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and sketched a chivalrous bow. “It’s been an experience meeting you, my lady. Not particularly pleasant, but an experience nonetheless.” His voice was frosty as Christmas morn. “I leave you to see after your own.”
    And he did, without noticing the gaping hole in Sandy Johns’s chest.

Four
    An hour before sundown Heath rode into town. With thoughts of his job occupying his attention, he had put the day’s unpleasantness out of his mind.
    Thick red dust rose with every clop of his horse’s hooves. Heath raised his neckerchief over his nose to filter the dust, and scanned the streets, instinctively noting the avenues of escape and the areas suitable for ambush—the places a yellow-bellied brigand bent on shooting an unsuspecting marshal could hide.
    Adobe Wells was a typical western town. The buildings were one and two story flat-top adobes with portals. Two streets, one running north-south, the other east-west, intersected at the center of town, forming a dirt plaza. On either side of the plaza were adobe-framed wells. A few trees, mostly cottonwood, offered the mingling inhabitants little shade from the late afternoon sun.
    Not surprising, there were three saloons in town. In addition, there were two hotels, a jail, a general store, a respectable looking eatery, a livery stable, a hardware, and a few other nondescript establishments, along with five or six private residences.
    On the north side of town a number of miners’ shacks had been haphazardly constructed from makeshift materials. The temporary city looked like a sea of cast-off lumber and tin, swarming with sooty, bearded lifesize ants. Men wearing overalls or heavy trousers held up by suspenders busied themselves with evening chores. Some of them were tending to stock animals, mostly burros; others were busy cooking the night’s fare over open fires. The distinctive smell of onions and fried beans caused Heath’s nostrils to twitch, his stomach to rumble.
    He had not expected to see miners in Adobe Wells. No precious metals or minerals of any sort had ever been found in this area. There was, of course, gold in California, silver in Nevada, and copper in Arizona. But as far as he knew, this area was good for grazing cattle and little else.
    Except producing beautiful angels with positively diabolical dispositions. Smiling at the memory, he removed his neckerchief and stopped at a stately home on the edge of town. A wooden sign reading MANCHEZ’S BOARDINGHOUSE swayed and creaked in the afternoon breeze. Sliding from the saddle, he secured Warrior’s reins to the white picket fence circling the front yard, shouldered his saddlebags, and pushed through the gate.
    A burst of energy infused him now that his long trip had come to an end. Taking the front steps two at a time, he rapped gently on the frosted pane of the front door.
    An attractive Mexican woman in her mid-forties opened the door and invited Heath inside out of the summer sun. Her clean, crisp, lemon-yellow calico gown was in striking contrast to her soft, dusky complexion. Masses of shiny black hair were imprisoned in a demure bun at the back of her head. Her apron, starched stiff, was as white as the first snow in winter. Her smile was open, friendly.
    â€œ Buenos tardes, Señor. ”
    â€œSeñorita.” Heath greeted her with the instinctive charm that never failed to give the fairer sex a moment of rapid heart palpitation.
    It had its usual effect. “Senora Pilar Manchez,” she said, wishing that she were ten years younger.
    His face hinted at disappointment before he bowed over her hand. “A tragic loss, Señora. I wonder, are all beautiful women married?”
    Pilar’s cheeks flamed at the offhand flattery despite her years of maturity. “Surely not. I myself am a widow.” She paused respectfully. Clearing her throat, she continued. “Now, how may I help you?”
    â€œI need a room for an