THE THREE WIDOWS OF MERCY CREEK
The Man at Sundown
By sundown, Mercy Creek had already decided what kind of man Cole Walker was.
The town had watched him ride in alone beneath a bruised purple sky, dust hanging behind his horse like smoke. His weathered tan cowboy hat was pulled low over pale eyes. He wore a faded blue denim shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, a dark leather vest worn soft by years of use, old blue jeans, and a brown belt that had probably seen more gunfights than most men saw birthdays.
He was lean and broad through the shoulders.
Quiet, too.
Not the nervous quiet of a man who had something to hide.
It was the quiet of a man who had learned that words were cheap on the frontier.
Cole stopped outside the town's small livery stable.
The stable boy looked at him, then at the horse.
"Passing through?"
Cole nodded.
"Maybe."
The boy waited for more.
Nothing came.
Cole swung down from the saddle.
His horse, a dark bay gelding named Ranger, lowered his head and breathed heavily.
"What's his name?" the boy asked.
"Ranger."
"Yours?"
Cole looked at the horse.
"Depends who you ask."
The boy frowned.
Cole tossed him a coin.
"Water. Grain. Keep him sheltered."
"Yes, sir."
Cole walked toward the center of town.
Mercy Creek was not much more than one long dusty street lined with wooden buildings. There was a general store, a blacksmith, a church, a saloon, a sheriff's office, and a hotel whose porch leaned slightly to the left.
Cole entered the saloon.
Conversation slowed.
Men looked at him.
He ignored them.
He took a seat at the far end of the bar.
"Whiskey?" the bartender asked.
"Coffee."
The bartender stared.
"Coffee?"
"Unless you only serve whiskey."
A few men laughed.
The bartender poured him coffee.
Cole took one sip.
It was terrible.
He drank it anyway.
He had just finished half the cup when he heard a horse scream outside.
The sound was sharp enough to cut through the room.
Cole set down the cup.
Every man in the saloon looked toward the door.
Cole was already moving.
He stepped outside.
The sun had disappeared.
Moonlight washed across the flat land beyond Mercy Creek.
Then he saw movement near the abandoned water tower.
Three riders.
A wagon.
And something tied behind it.
Cole narrowed his eyes.
Three women.
Their hands were bound.
Their dresses were torn and covered with dust, but there was nothing helpless in the way they watched their captors.
One woman had dark hair spilling over a white blouse and a stubborn fire in her eyes.
Another was blonde, elegant even beneath the dirt, her jaw clenched with controlled fury.
The third had auburn hair and a bruised cheek. She kept looking from the road to the hills as if she were already planning an escape.
Cole counted the outlaws.
Four.
Then five shadows appeared behind the wagon.
Five men.
Cole did not draw his revolver.
Instead, he turned Ranger toward the ridge.
The horse understood immediately.
Cole rode hard.
He climbed the ridge while keeping the moon behind him.
From below, his silhouette disappeared against the darkness.
The wagon rolled beneath him.
Cole drew his revolver.
He fired once.
The bullet struck the lantern hanging from the wagon's rear axle.
Darkness swallowed the road.
A second shot cut the rope holding the wagon's left horse.
The animal bolted.
The team jerked sideways.
The wagon tipped.
Cole was already coming down the slope.
He hit the ground at a gallop, jumped from the saddle, and struck the nearest outlaw before the man understood where the attack had come from.
A second outlaw raised a rifle.
Cole kicked a wooden crate into his knees.
The man stumbled.
Cole twisted the rifle away and drove him into the dirt.