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supplies in the back of the buckboard rather more hastily than he intended and hurried back inside for the rest. The last double armload contained Conway’s arsenic as well as a small but precious vial of mercury. He put the two bottles in his pocket, then arranged the load as best he could before he began to tie down the tarp over the pile.
    Across the street the three men exchanged a silent glance. Then they rose, one on the heels of the next, and started to saunter over toward the buckboard. Noting their approach, Hull tried to work twice as fast without appearing to. He didn’t make a very good job of hiding his concern, and this served to amuse the three who spread out to confront him.
    Their leader was one of Lahood’s foremen. Hull recognized him immediately; a not too bright but thoroughly nasty bastard name of McGill. The foreman was a useful animal of the sort that Lahood was fond of employing. He was also just intelligent enough to be amused by his own wit.
    “We got a beef with you, Barret.”
    Hull finished securing the supplies, then deliberately walked over to the hitching rail to untie his horse. This gave him a chance to identify the foreman’s companions, a pair of mean-tempered gully-whompers named Jagou and Tyson. Innocent souls compared to the foreman, but just as capable of causing trouble if they thought they could get away with it.
    McGill knew the miner recognized them. That was the idea. They had neither the need nor the desire to keep their identities a secret. It was important that Barret know that.
    They closed in around the miner, the other two seemingly oblivious to his presence. They didn’t appear in the least interested in what Hull might do, secure as they were in the knowledge that he could do nothing. McGill stepped between the miner and the wagon.
    “You know, you ain’t very polite, Barret. When we rode through the canyon this morning you plumb forgot to say hello.” Tyson let out an evil snigger while Jagou just smiled, showing bent and broken teeth.
    “We told you to stay out of town a while back, seems to me,” the smiler told him, awash in fake amiability.
    “Yeah, you ain’t got much of a memory.” Tyson grinned as he kicked at the dirt. “I remember that clear as day.” He cast a doleful eye on the foreman. “Last time he come through, ‘stay outta town,’ you said. Then you kicked him in the head. Must’ve popped his memory.”
    “Or somethin’ like that,” McGill agreed.
    Jagou looked thoughtful. “Maybe if we kicked him again, it’d all come back to him.”
    Hull stepped past McGill and mounted the buckboard, taking up the reins. If the wagon had been positioned differently, he would’ve taken a chance by whipping the reins, but with it pointing towards the store instead of the street and with the hitching rail and watering trough directly in front of him there was no way he could move in a hurry. Damn. He should have thought of that when he’d pulled in. Too late for it now.
    McGill moved around to one side of the wagon while Tyson and Jagou remained on the other, grinning up at the miner.
    “You ain’t real talkative today, are you, Barret?” McGill feigned disappointment. “What’s wrong? Nothing new up in the canyon? I thought after this morning you’d have plenty to talk about. Don’t you want to tell us about how you’re doin’ up there?”
    “Yeah, how about them Wheeler women?” Jagou leered up at him. “You hump the growed one, or you hump ’em both?”
    Hull’s fingers tightened on the reins until they whitened and the tendons in his neck went taut. Delighted at having hooked his fish on the first cast, Jagou continued to play the line.
    “That little one’s just out o’ knickers, ain’t she?” He chuckled. “Bet she’s juicy as a freshwater clam, huh?” He leaned close, his eyes bright, broken teeth gleaming. “C’mon, Barret, you kin tell us. Don’t you want to share with your friends? Why, we might want to get us a