“So you say a band of river pirates ambushed you and took my gold?” Jack Brooks leaned back in his leather chair and puffed a thick cigar. The roaring fireplace cast his flickering shadow against the brick wall on the other side of the ornate parlor.
“That’s right, sir.” Larry Custis was nervous.
Brooks was the most infamous crook this side of the Rockies, but no one seemed much interested in putting an end to his enterprise. Either you were for him, or you were against him.
And no one double-crossed him. How did he and Hank ever think they’d be the ones to get over?
“And … they kidnapped Hank,” Larry sputtered. Then, with a bolt of inspiration, added, “Probably killed him!”
“Mmmmm,” Brooks grunted as he tapped ashes onto the floor. “And you say this happened at the fork of the river?”
Larry’s eyes shifted in gloom of the room, and he hoped the fat man wouldn’t notice. “Yes, sir. That’s right.”
“Uh-huh.”
Brooks sighed and leaned forward. He struck a match somewhere in the dark and used it to light a candle on the table between them.
As the flame whispered to life and cast its glow across Larry’s face, he heard the unmistakable click of a gun hammer locking into place, cocked and ready for action.
Brooks pulled his chair closer, and his broad, smiling face gleamed in the candlelight. He slid his right hand toward Larry to reveal the glinting barrel of his revolver.
“There’s just one problem with that story, son,” Brooks said. “Arrow River doesn’t have any forks. A straight shot between Logan and Nevada.”
Larry swallowed hard. Sweat glistened on his forehead.
“Now,” Brooks went on. “You sure there isn’t something else you want to tell me?”
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