“Sit up, Murphy,” he says.
My head spins and my stomach aches. My right eye is all but useless, prolly swollen shut.
“Drink.” Boss presses his canteen into my hands.
Half the water ends up on my shirt, so I reckon my lips are split and butchered, too.
“Apologies ’bout the treatment, but it ain’t easy to swallow that you been looking for us.” He takes the canteen back. “In fact, it looks much more like you been trying to run. First from Wickenburg, then Prescott, and now right here, too, just miles from where that Vaughn girl done bashed in some poor bloke’s head.”
“No, I been playing it smart,” I insist. “’Cus I found him, Boss—the cowboy you been after, the one that gave me yer brother’s coin. I found him.”
His brows peak with interest.
“I had to run from Wickenburg—I were surrounded, unarmed—but then I picked up a lead on the cowboy and followed it to Prescott. I figured I could get the cowboy first and then come find you. But he weren’t home and his wife got the jump on me, tied me up in her barn. I think she aimed to turn me in for the bounty, but the boys showed up and—”
“You decided to kill Jones and Hobbs instead,” Boss growls.
“No, that were—”
“Don’t lie to me, Murphy! Diaz said you did it!”
“Diaz don’t know nothing,” I snap. “The woman killed ’em. I heard hollering, and by the time I got free of my ties in the barn and made it to the house, Jones and Hobbs were already dead. Diaz showed up a moment later, and the woman fired on him quicker than I could get a word out. He rode off, thinking I were his enemy. I went ’bout earning the woman’s trust, then her husband’s. They don’t got a slightest idea ’bout my true intentions.”
Boss’s brow furrows as he works this over. “I only need the cowboy. Why didn’t you kill the woman from the get-go?”
“I figured it’d be easier to earn her husband’s trust if’n it looked like I helped her,” I grit out. “And besides, she were pregnant.”
“You always were soft,” Boss says, “but that ain’t a fault. Not really. You gotta have a conscience to run an outfit like this, and you could make a fine boss someday.”
I barely contain a laugh. “A conscience? You kill women and children!”
“I ain’t never killed a woman,” he snarls, “nor a child. And I ain’t never forced you to, neither!”
I open my mouth to argue only to realize he ain’t wrong. In all the time I’ve ridden with him, I ain’t never seen Luther Rose fire on no one but a grown man. He lets the others see to the women and children. He watches, like that ain’t a crime in itself. Like he’s somehow nobler for refraining.
“I argued with my brother on this constantly,” Boss continues. “I said it weren’t necessary, all the innocent slaughters, but he said it keeps yer boys’ bloodlust satisfied, controlled. The real villains are the ones beneath the fella in charge. You see what I’m saying, Murphy? We ain’t that unalike, you and me. We both recognize evil, and you gotta have that vision to be a bossman. You gotta know the difference between good and bad so you can keep yer boys in line, know what’s worth pardoning them for and what earns them a swift shot between the eyes.”
I can barely believe what I’m hearing.
Luther Rose puts his hands on my shoulder. “I wanna pardon you, Murphy. And knowing you found the cowboy—that all this time you been trying to find me to hand him over—I can. Let’s gut that pig so you can come home and take over for me someday. Yer the only one of my boys left that’s got the disposition for it. What do you say, son?”
The way he says son is like the sweetest song. His hand’s on my shoulder, warm and strong, and he’s looking at me like there’s something in me worth loving. Like he’s proud of me. Like I’m a thing worth standing by. He’ll clean me up and see to my injuries and make sure I’m cared for. I know it. He’ll be my father if I let him.
But I ain’t never gonna forget that those warm, strong hands are the same set that carved a rose into my forearm, beat me countless times over, and stood by while innocent folk died on his watch.
“I ain’t yer son,” I say, “and I don’t wanna be, neither. I want out.”
He frowns. “That’s a shame to hear, son, truly. There’s lots I could teach you. But I’m a man of my word, and you claim you’ve found the cowboy. So lead me to him, and our deal’s done. I’ll have my revenge and you’ll have yer freedom.”
It’s so damn hard to not smile. Even with my pulse throbbing in my ears and my body aching and beaten, I wanna grin ear to ear. I stifle the urge, keep my face serious.
“I can’t bring you to him,” I say. “He’s holed up in a clearing, but the only way is in bottlenecks. Someone’s always on watch, and they’d pick you off one at a time before you even got within fifty yards of the house.”
This ain’t true, of course, but he’s got no way of knowing it.
“So . . .” Boss prompts.
“I’ll bring him to you instead.”
It don’t matter that this is the plan. Boss’s smile is wicked, and I feel like a rat, a bastard, a bit of slime on the side of a creek bed. ’Cus even with the best intentions, this could go wrong. Even with all the planning in the world, I could be damning Jesse Colton. This could end with him dead.
“When?” Boss asks.
“Sunday. Get on the southbound train at Seligman. I’ll make sure the cowboy gets onboard before Prescott. Bring Diaz and the others, too, for backup. I’ll meet you in the dining car.”
Boss considers this a moment, his eyes firm on my bloody face. I reckon he wanted to take care of this first thing tomorrow, but he thinks I’m truly on his side, and he knows I can’t show up beat this bad and demand that Jesse take a trip with me on the rail. It won’t look nothing but suspicious.
“Fine, Sunday,” Boss says finally. “But first, gimme the bastard’s name. I ain’t letting you ride off without any collateral.”
I’d hoped to avoid this, and I know the Coltons had, too. But we all knew that gaining Boss’s trust’d be easiest if I give him the name. And besides, Diaz knows which claim belongs to the Coltons back in Prescott. All the gang’s gotta do is ask ’round a little and they’d figure out exactly what I’m ’bout to give up.
“The man you want’s called Jesse Colton.”