“Thank you,” she answered quietly, keeping her back to him.
“Goddamn outlaws,” the clerk grumbled. “Some men don’t know how to let go of the war, and some got so used to fighting and killing, they don’t know how to stop now; but the damned war is over. Men like that have no right attacking innocent people and stealing from them. A lot of them are angry Confederates who think they can keep the war going, think they can make up for their loss by attacking those that fought for the union .”
“Takes more than a war to make men turn to that life,” the stranger answered, the words somewhat mumbled, as though he was making the comment more to himself than to Lake, Miranda thought.
“Yeah? And how would you know?” Lake retorted. Miranda stiffened at the sudden tension in the air. She wished Monty Lake would keep quiet. The stranger didn’t seem like the kind of man another should rile.
“I just know, that’s all,” the stranger finally answered.
“What’s your name, mister? I’ve never seen you around here before.”
The stranger turned to pick up a sack of flour. “Jake. Just Jake.”
“Well, mine’s Monty Lake. Don’t mean to be rude, but with all the raiding and such, a man can’t help being cautious around strangers. You pack an awful lot of iron for a common settler. A man doesn’t wear guns like that unless he’s real good at using them.”
“Why I wear them and how I use them are my business,” Jake answered. Miranda sensed his anger rising because of Lake’s nosy comments. “Your business is to start writing up these supplies and tell me what I owe you.”
Miranda remained near the thread, deciding to wait there until the stranger paid for his supplies and left, then bring her things to the counter. Suddenly the front door flew open as though kicked. Miranda jumped back at the sight of the man who entered. He was nearly as big as the one called Jake but had an even more unkempt, frightening appearance about him. Her eyes widened when she noticed the sudden intruder held a rifle in his right hand, already raised and aimed at the mysterious Jake. “Jake Harkner!” the man bellowed.
Jake had already whirled when the door was kicked open, and Miranda backed farther into a corner. Jake’s arms were arched to his sides as though ready to draw a gun, and a look of cunning came into his eyes. He reminded Miranda of a wild animal suddenly corralled, his dark eyes shining. His whole countenance emanated an eagerness to pounce on the one who threatened him.
“Name’s Luke Putnam,” the intruder sneered, a trickle of tobacco oozing out of the corner of his mouth, “and I aim to take you alive for the five thousand dollars on your head, Harkner. It’s only three thousand if you’re dead.” He raised the rifle a little higher. “I don’t really want to lose two thousand by pullin’ this trigger, but if that’s the way it has to be, I can’t do nothin’ about it. Now ease them guns from their holsters. I been followin’ you for two weeks now. Figured if I got you in town, you’d never get away from me.”
Miranda glanced at the counter and saw no sign of Monty Lake. The clerk had apparently ducked down when the second man barged in. Neither Jake nor Luke Putnam noticed her for the moment, and she cautiously slid her hand inside her purse, feeling for her pistol, her heart pounding wildly with fear.
“Those charges are wrong,” Jake told Putnam. “I didn’t do the things they say.”
“That’s for a jury to decide, Harkner,” Putnam answered, grinning through stained teeth. “Fact remains a bank was robbed and money stolen. Innocent people were killed, a young girl abducted and raped, and it’s your mug that’s on the posters. Now let loose of those guns.”
Miranda’s stomach churned at the words—abduction and rape? And she had actually spoken to the man! She gripped the pistol as the one called Jake Harkner slowly lowered his hands to unbuckle his gun belt. She gasped when he suddenly ducked, charging head-on into Putnam’s knees. Putnam’s rifle fired, the bullet shattering the glass at the front of the counter behind which Monty Lake was hiding. Lake let out a yelp, and Miranda pulled her pistol from her handbag, watching Harkner and Putnam struggle for a moment. Harkner had slammed Putnam onto his back, and now Putnam swung his rifle, cracking it across the side of Harkner’s head and splitting the skin.
Everything had happened in a matter of one or two seconds. Harkner fell sideways, and in an instant he pulled a revolver as Putnam struggled to again cock his own rifle. Harkner fired, and a bloody hole exploded in Putnam’s chest. He fell back without a sound against a stack of material and slid to the floor.