitedly, “His head’s blowed clean off.”

Seventeen

Roger bent down and picked up the dead rattlesnake lying within inches of Harold’s size thirteen boots. The deputy struggled into a sitting position. Thatcher ran over to him. He didn’t even glance at the snake, but gave Harold a helping hand up. “There was no time to warn you. You all right?”

Stupefied, Harold nodded.

Roger was as energized as if he’d been plugged into an electrical socket. “Six feet if he’s an inch.” He dangled the limp, headless body, looking at Thatcher with bug-eyed admiration. “Never saw shooting like that.”

Bill had never seen anything like it, either. Not in all his days. And he’d grown up in a family of excellent marksmen, skilled with both long guns and pistols.

“Can I keep the skin?” Roger asked Thatcher.

“Makes no difference to me.”

Assured that Harold was all right, Thatcher went back to the corral and directed his concern to the stallion as he thrashed around the paddock, his eyes crazed, whinnying at a high pitch.

Fred Barker said to Bill, “I’ve had about all the excitement I can stand for one afternoon. I’ll leave you to ask your questions of Mr. Hutton. After witnessing what you just did, you prob’ly have a few more.”

He motioned for Roger to go along with him. They walked off together with Roger chattering nonstop about Thatcher’s incredible shot and his prize snake skin.

Bill turned to Harold, who still hadn’t said a word. Bill guessed he hadn’t quite regained his senses, and who could blame him? “What did you come out here for, Harold?”

“Oh, uh, to tell you that the J.P. turned Wally’s body over to the undertaker.”

“I want to take another look at him before he’s embalmed.”

“Figured that. I told the undertaker to hold off till you got there.” Harold looked over at Thatcher. “Guess I owe him a thanks.”

“No, go on. Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

Appearing both relieved and humbled, Harold turned and walked off in the direction of the auto shop.

For several minutes, Bill watched Thatcher talking soothingly to the stallion, then walked over to join him. The horse had been kicking at the fence as he bucked and reared. He’d settled down somewhat, but his ears were still flattened back. As Bill sidled up to Thatcher, he asked, “Did he hurt himself?”

“I was afraid he might’ve. So far, though, no signs he did. I didn’t stop to think how the gunshot would booger him.”

“You reacted out of reflex.”

“I saw Harold about to step right into that rattler and…” He trailed off, raising a shoulder.

“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

“On the ranch. Part of the job.”

Bill looked at him skeptically. “Quick draw?”

“Never know when you’ll have to fend off a predator.”

“Of every sort, I would imagine.”

“You name it. Wolves. Coyotes. Rattlers.”

“Rustlers?”

Thatcher looked at him, his eyes hard and alight with anger. “What? You think I’m a hired gun or something?”

Bill didn’t back down. “Are you? Have you ever killed a man, Mr. Hutton?”

“Plenty. I was a hired gunman for Uncle Sam.” He spoke with soft but angry emphasis, then turned back to watch the stallion. “I think he’ll settle. He just got spooked. I’m calling it a day.” As he turned away from the paddock, Bill fell into step with him.

“Did you come straight here from the jail?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’s your duffel bag?”

“In the stable.”

“Get it. I’ll drive you.”

“No thanks, I’ll walk.”

“I’ll drive you.”

* * *

Once underway, the sheriff said, “Strange day.”

It was clear to Thatcher that Sheriff Amos still harbored some suspicion of him. If it hadn’t been for that goddamn diamondback… But it had happened, and the sheriff had seen it, and now he’d tossed out a remark that Thatcher didn’t think was offhanded. Unsure of how he was expected to respond, he didn’t.

“For instance,” the sheriff continued, “on my way to the office this morning, I came across Irv Plummer. That old truck of his was pulled off to the side of the road.”

“Broken down?”

“Overloaded.”

Thatcher was curious, but pretended not to be.

The sheriff said, “He was moving.”