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personal declaration of independence burned, then lit a cheroot and settled back again to smoke and reflect on what he ought to do next.
    He thought of Jeb McKettrick, the man who’d trespassed on his territory, and drew his .44 from the holster on his hip. Snapping it open, he spun the cylinder, frowning. The notches on the handle were a comfort to him— seventeen of them, one for each of the men he’d killed, some in fair fights, some by ambush, for a bounty.
    With the pad of his thumb, he traced the small notches, counting them one by one, like the beads on a rosary, remembering, with a sense of accomplishment, each man’s name and the place where he fell. McKettrick, he decided, would make number eighteen, and he’d strike the ground wherever Jack found him, though the circumstances had to be right. Chloe’s lover had brothers, and from what Jack had heard, the McKettricks being well-known in Tombstone, they weren’t the sort to be trifled with. Best catch the bridegroom alone, and off guard, though it would be a pure pleasure to kill him in front of Chloe. That would be a lesson to her, and a memorable one.
    He felt a peculiar, quivering sensation in the pit of his stomach, thought briefly that it might be fear, and finally overruled the idea. He could avoid the brothers easily enough and, sure, he’d seen McKettrick use a gun, out behind the Broken Stirrup. He was fast, all right, but that had been a boy’s game, shooting bottles out of the sky for money and fun. A way of showing off.
    Jack shook his head at the memory. Where was the challenge in that? It was a waste of good bullets.
    Dollars to dog turds, McKettrick had never put a slug in a human being, and now he never would. Before the month was out, he’d be asleep in the arms of the Lord.
    Giving a philosophical sigh, Barrett snapped his .44 shut and shoved it back into its holster. The way he saw it, he was saving McKettrick’s soul, though he didn’t reckon anybody would appreciate his effort, most especially Chloe.
    His jaw hardened. The little trollop. McKettrick had made a fool of her in front of the whole of Tombstone, marrying her in the afternoon, then leaving her alone in their hotel room while he drank and gambled in this very room. As luck would have it, one of the other players in that night’s game had been the head of the school board, and thus, Chloe’s employer.
    Recalling the scene settled Jack’s nerves a little and brought a smile to his lips. He’d snagged McKettrick in the street, right after the ceremony, shown him the wedding portrait he, Jack, and Chloe had had taken two years before. The beaming husband had turned sullen in the space of an instant. Instead of confronting Chloe, Jeb had joined the poker game and proceeded to get royally drunk, and when Chloe had finally come looking for him, well after midnight, she’d found her fancy mister with cards in his hand and a girl on his lap.
    She and McKettrick had had words, loud, public ones. She’d finally stormed out, but not before her gaze connected with Jack’s. He’d been leaning against the wall the whole while, smoking and watching, and the look in her eyes went through him like a Mexican bayonet. He felt it again, even after all these weeks, and the pain, the insult of it, almost took his breath away.
    He’d loved her so much, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t been patient with her flighty, fickle ways. A lot of men would have killed her for shaming him the way she had, divorcing him before the marriage ever got started, but he’d known she was young and had led a sheltered life up in Sacramento, with those rich folks of hers. He’d been willing to overlook her mistakes and take her back, even to hang up his gun for good, if that was what she wanted. Her folks hadn’t approved of the union, but they’d have come around in time and put up the money for a ranch and some cattle.
    They could have done all right, he and Chloe.
    Was she grateful that he’d set