It had been three weeks since they’d left St. Louis. During that time, both at Laramie and during their journey to reach the Outlaw Trail, Miranda had learned a lot about firearms. Jake had insisted she learn to shoot well before he brought her here, and she felt comfortable now using the snub-nosed pistol she wore. She had even practiced with the shotgun, but it still set her on her rump when she fired it.
You can blow a man in half with that, he had told her when helping her learn to load and shoot the shotgun. When it came to using guns, and to being the kind of man it took to face up to other men in these parts, part of him had reverted to the old, hard Jake. You never hesitate, he had warned. You never feel sorry for the man you’re shooting at, because he won’t be feeling sorry for you. One second’s hesitation, and he’ll shoot first. You remember that. How in hell do you think I’ve stayed alive all these years?
He had practiced himself, discovering that just as the judge had suggested, the old speed and accuracy were still there once he got rid of the “rust” of several years without holding a gun. He had amazed Brian and Evie with his target practice, drawing and shooting his handgun left-handed with speed and perfection, grabbing up the magazine rifle and getting off another round of bullets with astounding speed, hitting every single target Brian had set up for him. He was able to fire the rifle and the shotgun with his right hand, although it made his hand ache fiercely. Brian had fashioned a brace for the hand that helped the pain considerably.
They were well armed now, and with Jake along, Miranda did not worry about the kind of people they would face here. Jake knew them well, and he could handle them; but as long as they were in such dangerous territory, she knew he would not be the same man. He was Jake Harkner the outlaw now. He would think like these men, act and react as they would. Part of the old Jake had reared up and come into action, and she would have to live with that side of him until this was over.
He motioned for her to ride up beside him, and she rode Lady to the edge of a canyon, seeing below what looked like some kind of settlement. “Brown’s Park,” Jake told her. “They even have a school. A few of the outlaws are married, mostly to ex-prostitutes. There is just about everything down there that any town has, except a jail. There is only one law in places like that: whoever has the fastest gun sets the rules. You ready?”
“Yes. This is the last place that prisoner saw Lloyd. It’s all we have to go on.”
Jake led her down a steep, winding path that trailed down the side of the canyon wall in a precipitous grade that made Miranda worry about the horses losing their footing. Tiny rocks scattered and tumbled before them as the horses made their way precariously on loose gravel, and she breathed a sigh of relief when an hour later they reached bottom. They moved through a cluster of juniper and wound through some brushy overgrowth and toward two huge red-rock formations.
“Hold it!” someone called out. They both looked up to see a man appear at the top of one of the rocks. “Who the hell is it?”
Jake rested his hand on his revolver. “Jake Harkner! I’ve come to find my son. Last word was he was here at Brown’s Park.”
The man lowered his rifle. “Harkner? I thought you were in prison.”
“Not anymore. I’m coming through. Don’t give me any trouble.”
The man waved him on, and Jake and Miranda rode into an excuse of a town that was nothing more than a collection of rough cabins and stores. “At least we can get a few supplies,” Jake told her, “although most of them were probably stolen from someone else.” He rode up to a little building that read Saloon. “Best place to get information,” he told her. “You keep that pistol handy.” He dismounted and walked back to her horse, taking its reins and tying it. He grinned inwardly at the sight of the small holster Miranda wore at her right side. It carried the deadly pistol he had taught her to shoot. On her horse she carried his old lever-action Winchester, still a damn good gun.
Miranda dismounted. She wore a brown suede riding skirt and a yellow blouse, and Jake took pleasure in how good she still looked; but it also made him extra watchful. Not many decent women who looked like Miranda came to places like this. Her honey-blond hair was pulled back into a tail at the back of her neck, and she wore a wide-brimmed, brown leather hat.
“Don’t pay too much attention to anything you see or hear,” he told her. “Some of these men don’t care what they say or how they behave in front of anyone. I wouldn’t even take you inside, but I don’t want to leave you outside alone, either.”