«Told ya,» Floyd said to Clim after a few steps.

«Told me what?»

«This here ol’ boy ain’t much account without his bullwhip and rifle. He’s as heedful as a welltrained hound.»

Clim grunted. «Damn big hound. Even bigger than the one Beau shot. We’d of had that gal if’n that cur hadn’t jumped Darcy when he grabbed her.»

Hope stabbed through Whip. It sounded like Shannon might have gotten away.

«Don’t git yer water hot,» Floyd said to Clim. «Beau ain’t much on talkin’ lately, but he can still track slick as sin. He’ll get the widow ‘fore she gets too far. Hell, ain’t no place for her to go to anyways.»

Clim eyed the big man walking in front of him. Despite Whip’s surrender, the coiled ease of his stride made Clim nervous.

«Why don’t you just shoot him and get done with it?» Clim asked.

«Beau,» Floyd said succinctly. «He’s got a bone to pick with this ol’ boy. You want to be the one to tell Beau he can’t have no fun ‘cause you done gone and killed him?»

Whatever Clim said was too guttural to understand.

Whip walked from the shadows of the trees into the full sunlight of the meadow.

To the girl hiding and catching her breath after a reckless scramble down through Silent John’s bolthole to the cave and from there into the cabin, Whip’s appearance was dream and nightmare combined.

It can’t be Whip! He rode away.

Seeing Whip captive to the Culpeppers wrenched Shannon’s mind away from her fear for Prettyface, forcing her to concentrate on saving herself, for only then could she save Whip.

Still unable to believe that Whip had come back, Shannon leaned forward and peered through the ill-fitting shutters again.

There was no mistake. Sunlight flashed on hair as pale as corn silk. Sunlight outlined clean, powerful limbs and wide shoulders. And sunlight showed that Whip’s hands were empty of weapons.

Nor did the bullwhip lie in quiet coils on his shoulder.

Shannon bit her lip against a hunger to cry out to Whip, to tell him that he wasn’t alone, that she would help him. But crying out would be as foolish as walking barefoot through a campfire.

Quickly Shannon turned away from the shutters, went to the front door, and lifted the shotgun down from its pegs. As she reached to open the door, she heard a voice call from just beyond her cabin.

«Told ya you’d get him!»

«Yah. Easy as shootin’ a hen on a nest,» called someone from the meadow.

Heart beating wildly, Shannon shifted the shotgun and lowered the heavy bar into place across the door. She tiptoed back to the shutter and peered out again.

Whip was walking across the meadow toward the cabin. Behind him rode two men on mules. Another man stood ten feet from the cabin door, watching the three men approach. The ripped state of the nearest man’s clothes — and the bloody marks on his face and arms — told Shannon that this was the Culpepper who had grabbed her, only to go down beneath Prettyface’s attack.

Shannon’s hands tightened on the shotgun as she thought of her loyal dog. Then she forced herself to think of here and now, and the danger to Whip and herself.

There was no time to claw her way back out the bolthole and down the mountainside to surprise the Culpeppers. Whatever she did would have to be done from here.

And soon.

I could open the cabin door, aim at the man closest to me, and let fly with both barrels of buckshot.

Frowning, Shannon thought about it. She would certainly take one man out of the fight that way, but it would leave Whip still captive to the other Culpeppers, who would likely shoot him out of hand before she could reload her own shotgun.

Then there was the fourth Culpepper to worry about. He had to be around somewhere. Probably he was still in the forest trying to figure out which way she had gone. If he heard shots, he would come on the run.

Maybe I only need one barrel on the closest Culpepper. Then I could fire the second barrel at the other two.

After a moment Shannon decided that was her best bet. She would wait until the other two Culpeppers were within range, and then she would tell them to let Whip go. If it came to shooting, surely Whip would have enough sense to drop to the ground. Knowing his quickness and size, he probably would take a Culpepper down with him.

White-knuckled, Shannon stood by the shutters and watched her front yard with the intensity of a cat at a mouse hole, counting each step Whip and his captors took toward the cabin. If she were really lucky, Whip would manage to separate himself from the group somehow. That way she wouldn’t have to worry about wounding him when the buckshot spread out in its characteristic deadly pattern after it left the barrel.

Slowly, carefully, moving by fractions of inches, Shannon opened the shutters enough to rest the shotgun on the windowsill. She cocked the hammer on one barrel, settled her finger lightly around one of the two triggers, and waited, watching the man who held a gun on Whip.

«Any sign of the gal?» dim asked, dismounting.

Darcy shook his head. «She took off into the forest.»

Beneath Whip’s predatory readiness, relief spread through him, warming the soul-deep cold that had begun when he thought of Shannon’s fate at the hands of the Culpeppers.

«But we’ll get her, just like we got her damned hound,» Darcy added. «Beau’s tracking her now.»

«Looks more like Prettyface got you,» Whip said. «Chewed you up and spit you right out. No hound likes the taste of skunk.»

Darcy shifted his cud of tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other and measured Whip for a grave.

«It was the last thing that damned hound did,» Floyd said. «Beau shot him.»

«I should have killed Beau back at Holler Creek,» Whip said. «Live and learn. Or in your case, boys, live and die ignorant.»

Darcy spat a stream of tobacco juice onto Whip’s boots.

Whip just looked at him and wondered what kind of insults it would take to distract Floyd long enough for Whip to grab his six-gun. Then Whip would feed the gun to Darcy. Sideways.

«What do we do now?» Floyd asked.

«Wait for Beau.»

«I need whiskey. Goddam wrist is paining me something fierce,» Floyd muttered, eyeing his right arm in disgust. «Every time my mule takes a step it feels like somebody’s a-hammerin’ on my arm.»

Whip smiled. «It doesn’t look too good, Floyd. All those red streaks. And the smell. Lord above. I’m surprised you can stand it.»

Darcy and Floyd ignored Whip.

«You’ll have to wait,» Darcy said to Floyd. «Beau’s got the tanglefoot with him.»

Behind Whip, Floyd’s mule shifted and stamped its right foreleg, dislodging a deerfly.

«Goddam,» Floyd groaned. «Hurts.»

«Then get down and quit your bellyaching,» Darcy said. «I’m still bleeding from that damned hound and you don’t hear me whining, do ya?»

A saddle creaked as Floyd prepared to dismount.

Adrenaline went through Whip. It was the moment he had been waiting for. From the corner of his eye he could see Floyd’s shadow sliding along the ground as he moved.

He was still holding the six-gun in his left hand, keeping the barrel trained on Whip. Floyd’s natural grip was right-handed. As he dismounted the barrel of the six-gun wavered from its target. It was just for an instant, but an instant was all that Whip had been waiting for.

In a blur of motion, Whip spun around and simultaneously kicked outward. His boot connected with Floyd’s injured wrist. Floyd made an odd sound and forgot all about the six-gun. Pain knocked him senseless.

Whip struck the gun from Floyd’s loose fingers and whirled around again. The side of Whip’s left hand connected with Darcy’s neck.

The sound of the impact was lost in Clim’s bellow of rage. He drew a long knife and lunged for Whip’s back.

But Whip was no longer there. He spun aside so suddenly that Clim went staggering past Whip, off-balance, knife slicing uselessly at air. A flashing movement of Whip’s hands added to Clim’s forward momentum.