Kestler sat in his saloon, turning a half-filled glass of whisky between his palms, staring at the dishevelled Amy Childer sitting opposite him. Standing at his shoulder was Doc Haynes, tapping his foot impatiently. ‘She was going to skedaddle before Soloman waylaid her. She’d have ridden over to El Paso, warned the authorities. We don’t need U.S. Marshalls snooping around. We can ill-afford any—’
‘All right, I hear you!’ Kestler rocked forward and threw the whisky down his throat. As the fiery liquid percolated through his guts, he grew calmer. ‘I hear you. What do you suggest?’
All right, I hear you‘Kill her, bury the body out in the prairie. Coyotes will get rid of any evidence.’
Amy squirmed in her chair, the only sound emanating from her mouth a muffled squeak. Her jaw and mouth we
