They called him a wild
man . . . and they were right!
BEHOLDEN IN BLOOD
“You’ll have to let me buy you that beer now.”
The yellow-haired man shook his head.
“Don’t have to do anythin’ you say, friend!”
Wyatt swung into his saddle.
“In that case, you can find me at the Flying W spread up the valley, north of town. It’s my pa’s place. Come by anytime, and if I’m not around, tell them who you are. I’ll see word’s left so they take good care of you. The beer can wait till you’ve got a thirst.”
“Suits me.” Blaisedell grinned and looked much younger. Even so, he had to be forty, Wyatt figured. “Adios, friend.”
Wyatt raised a hand in salute. Blaisedell turned his mount and gestured to Kingman’s body.
“Gonna leave him there? Others’ll likely come lookin’.”
“Some homecoming,” Wyatt said, pulling a wry face.
“Least you made it alive!” Blaisedell touched two fingers to the brim of his hat and rode off down the trail, dropping from sight once he crossed the ridge.
Wyatt pursed his lips thoughtfully and stared at Kingman. He was just too blamed tired to give a damn what happened to the body. The critters were welcome to it . . .