Sunset Trail by Wayne D. Overholser Page A

by noon.”
    “We’ll be ready,” Wyatt said.
    Henry lifted the valises from the back of the rig and set them on the boardwalk. Miles hesitated, looking down at Wyatt, who
     sensed he wanted to say something.
    “Let’s get to bed,” Henry said. “I’ll see if they have any rooms reserved for us.”
    “They do and they’re paid for.” Miles waited until Henry disappeared into the lobby, then he leaned forward. “Governor, there’s
     something I want to say, but Matt will fire me if he knows I said it. He’s banking on you being there tomorrow.”
    “I intend to be there.” Wyatt could not see Miles clearly in the dim light from the hotel lobby, but he had the impression
     of a bronze, strong-jawed man, and, knowing that Matt Dugan was a rancher as well as a banker, he suspected that Miles was
     a cowhand. He added: “If you can get me there.”
    “Oh, I can get you there, all right,” Miles said, “but I ain’t real sure you want to go. What I mean is, you won’t get a single,
     solitary vote out of the bunch that’s going to be listening to you tomorrow. It may turn out to be purty unpleasant on account
     of a lot of people lost their farms and ranches and even some business in town because of the panic last year.”
    “And of course they blame me and the Populist party.”
    “They sure do,” Miles said. “Now I ain’t claiming they’re right, mind you, but that’s exactly how they feel.”
    “And some of them hate me enough to take a shot at me,” Wyatt said.
    “How did you know that?” Miles demanded. “Did anybody tell you?”
    “Oh, no,” Wyatt said, “but it’s an old story. I aim to be in Amity at twelve tomorrow, Mister Miles. Good night.”
    “Good night, Governor,” Miles said, and drove away. Wyatt turned and went into the lobby, thinking he had lived his three
     score and ten years and he didn’t really care if he lived any longer or not. You never knew what forces pushed a cause toward
     fulfillment, but sometimes an assassin’s bullet did more good than anything else to achieve that fulfillment. If that was
     his fate, then so be it. Then, for some reason, he wondered if Dick Miles was the man who had sent the death threat to Tom
     Henry.

III
    John Smith and Ross Hart reined up in front of the sod house a few minutes before midnight and dismounted, Smith stiff and
     sore after the long ride from the Kansas border. He called: “Hello!”
    The door was flung open, and lamplight fell past a slim man who stood in the doorway. He asked: “John? Ross?”
    “Right,” Smith said, and, leaving the reins dragging, stepped into the soddy, Hart following. “I see you found it.”
    “Sure, we found it.” Sammy Bean closed the door. “No trouble.” He motioned toward the woman standing on the other side of the
     table. “John, this is Dolly Aims.” He jerked his head at Hart. “And Ross Hart.”
    Both men took off their hats, Smith saying: “It’s a pleasure, Miss Aims.” Hart grunted something that sounded like “Howdy”
     and openly stared at the woman, with the naked lust of a sensual man.
    “I’m happy to meet both of you,” Dolly said. “How about a cup of coffee?”
    “I’d like it,” Smith said, and Hart grunted again and kept on staring.
    “Sit down,” Sammy said, motioning to a bench beside the table.
    “Hell, no,” Smith said. “I’ve had all the sitting I want for a while.”
    He watched Dolly walk to the stove and bring the coffee pot to the table and fill two tin cups and return to the stove, her
     buttocks flowing from side to side with the rhythm of her walk. Sammy was young, not over twenty, Smith knew, and he was surprised
     to find that Dolly was considerably older.
    Smith sipped his coffee, wondering about that. He had known Sammy for more than two years and he did not have the slightest
     doubt about the boy’s willingness and ability to carry out his part of this undertaking. He was not sure how many murders
     Sammy had committed,