Like a child, that brutal killer buried his face against Reilly’s shoulder and bawled. “Easy, Jim,” Reilly whispered, confused. “What happened?” “It’s…Ma…” Pardo choked out the words. “Chaucer…killed…her.” He punctuated the statement with a mournful wail that even caused Reilly to shudder. A million thoughts raced through Reilly’s mind. He had Pardo now, unarmed, broken. Duke stood in the door of the saloon, next to Swede Iverson, staring, mouths open. He could take them, and Pardo, take them all so damned easily. The major, Ritcher, he had mounted his horse and was loping out of town by the time Reilly ran out of the mercantile, leaving the bag of supplies Pardo had ordered on the boardwalk. He hadn’t had time to visit the barber. All Reilly had to do was draw his gun. Arrest them. Yet he couldn’t forget Dagmar and Blanche. Chaucer had killed Ruby Pardo, but what had he done with the two hostages? Was he still in camp in the Dragoons? Why was Duke here?
