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do with a weapon and so would be less likely to try anything with him guarding them, whereas Damian would no doubt be as clumsy with his gun as Billybob had been.
    Vince got vocal again when the restraints were being put on his friend, demanding belligerently, “And just where do you think you’re taking us, kid?”
    “To the Coffeyville sheriff.”
    “Now that’d be a pure waste of your time and ours, since we ain’t done nothing wrong.”
    “I got an eyewitness here who’ll likely disagree with that.”
    “You got nothing, kid. He was out cold.”
    “I got your confession, too.”
    “What confession?” Vince said, then turned to his friend with a warning look. “Did you confess to something?”
    Billybob blushed, but played along. “Now what would I do a fool thing like that for?”
    Kid merely shrugged at that point, but then said, “Don’t make no nevermind. A sheriff won’t have too much trouble sorting it out and deciding for himself what you did—or didn’t do. Stage robbery or plain robbery, I’ll warrant he’s got posters on you two stashed somewhere in his office for me to collect on, and if not…well, I’ll just consider this my good deed for the month.”
    If Damian had been paying attention, he might have noticed that the robber named Vince panicked at the mention of Wanted posters. He also should have realized that Vince was the more dangerous of the two, and started the binding on him first, rather than on Billybob. But in all fairness, he hadn’t been expecting any more trouble from either of them. So he was taken by surprise again when Vince made a springing dive for Kid’s legs and caught them. They both went down, Kid flat on his back, Vince crawling up his legs to get to the gun. But before they started grappling over the weapon, Damian hauled Vince up and was about to plant a fist in his face when they both heard the trigger hammer click. Both froze.
    Vince found his voice first as he glared at Kid, who was already back on his feet and aiming his gun straight at Vince’s head. “You ain’t gonna kill me.”
    “I’m not?”
    That was all Kid said. It was his expression, or total lack of one, that had Vince backing down with a low grumble. You simply couldn’t tell what the kid was thinking or feeling, couldn’t tell if he was a cold-blooded killer orjust a scared young boy who hid his fear remarkably well.
    Damian, on the other hand, couldn’t manage to conceal his anger. There had been just one too many surprises for him that morning, not to mention the threat of harm to him and his young savior. He was very strong, and his fist connected with Vince’s nose. Vince didn’t even see it coming, and was out cold before he hit the ground again.
    Damian was immediately contrite. He hadn’t resorted to physical violence since he’d been fifteen. That had been when his broken-nose count, on other boys, had reached seven, and he’d received one of the worst blistering lectures his father had ever delivered—about his large size and the unfair advantage he had over other boys his age, who all tended to be much smaller than he was. And his size hadn’t evened out with others when he reached manhood. At six foot three inches, he was still taller and bigger than most men.
    Kid eased his guilt by saying, “Nicely done, Mr. Rutledge. Now if you’ll finish up there, I’ll have these flapjacks ready in a few minutes so we can eat and be on our way.”
    Just like that, said so calmly, as if nothing out of the ordinary had disturbed the morning. The boy must have nerves of steel, or none at all. But Damian nodded and did as had been suggested.

Chapter 6
    K id had hunkered down by the fire again and was concentrating on dropping some very thin dough into a skillet, flipping it, then sliding it onto the single plate before he repeated the process again. At least Damian assumed he was concentrating on his cooking.
    He’d reholstered his gun, but then, it had already been established