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poor bones. I say that makes us pals, huh?”
    â€œYeah, it does,” Fox said, gathering what it took to sound sincere. “We’re pals sure enough.” He touched his glass to Ozzie’s and threw back his drink. All around them the scalpers drank and shouted and now and then fired a bullet up through the canvas ceiling. Scantily dressed women filtered in through the rear fly of the tent, causing the men to whoop and shout all the louder.
    â€œAll right, then!” said Ozzie. “Now that we’re pals, I suppose you’d like to know all about me killing that sheriff in Mesa Grande?” Fox still stared at him; he knew the young gunman was lying. Everybody knew it was Ozzie’s uncle, Erskine Cord, who’d shot the sheriff, who later died from his wound. But he wanted to hear Ozzie’s lie. Even at his young age, Fox Pridemore had already learned from his pa that you could garner a lot from hearing how well a man lies . . . and why he does it.
    â€œNothing would please me more than hearing about it, Oz,” Fox said evenly. He managed a tight, friendly smile. “This here’s my first time ever being able to get as drunk as I want to. Always before I had to stay sober enough to keep watch over my brother, Lucas.” He reached out for the bottle, but Ozzie grabbed it first and poured his drink for him.
    â€œHuh-uh, let me do that,
pal
,” Ozzie said. He looked at Fox with admiration.
    â€œAll right, then, much obliged,” Fox said. Hesettled back and let Ozzie wait on him. If Ozzie needed somebody to look up to, someone he could tell his lies to and make himself like a big gunman, Fox reckoned he could go along with that . . . for a while anyway.

Chapter 4

    The bartender had worked himself into a hard sweat by the time the owner, Bertha Buttons, walked into the wind-whipped tent with a pair of short double-barrel shotguns propped on her hips. A large but shapely woman with broad shoulders and flaming red hair, Bertha stood taller than most men in the ragged tent. Behind her, four young scantily dressed
putas
sauntered in and spread out alongside the drinkers at the bar.
    As the scalpers hooted and cheered, the women eyed them like cats eyeing prey and sauntered up to them.
    Seeing one of the drinkers raise a smoking gun toward the billowing canvas ceiling, Bertha Buttons cocked both shotguns at once, letting the metal-on-metal sound be heard by all.
    â€œNext man who shoots a hole in my tent, I’ll turn him into pig food!” she shouted.
    The music stopped; so did the hooting and cheering. Fox and Ozzie watched tensely from their end of the bar. Darton Alpine looked up at the holes inthe tent ceiling, then back at Bertha, seeing a determined look on her face.
    â€œWe’re letting off steam here,” he said. “There’s no call for breaking ugly on us.”
    Bertha gestured a nod at the silent accordion player, at the gaming tables, along the bar at the women, at the bottles of rye.
    â€œYou’ve got music, whiskey, gambling and whores,” she said bluntly. “If that won’t do it for you, get the hell out of my tent.”
    The men stood silent and tense a moment longer. Then Alpine broke the silence with what started as a deep chuckle and built into a laugh. The other men joined in.
    â€œYou fellows heard the lady,” he said. “No more shooting the ceiling.” As he spoke he looked up at the hard wind whipping across the fluttering canvas overhead. “Although I have to say, I don’t see what harm it would do now.”
    â€œDon’t even think about it,” Bertha warned. “I’m collecting a dollar for each and every hole up there.” She looked around. “Who’s the ramrod of this bunch?”
    â€œThat would be Bigfoot Pridemore, ma’am,” Alpine said with a flat grin. “He is not a man who tolerates frivolous spending.”
    The woman looked