Ben Wade

whitetextiswhite

[ ride a horse, save a cowboy ]


Just outside Curtiss, it's cold.

(Hell, it's cold in Curtiss.)

Which is why Ben's got a good-looking fire and a good-looking woman to keep him warm.

This beats the hell out of that ride to Contention; the only time he got near anybody in that camp was when he forked Tucker to death.

whitetextiswhite

[ the lonely light of morning ]


He's blinking in the darkness, already upright and swinging his legs over the side of the bed before he knows why.

Then the rapping -- light but insistent -- registers.

"Hold on just a minute, gotta -- "

He yanks on his pants and pulls his undershirt over his head, then pads to the door barefoot.

"The hell's the -- "

He's squinting, running his free hand through his impressive case of bed-head.

" -- Kate?"

whitetextiswhite

It had been easy.

Feigned acceptance, slumped shoulders. A (deceivingly) docile smile.

Then an elbow to the guard's nose and rough wood sliding open beneath nearly numb fingers.

The clack-clack-clack of the 3:10 to Yuma as it sped along the tracks.

Tensed knees and a leap. A shoulder hitting the ground (too hard), and rolling through dirt and scrub.

A short, sharp whistle, an answering nicker. A hard ride to the southwest, toward Mexico.

Finding a ranch, and suitable tools for the manacles, then a single shot between the rancher's eyes.

And now, near the border, Ben Wade is thirsty.