Way of the Gun (9781101597804) by Charles G. West

couple slices of bread. A young boy sometimes gets hungry during the night, and this will soak up some of the whiskey you drank. Still puzzled, he started to thank her, but she interrupted. “How old are you?”
    â€œSeventeen,” he told her as he began to have uneasy feelings about the clandestine visit from the older woman.
    â€œSeventeen,” she repeated, “about what I woulda guessed.” He could see her nodding in the darkness. “How long have you been riding with this gang of murderers?”
    â€œJust a few days, ma’am,” he answered.
    â€œHow many men have you killed?”
    â€œI’ve not shot anyone,” he replied.
    â€œGood,” she said at once, “then you still have a chance to make something better out of your life than riding with scum like Red Shirt and the others. I knew I saw something decent in you right from the first. But you need to run as far away from those three as you can.”
    Feeling somewhat relieved now, he said, “I am, ma’am. I’m plannin’ on runnin’ first chance I get, but I’m waitin’ for a time when I can get a good head start. I think they’ve been keepin’ a pretty close eye on me ’cause I saw Red Shirt kill a U.S. marshal.”
    â€œGood for you, boy. You take leave of these bastards before they get you mixed up in some of their evil doings.” She got up then, apparently satisfied that she had accomplished what she had come to do, and left Carson staring at her dark figure as it vanished in the dark. Thinking he was too wide awake at this point to ever get to sleep, he lay back and stared up into the starless night. It seemed like a year since he had bade Mr. Patterson farewell in Ogallala and started out on the first leg of a journey that he figured would find him in Montana. In actuality, it had been only a few weeks.
    He had no idea when he drifted off to sleep, but he awoke in the morning to find the sun already sending its fingers probing the shadows in the trees by the river. After breakfast inside, most of the morning was wasted away while Jack and Red Shirt argued over the value of the horses. Carson sat on the ground with Tice and Swann beside a small fire Swann built in a corner of the yard and waited for the trading to be finished. Leaning on one elbow, absentmindedly feeding the fire with small twigs, Swann finally sought to satisfy his curiosity. “What was goin’ on between you and Jack’s wife last night?” he asked Carson. “I saw her talkin’ to you after we turned in.”
    Not surprised that Swann had seen them, Carson replied, “She brought me some leftover bread, thought I might get hungry, so she offered it to me before throwin’ it to the hogs.”
    â€œHuh,” Swann grunted, “she coulda throwed some of it my way.” He sat back, apparently satisfied with Carson’s answer. “Probably thinkin’ about her boy,” he said.
    â€œShe’s got a son?” Carson asked.
    â€œDid have,” Swann said. “He’s dead now, got shot down by a part-time sheriff on a bank robbery that went bad—up at Deadwood. I reckon he was about your age, just a young feller.”
    His comment caused Carson to turn to look at the solemn woman who came out of the cabin just then to throw the breakfast dishwater out in the yard. He understood now why she had come to talk to him last night. She met his gaze for a moment before turning away to return to her kitchen, giving no response by her expression. It was easier to understand the woman’s concern for him now, and he hoped that he had convinced her that he had no intention of falling to the same fate.
    It was late in the morning before Red Shirt and Jack reached final agreement on the trading. As usual, according to Tice, Jack got the better side of the trade. “I reckon we can saddle up now.” His guess was confirmed moments later when Red