They reached the rear door just as the crew from the bunkhouse came rushing in across the yard. Both Jessica and Daryl had their revolvers leveled, when they and Ki stepped out. The half-dozen men hauled up short, their own pistols drawn, pointing every which way but the right way. “Far enough,” Daryl ordered. “Toss your guns away.” The crew milled indecisively, stymied by the two revolvers aiming straight at them. Then, one by one, they gave in, throwing their weapons off into the darkness. Eyeing them warily, Jessica, Ki, and Daryl moved off the porch and began edging around toward the side of the yard where, beyond, they’d posted their horses. “Your boss isn’t dead,” Jessica told the crew, her large-framed .38 never wavering in her fist. “Fact is, he’s down in the wine cellar, way in the rear, waiting for you boys.” They continued backing away from the disarmed group, and were almost to the corner of the first outbuilding again when they stiffened, listening. Hoofbeats sounded in increasing tempo, heading along the road from the pass, directly for the yard.
