"I doubt it."

He hadn't looked at her since he headed for his horse, but he did now, and had to grip his saddle horn.

The disappointment was vivid in her expression, pulling at his gut with invisible cords. What the hell did she want from him? Didn't she know she was courting trouble with that look?

"I really wish you would reconsider," she said in a soft, imploring voice that wrapped around him, making him groan.

It was too much on top of everything else she made him feel. He had to get the hell out of there.

"Forget it, lady. I don't need that kind of trouble."

She didn't know he was referring to her and not her problems. She stood there and watched him ride away, feeling guilty for trying to embroil him in what was a very dangerous situation. He was right to refuse her. He had helped her enough as it was. But blast it all, she didn't want to see the last of him.

Chapter Six

Ed Schieffelin had been warned by the post commander at Fort Huachuca when he set out into the Apache-infested wilderness of southeastern Arizona that all he would find was his tombstone. The long-time prospector ignored the warning, and when he found the "strike" of his dreams, promptly named it the Tombstone. Other strikes followed in the area, but Ed's Tombstone was the one that lent its name to the town that sprang up around it in 1877. Four years later, the town boasted some five hundred buildings, with at least a hundred having been granted licenses to sell hard liquor, and maybe half that number op-erating as brothels and cribs on the east end of town past 6th Street, a small number really, when you con-sidered the town's population had grown to more than ten thousand.

Colt made a habit of learning about a town before he entered it, and he had found out all he needed to know about this one when he had passed through Benson, just as he had learned enough about Benson when he had passed through Tucson. Seeing it for himself now, he could understand why a seventeen-year-old boy on the run toward Mexico might linger here awhile. It was where he expected to finally find Billy Ewing. It was where he damn well better find the boy. After picking up Billy's trail in St.

Louis four months ago and losing it time and again, Colt was at the end of his patience and his temper.

The things he did for Jessie.

It wasn't going to be easy, however, locating a seventeen-year-old kid in a town this size. He'd been told there were five good-sized hotels and six board-inghouses, but who was to say Billy would be using his own name? He'd also been told now was not a good time to visit, that the town was heading for an explosion of violence between the outlaw element op-erating in the area and the town marshal and his brothers who had been clashing and feuding for some time now.

Colt stopped dead still in the middle of Toughnut Street, remembering that. Where had that piece of information gone hiding when he had spoken to the redhead? He had been heading for Tombstone with every intention of getting Billy out of there as quickly as possible, and yet he had steered a woman like that in the same direction. Had she shaken him up that much, or had he subconsciously wanted her going in his direction? Dumb, plain dumb. Now he'd have to see her again to tell her it'd be healthier if she didn't remain in town for long. No, seeing her again would be even dumber. He'd send Billy with the message-once he found him.

He urged his horse on, his expression black with self-disgust, seeing nothing of the town for several minutes until his senses returned and he realized he'd passed 3rd Street, where he'd meant to turn left.

Fly's Lodging House had been recommended to him, located on Fremont Street between 3rd and 4th, so he headed up 4th Street rather than turn around.

The town was laid out in square blocks, with the intersecting thoroughfares being Toughnut, Allen, Fremont, and Safford streets running south to north, and 1st through 7th streets running west to east.

Crossing Allen Street, he continued north up 4th, passing Hafford's Saloon on the corner, the Can-Can Restaurant next to it, a coffee shop across the street. The variety of eating establishments was a welcome relief. Some of the smaller towns he had passed through were lucky to have even one.

Most of the businesses along the street had vacant lots between them where he caught a glimpse of a stable he could make use of later. But he wouldn't need it until after he was first assured of lodgings, and after he had covered all the other lodgings in town looking for Billy, so he continued on, passing a tinsmith's, an assay office, a furniture store. Spangen-burg's Gun Shop was almost at the end of the block, then the Capital Saloon on the corner, where he turned left onto Fremont, heading back toward 3rd Street. Next to the saloon was the Tombstone Nugget, one of the town's two newspapers, with the other, the Tomb-stone Epitaph, competing just across the street.

He finally caught sight of Fly's almost at the end of the block and nudged his horse a bit faster. It was too much to hope Billy would have a room there, so he imagined the rest of the day would be taken up with his search. And with the way his luck was going, the search would probably take him through a number of saloons too before he was done, where the chances of trouble coming his way were always greatest.

In his present mood, he didn't particularly care.

Billy Ewing ran a nervous hand through his golden-brown hair before pouring another shot of the Forty-rod the Oriental Bar and Gambling Saloon served as whiskey, aptly named since you weren't expected to get more than forty rods before paralysis set in. He was in deep shit and knew it, but couldn't think of any way to get out of it without getting his head blown off. He had thought the Oriental would be the last place his new "friend" would show up, since Wyatt Earp was part owner of this particular establishment, and one of the things he had just discovered was the feud going on between the

Earp brothers and the Clanton gang. But there weren't any Earps around just now, and Billy Clanton, the youngest of the Clan-ton brothers and his new friend, had found him anyway.

How deceiving appearances could be, but how would anyone who didn't know better have guessed that young Clanton, who couldn't be more than six-teen if he was even that, was already a cold-blooded killer? Christ.

Billy had met Clanton in Benson, and upon discov-ering they were both heading for Tombstone the next day, they had decided to ride together. Billy had been grateful for the company of someone with knowledge of the area, even more grateful for the job offered him at the Clanton Ranch near Galeyville.

He knew ranching thanks to all the summers he had spent up in Wyoming with his sister, and he definitely needed a job, since his money had just about run out. But his ignorance had really come through on this one. He had tried pretending he was something he wasn't, hadn't asked the questions he should have, and found himself hired on, not to a ranch, but to a gang of cattle rustlers and stage and pack-train robbers.

The ranch near Galeyville was merely their headquarters.

A couple of miners who worked the Mountain Maid Mine and had seen him ride in with Clanton had smartened him up that very first night in town. Not that he was willing to take their word for it. But anyone he asked after that told him about the same thing. The Clanton gang had been operating in this area for years, and also clashing with the authorities in Tomb-stone because of it. They were still known by the same name even though Old Man Clanton, who had started the gang, had been killed a few months ago, leaving Curly Bill Brocius in charge.

Besides Bill Brocius and the three brothers, Bee, Finn, and Billy Clanton, there were other well-known members of the gang who were also well-known troublemakers here in Tombstone. John Ringo was one, known to have participated in the Mason County War down in Texas before joining the gang, and who had not long ago killed Louis Hancock in an Allen Street saloon. Frank and Tom McLaury were also members whose names came up frequently. And Billy Claiborne, another young glory-hunter, who insisted he be called Billy the Kid now that the real Kid was dead. Claiborne had killed three men already for laughing at such grandstanding, and Ike and the McLaury brothers broke him out of the San Pedro jail just the other night after being arrested for that third killing.

Young Billy Clanton had been involved in what was now being called the Guadalupe Canyon Massacre, which had led to his father's death. Ewing had really heard an earful about that particular deed of the Clan-tons. The gang had attacked a mule train that was freighting silver bullion through the Chiricahua Range in July of this year, slaughtering the nineteen Mexi-cans leading the train. Old Man Clanton died a few weeks later when friends of the dead muleteers ambushed him and some of his gang as they were lead-ing a stolen Mexican herd back through those same mountains. Young Clanton had missed that deadly en-counter, even though from the reports, he had been rustling cattle since he was twelve.

This was who Billy Ewing had gotten tangled up with? He still couldn't believe it. And he plain and simply didn't know how to extricate himself from the situation. He had tried. He had told young Clanton he had changed his mind. But the allusions to cow-ardice and the way the kid kept resting his hand on the six-shooter he wore had made Billy rethink that decision. Next he had tried to just avoid Clanton. But he was supposed to head out to the ranch with him tomorrow. If he didn't show up, would Clanton come looking for him? If he took off tonight, would the whole damn gang come looking for him?

"This place is dead, man. Whyn't we try the Al-hambra, or Hatch's place?"

Billy glanced around at the crowded tables and bar, and at the casino area that was more than half filled with miners from an earlier shift. Dead? He was afraid his "friend" was just looking for trouble his last night in town.

"It's early, not even near sundown," Billy replied. "I just stopped in here for a drink before trying out the New Orleans Restaurant for dinner. Care to join me?"

He had made the offer only out of politeness, so he was glad to hear the answer, "Ain't hungry, an' you sure ain't much of a drinker, are ya? Ya talk funny too, like some Eastern dude. Don't know why I didn't notice 'fore now. Where'd you say you was from?"

"I didn't," Billy hedged. "Does it matter?"

"Guess not, but. well, lookee here." Clanton straightened up in his chair, his right hand moving automatically down to caress the handle of his gun as he stared at the tall stranger who had just swung through the batwing doors. "Ain't 'Pache or Comanche, but I can smell Injun a mile off, an' I sure as hell know a breed when I see one. Maybe this place' liven up some—"

"Oh, shit," Billy groaned, and then again as he yanked his hat down low over his brow and sunk down in his chair. "Oh, shit. "

Clanton looked at him with a measure of disgust. "Ya know him, or are ya just scared of breeds?"

And they claimed his brother Ike was the loud-mouthed braggart? Billy had had about enough of this Clanton, killer or not.

"Don't be a fool, kid," he hissed aside to the younger and much shorter boy. "He's not your nor-mal half-breed raised with the whites. That one was a full-fledged Cheyenne warrior until only a few years back. And since he left his tribe, he's made a point of learning how to use that gun he's toting. I’ve never seen anyone faster."

The warning went right over his head, for Clanton considered himself pretty fast. "So ya do know him.

He lookin' for you, by any chance?"

One look at the kid's grin of anticipation and Billy groaned again. "Don't even think about it."

"But he's comin' right to us."

Billy chanced a look up and found himself stabbed with those blue eyes so much brighter than his own. If he could crawl under the table, he would.

"Colt," he said miserably in greeting.

He didn't get so much as a nod in reply, and Colt was no longer looking at him, but watching Clanton coming up out of his chair. Before the kid had even straightened fully, Colt's gun was palmed and direct-ing him to sit back down, which he did with eyes now widened and a good deal of color gone from his young face.

Billy stood up slowly, very slowly, but relaxed some when Colt put his gun away. Colt still hadn't said a word, and Billy didn't think he would, not in here anyway. But later.