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She assumed these to be the fevered imaginings of dime novelists. Watching Josey Angel, the way his eyes narrowed and never wavered from the men standing before him, she wondered if there might be some truth to the tales.
    â€œI don’t think he heard you, Harrison,” the man in the gray coat said.
    The man called Harrison stood face to face with Josey Angel. “See, I figure it’s easy to stand behind an army, shooting away at boys —” he spit the last word for emphasis “—while they reload and you can just keep firing away. Empty your rifle, pull out a revolver. Empty that one, pull out another.”
    The man was half a head taller, and he stood on his toes to hover over Josey Angel. The men beside him had their hands on their weapons, waiting for a response. “Is that how you killed so many?”
    â€œSometimes.”
    Josey Angel never flinched. He no longer looked boyish to Annabelle. The night before, he had worn two gun belts with a rifle strapped to his back. The rifle was now with his horse, and he wore only one gun belt. His hands hung loose at his waist, betraying none of the fidgeting she noticed earlier. They were near enough to his holstered pistols that the men facing him focused on his hands, too.
    Harrison seemed to expect Josey Angel to say more. When he didn’t, Harrison’s grin returned wider than ever. “Sometimes?” He tried to laugh, but the sound held no humor. “I suppose the rest of the times, you just stood back and shot down men who never saw it coming, like hunting deer in the woods.”
    â€œSometimes it was like that, too.”
    Harrison shook his head, still grinning like playing a game. “It doesn’t take any courage to gun down unarmed boys or stand behind a tree and murder men who don’t see the fight coming. It’s different when a man is right before you, gun loaded and ready. I wonder if you’ve ever killed a man who saw you coming.”
    â€œSometimes.”
    With that last word, the crowd fell away, everyone scrambling to a safe distance. Annabelle felt rooted to the spot, unable to tear her eyes away. She perspired just standing there. The air felt heavy, like before a summer storm when the wind dies and the clouds are primed to explode. She looked from one man to the other, wondering who would move first, surprised she cared so much about who should be left standing.

C HAPTER E IGHT
    Caleb reached for the grease bucket slung under the wagon bed and saw Rutledge riding toward camp. Grease had to be applied to the wagon’s wheel bearings, and Caleb didn’t trust anyone else to do it right. He remained on the ground at his task as Rutledge arrived, looking awkward on his rented draft horse.
    â€œHello, Caleb,” he called as he carefully dismounted. “I’m sorry I’m late. You didn’t have to wait. I’m surprised to see you here.”
    The Daggett boys had already run off, eager to blow their advance wages in the last saloon they would see before Dobytown and Fort Kearny. Caleb had no intention of following their lead.
    â€œI met some friends of yours on the road and told them I thought you had gone to town,” Rutledge said. He walked the horse to the wagon. “If you wish to borrow the horse you might catch them.”
    Friends? There weren’t many people living Caleb even liked, much less anyone who fit that description. He stood and took the reins from Rutledge, trying to sound indifferent as he asked about them.
    â€œThey looked like soldiers,” Rutledge replied. “Least they had been. One wore an old Confederate coat.” Leaving Caleb to tether the horse, Rutledge moved his bony ass to the back of the wagon.
    â€œDid you get their names?”
    Examining the contents of the wagon, Rutledge almost missed the question. Every day he repacked the damn thing, moving boxes and sacks and reorganizing with a logic that altered with each dawn.