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robbery for a couple of years, then became a deputy marshal for Judge Parker up Fort Smith way.
    He’d quit after only a couple of months and had since sold his gun to the highest bidder. By his own count, he’d killed eight white men.
    Abe Hacker thought highly of him.
    Pauleen, still dressed like a country parson, pointed to a pile of empty burlap sacks in a vacant stall.
    â€œMake a couple of masks out of those, Jess,” he said. “It’s probably best your faces aren’t seen. And wear slickers you can get rid of afterward.”
    Gable was genuinely puzzled. “What difference does it make, Mickey?” he said. “There ain’t no law in this town.”
    â€œI know, but until I get back here with the Mexicans we’ll play it Hacker’s way. He says if you cover your faces and wear slickers over your clothes, the rubes will have some doubt about who actually pulled the triggers.” Pauleen swung into the saddle and adjusted the angle of the Winchester booted under his right knee. “Just get it done, boys,” he said, straightening. “Get it done tonight.”
    Making up for his lapse, Randall said, “We’ll do it, Mickey. It’s no big thing.”
    â€œKilling a Ranger is always a big thing,” Pauleen said. “But by the time they find out about it, we’ll be long gone from here.”
    â€œWhat about Hacker?” Gable said.
    â€œWhat about him?” Pauleen said.
    â€œDoes he plan to stay on in Last Chance?”
    â€œHell, no. When his business is done, he’ll head back to Washington.”
    Randall smiled. “The Rangers can’t touch him there.”
    â€œNobody can touch him there,” Pauleen said. “With his money, he has half the damned government in his pocket.” He kneed his flashy sorrel forward. “So long, boys. I’ll see you when I get back with the plague of locusts.”
    After he was gone, Randall said, “What the hell is a plague of locusts?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Gable said. “Mickey talks strange sometimes. He believes in ghosts and ha’ants and sich and he reads the Bible every single day.”
    â€œWhy are so many of the boys scared of him, Jess? Even Shotgun Hugh Gray steps around him.”
    â€œBecause Mickey is a born killer, that’s why.”
    â€œHe don’t even carry a gun, for God’s sake.”
    â€œHe does, but only when he needs it.”
    Gable’s hand made a rasping sound as he ran it over his stubbly chin. “Dave,” he said, “you ever see Mickey Pauleen strap on a gun and come in your direction, know that you’re already a dead man and make peace with your Maker.”
    â€œYou think he’s that fast, huh?” Randall said, his lip curling a little.
    â€œI know he’s that fast,” Gable said. “Faster than you’ve ever seen or can imagine.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Moonlight lay on the town of Last Chance like a winter frost. A slight breeze rippled through the acres of winter wheat that surrounded the settlement and stirred the fruit trees, making little sound.
    The hour by the town hall clock was fifteen minutes past midnight and the street was deserted, false-fronted buildings casting rectangular shadows the color of blue steel.
    Even the sporting crowd was already abed, saving their money and energy for Friday night, when the cowboys came in and the saloon girls were at their prettiest.
    Only two men moved.
    Their heads covered in burlap sacks, holes cut out for their eyes and mouths, they stood on the boardwalk and studied the blank window of the Ranger’s room.
    â€œYou reckon he’s asleep, Jess?” Dave Randall said.
    â€œOf course he’s asleep,” Gable said. “He’s all shot up, ain’t he?”
    â€œHow do we play it?” Randall said.
    Gable sighed. “How many times do I have to tell you?”
    â€œOnce more,” Randall