YOU WON’T HANG ME!
But one woman among them was not as interested in making money as she was in Chad Redman. Daphne Makins rested an elbow on the bar and studied the man behind the counter.
“He’s come this way?”
The barman’s face grew pallid and his hand motions, as he wiped a glass clean, grew more urgent. “Hell, Daph—”
“It’ll be hell for you if I discover you’re holding out on me, Lew.”
“He’s gone to Wellslaw to fetch a prisoner — Marty Driscoll, I believe. He should be back by early next week.”
“Good,” the woman said. “Then I’ll kill him then . . .”