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followed. Why would he suddenly change his mind?
    "Let me ride with you," McPhee suggested.
    "For what?"
    "Well, ma'am, a man's got to make an honest living. Robbing and stealing is hard work, and it pays. People don't see it like that. Everyone thinks outlaws have it easy, but they don't. I got a wife in Pennsylvania, and a boy. He thinks I'm off fighting in the war for the Yankees, and I was, for a while. But it don't pay. I tried to explain that to Santiago, but he took it the wrong way. The money's still honest. I see that now. You put your life on the line, and it don't matter if you're breaking the law, because you're doing everything it takes to make it for yourself. I learned that. There ain't no brotherhood, or even a common good. None of that matters. You have to do it all for yourself. I'm sure you understand."
    She didn't. She felt completely disconnected from this philosophy which may have dictated her life in the past. Money didn't matter to her. There had to be another reason why she'd chosen such a dangerous path for herself. Maybe it had something to do with the group she supposedly belonged to. Maybe they instilled some benign purpose in her, but she didn't understand the importance of gold or the lure of infamy.
    "Take some time to think about it," he ventured.
    "You've betrayed your country. You're a dishonorable dog. Changing your mind is a bit too easy for you."
    "I didn't betray my country. That's not the way I see it. I'm a normal man. I'm regular, and there's opportunity, you know? Every man is supposed to find opportunity to make himself better, to support his family. There's no difference between what I do and what the locomotive companies do. They step on each other to make their fortunes, and devil-be-damned who gets in the way. That's what life's all about. If a man gets trampled, why, we shouldn't lower our hands to help him up. We're supposed to keep walking, keep running, you see. It's every man for himself, and if I'm a criminal, then I'm a company unto myself. I'm my own business."
    "You got it all worked out. You'll get in my way, unless you have something important to offer. The way I see it, you'll trample over anyone, like you say. It's not my prerogative to let that happen. I'm sure enough men have trampled women into the dirt."
    The hammers on both revolvers were half-cocked.
    The reputable outlaw stood up from her chair and said, "Come out and enjoy the show, McPhee."
     
    ***
    The horses by the trough neighed and the dog slept on the edge of the boardwalk. The mercenaries crowded the boulevard and laughed nervously, their imaginations twisted by the prospect of Santiago's gun-slinging performance.
    McPhee trailed Bannan out of the saloon and stood inches away from her. She could smell the stink of the road on him—sweat mixed with dust and earth.
    The spy cleared his throat.
    Santiago put up his hand to silence his band of vagrants. Their revelry ceased.
    "Fifty paces," Santiago announced the terms.
    "One hundred," Bannan countered.
    The mercenaries howled their laughter beneath the halo of bright stars that provided the only meager illumination over the street, save for the light from inside the saloon.
    "No doubt you're a good shot," McPhee said, "But in this light, at that range…"
    She sharply turned her head to him. "If I wanted your opinion, I would have asked for it. Keep your trap shut."
    "Fifty paces," Santiago repeated.
    Grudgingly, she entered the arena where one of them would die. If she should lose, what was there for her to regret? Her questions would never have their answers, but the questions themselves would cease to matter. It made no difference to her how death might eventually find her. Santiago was apparently a man who had wanted her life before, and according to McPhee, he'd killed her. She was, by all accounts, already dead. She was nothing more than an immaterial wraith carried by the winds of change through the tortured hallways of her narrow mind. Was this