Burt Becker said. “I want you, Little Face, and June to do some serious killing.” “How many are up there in the hills, boss?” June Lacour said. “Last I heard a dozen and the crazy doc makes thirteen, an unlucky number.” “For them or for us?” Pete Caradas said, admiring his morning bourbon in the glass. “You three are the fastest guns that ever came out of Texas,” Becker said. “So I say unlucky for Tom Clouston.” He stood and stared out the window of his hotel room, and his back still turned, he said, “Kill as many as you can and the rest we’ll leave. But Clouston himself will be your main target.” “You ever seen him, boss?” Little Face Denton said. Now Becker turned, the black cigar in his hand wreathing smoke. “No one’s seen him since he was drummed out of the medical profession,” he said. “But he’ll be the ranny in charge so you’ll recognize him.” Becker stepped to the table and splashed more whiskey into his glass. “Gentlemen, I want this done quickly and I want it done well.
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