Colt glanced at her sideways after he tossed the snake away from them. He had to hand it to her. She'd been shot at, near snake-bit, and that was after her coach had crashed. And no telling what had happened before then. Yet she hadn't made a fuss about any of it. Of course, that snake had managed to shut her up. She was the talkingest woman he'd ever met. Not that he minded. That accent of hers was real soft on the ears.

He turned to stare at the dust cloud making its way toward them. Her people, he hoped, considering the size of that cloud indicated quite a few riders. He replaced the rounds in his gun just in case.

He glanced at her again and saw that she had pro-duced a small lacy square of cloth from somewhere and was dabbing it at her forehead. That sweet scent of hers drifted more strongly to him, stirring his blood again. Damn, but she was dangerous. Each time he looked at her, she somehow got prettier and definitely more desirable. And each time she looked at him with those beautiful green eyes, he had to fight down old instincts. If he had come across her six years ago, he would have simply ridden off with her and made her his. But he was "civilized" now and so couldn't fol-low his natural inclinations anymore.

But those instincts were strong, too strong, the rea-son that he didn't dare stick around to help her out with her troubles. It'd be different if she didn't already have help, more than enough help from the look of it. Then he would have no choice, because he damn well didn't like the idea of someone wanting to hurt her. She might not belong out here, but she was here, and she had crossed his path. He was going to worry about her now until she was safe. Just what he needed.

"Those your people riding in?"

Jocelyn started at his question, barely heard through the ringing in her ears from the gunshots. She had been trying to think of some way to change his mind about working for her. She didn't want him to just ride off to where she might never see him again. That was imperative, though she had yet to wonder why.

She saw the riders now, and recognized Sir Parker Grahame out in front. "Yes, my escort, and quite a few of the servants, by the look of it."

"I'll be taking off, then. Your men can find your team staked out at the river, less than a mile east of here — that is, if someone hasn't come along and sto-len them by now."

The unspoken words were implicit in his tone. If her horses were gone, so would be his gear.

"Thank you. I'm sure they will be easily recov-ered. But are you certain you won't change your mind and-"

"Ma'am, that's a small army you have bearing down on us. You don't need me."

"We will need a guide, however."

"You can find one in Tombstone."

Jocelyn gritted her teeth as she followed him to his horse and watched him mount. He obviously wasn't for hire, for any reason.

"Where is this town you mentioned?"

"About six miles or so directly across the San Pe-dro. It's big enough that you can't miss it."

"Do you live there, by any chance?"

"No, ma'am."

"But will I see you there, do you think?"

"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.