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them, as well.
    From twenty feet away, Luke had kept his guns trained on the outlaw every inch of the way, staying even with him on the slope.
    Now that they were both out of the gully, Luke said, “Roll onto your face, McCluskey, and put your hands behind your back.”
    McCluskey cursed, “You told me I could have my hands loose while I ate.”
    Luke laughed in astonishment at the man’s gall. “Well, that’s moot now. The coffee’s boiled away and I sure as hell don’t feel like hand-feeding you. You can do without until we make camp tonight.”
    â€œThat’s not right!” McCluskey protested. “You can’t starve me like that.”
    â€œYou’re lucky I don’t cut your throat,” Luke snapped. “Now roll over.”
    Still complaining, McCluskey did as he was told. Carefully, Luke put the handcuffs on him. Then he took the leg irons off and lifted the prisoner to his feet.
    A short time later, they were on their way. McCluskey was tied onto his horse again, a steady stream of profanity spewing from his mouth.

CHAPTER 6
    By the middle of the afternoon, McCluskey fell into a sullen silence. Eventually he dozed off as he rocked along in the saddle.
    Luke noticed. The peace and quiet was more than welcome.
    McCluskey remained subdued when Luke made camp next to a small creek that evening. With one hand free and the other cuffed to his saddle weighing him down and preventing him from making any sudden moves, he was able to feed himself and drink the coffee Luke brewed. He even said, “I’m obliged to you for the meal—and for not killin’ me.”
    Luke didn’t trust this new, meek, cooperative McCluskey for a second. He knew the man was still a ruthless killer. His life wouldn’t be worth a plugged nickel if McCluskey ever got the upper hand. Luke was determined that wasn’t going to happen.
    After they had eaten, Luke propped McCluskey, once again in handcuffs and leg irons, against a tree trunk and wound rope around him, binding him securely to the tree. With that done, Luke was able to stretch out in his bedroll and sleep soundly—or better than McCluskey did, anyway.
    They were on their way again early the next morning, and by the middle of the day they were approaching Rattlesnake Wells. McCluskey hadn’t caused any problems since the day before at the dry wash. His shoulders slumped as he rode along, he looked like he had given up hope.
    Maybe it was just a pose, Luke told himself. He kept a wary eye on the outlaw. But McCluskey seemed mired in despair as they rode into the settlement.
    Marshal Elliott had called Rattlesnake Wells a boomtown, and that was an apt description. Main Street was crowded with wagons, buckboards, buggies, and riders on horseback. The boardwalks thronged with people. The town had been there before the gold strike in the mountains that loomed above it. Several large springs—the wells that had given the place its name, along with an accompanying nest of diamondback rattlers—provided water for immigrants passing through the area on their way to Oregon and Washington. Because of that history, a number of permanent buildings stood along the street, but the boom had brought in quite a few tent saloons and stores and other business establishments.
    Luke had seen it happen before—sleepy little hamlets becoming thriving cities almost overnight. Rattlesnake Wells would go back to being small and sleepy as it once had been almost as quickly if the gold vein ever petered out.
    The most important result of the boom, as far as Luke was concerned, was that the railroad had come to Rattlesnake Wells. He had seen the tracks running into the settlement from the south as they’d approached, along with the poles carrying telegraph wires. The tracks ended at a large, red-brick depot building and roundhouse at the far end of the street.
    It would have been too much to hope that a train was in