Outside, the sun lay beneath the horizon. Its glow bathed the eastern sky in living fire—tongues of orange and red and purple licking the bellies of stubborn cloud cover. Chancho hesitated on the porch for a moment before striding quickly into the street. Only then did he turn to see Starr inspecting the body he’d left in its static condition hours earlier.
Angelo trudged further down the sidewalk. He and Chancho locked their eyes on the menacing windows of the house across the way. Nothing stirred. Chancho gave the nod and Angelo jogged south to check on his donkeys. Chloe joined Chancho’s side, her favorite knife in her hand. He hoped she would not need to use it.
“Just in case.” She gave him a peck on the cheek before continuing across the street.
Chancho followed her to the porch where he’d seen the shooting begin. A pool of drying blood complete with drag trail indicated at least two had died in the shooting. And they weren’t even inside Thurber’s perimeter fence yet.
The drag marks led into the house. Chancho clutched the grip of his pistol, took a deep breath, and drew it. He smashed the latch with his boot and sent the door careening into the wall behind it.
Side by side, he and Chloe squeezed through the opening. They systematically checked every room front to back, including a small upstairs.
“Nothing.” Chloe met Chancho back in the living room.
“No one,” Chancho corrected as he stooped to pick up a shell casing. He was relieved it was a .35 rifle casing and not a .45 pistol.
“And the recipient?”
Chancho had forgotten about the blood. The trail led straight to the entryway closet. Together they approached and threw open the door.
“Why would they drag one of their own from the porch to leave him in the closet?”
Chancho shook his head. “He wasn’t one of their own.”
“Whose was he?”
“Knock, knock.” Starr skirted the blood on the porch and stuck his head inside. “Don’t shoot.”
“No worries, mi amigo. Just us.”
“One more, huh? So this is what you were talking about last night.” He stretched his open hand toward Chancho. “Found these in the front yard, all six in a heap like they’d been dumped by someone shooting off the porch.”
Chancho grudgingly accepted the casings. They were .45’s, the caliber used by all Texas Rangers. He shook his head. “That’s where he stopped to reload.” He handed Starr the .35 casing. “We found this.”
“Two gunmen?”
“So it would seem.” Chancho led them outside into the open air. He couldn’t spend another second inside the empty homes.
“The guy you shot was definitely Company. He had TPE scrip in his pocket.” Starr held out his other hand.
Chancho nodded. “The Company knows we’re here, but they get jumped by someone else before they can move in.”
“Maybe we were an innocent third party. You know, wrong place, wrong time?” Chloe added optimistically.
Chancho would have liked to believe it. “No. I think our presence instigated this.” He shifted his gaze up one end of the street and down the other. “New York Hill wasn’t as abandoned as we thought.”
“The question is what do we do now?” Chloe sheathed her knife. “We can’t exactly sneak in anymore.”
“Two men are dead. That’s gonna have consequences.” Starr shifted his weight from his injured leg.
Chancho nodded. “Si, amigos, and I have a feeling the consequences are only going to pile up. I’m afraid we must part ways.”
“What?” Starr and Chloe responded simultaneously.
Chancho indicated Starr’s wounded leg. “You are still bleeding, and last time I checked, bullets do not remove themselves.” During Chancho’s nearly sleepless night he had continued to ponder the missing journal and Starr’s attempts to defend TPE when Mrs. Marcon had indicted them. He wanted a chance to look around without his political partner.
“I could have removed it last night, if you would have let me.”
“The slug is preventing further blood loss—”
“The door jamb nearly stopped it,” Starr objected.
“And there’s probably wood fragments along with the bullet,” Chancho continued. “Trust me, mi amigo, this is a wound better not mended in the field. I’ve seen many more die from infection than from bullets. You could take a donkey back to Gordon and get it dressed properly by noon.”
Starr glared at him. “And what are you two gonna do?”
Chancho shrugged. “Oh, maybe some sightseeing, necking, that sort of thing. Nothing special.”
Chloe punched him in the arm.
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