A PIECE OF THE ACTION

By Megan Grimm

On the dresser, the watch's hands crept past midnight. The only sound disturbing the silence was the occasional catch in the occupant's breathing, resulting in an intermittent asthmatic rattle. Sleeping in the Grand Hotel was easy. Paying for it was usually the hard part.

Sacramento slept.

Most of it, anyway.

The moonlight briefly silvered the stiletto blade gently working the window latch as it turned in the hand of the black-clad figure crouching on the balcony, shoulder pressed to the cheap pine siding. The lock sprang with a tiny, barely audible click, and the figure froze, listening intently for any indication that the infintesimal sound had alerted the attention of the room's dormant inhabitant. There was none. Reassured, the figure slipped a hand under the sash and raised it silently in freshly-oiled grooves, flowing through the opening like a moon-cast shadow.

Cat-silent, it crept past the end of the bed, from which came only the muted, content rumble of a slightly catarrh-ridden sleeper, and over to the bedside table. Beside the lamp was a velvet-covered case the size of a cigar box, held closed by a tiny, elegant clasp.

The figure reached out for the box, gloved hands hovering centimeters above its lid, the owner peacefully oblivious ....

And the door crashed open on the impact of a booted foot as two men leapt into the room, guns drawn. The woman in the bed -- large, florid, with the perpetually petulant expression of the terminally pampered -- sat up, clutching the quilt to her more-than-ample bosom, and screamed. Her voice had the penetrating clarity and power of an operatic soprano.

"Thief! Murder! Rape! Help!"

One of the men -- tall, well-built, dark-haired, with a prominent jaw bearing what looked to be permanent five-o'clock shadow -- gave her a disgusted glare on his way to the window. Thrust into rashness by frustration, he yanked open the window and stuck his head out, oblivious to the possibility of having it removed by a dastardly midnight denizen still lurking on the balcony. Luckily, there was no such lurker. There was also no sign of the black-clad intruder.

His partner, a towering black man whose short temper was reflected in the scowl engraving itself on his features, discarded his attempt to placate the virago, who was laying about his head and shoulders with a large pillow which was beginning to bleed feathers, and surveyed the view from the window before throwing the first thing to hand -- a towel -- to the floor in disgust.

"Damn!"

The first man pushed back the brim of his hat and looked glum. "That's the second burglary in two days, Bowler ... this guy's good."

Bowler growled. "Yeah, well, he ain't good enough ... he didn't get nothin' this time."

The virago in the nightgown took off the smaller man's hat with a lucky swing of the pillow. He ducked and turned to her with an air of weary exasperation.

"Lady, will you put down the da- ... the pillow? We're not the ones who broke in, okay?"

"Hah!" She hit him with the pillow again. "What d'you call kicking in my door?"

He tried to cover his head with his hands without losing too much dignity and the ability to carry on some sort of conversation. "Someone else came in through the window and was about to take your jewel case! Will ya knock it off?!"

She stopped, although not before getting in one more solid blow to the head that ruptured the pillow's flagging seams and released a localized snowstorm of tiny feathers. "Just who are you, anyway?"

He picked his hat up off the floor and used it to dust the feathers off the shoulders of his jacket. "Brisco County Jr., ma'am."

She gave him a critical look. "I thought you'd be taller."

Brisco covered the sour expression that crossed his face by returning his hat to its rightful position. "Yeah, well, nobody's perfect. Sorry to disturb you, ma'am. Come on, Bowler."

A pair of black-gloved hands released their grip on the ridgepole of the hotel as the mysterious shadowy figure slithered down off the roof and into the tenuous security of the night.

Chapter 1: A Fool and His Money

"I don't know, Bowler," said Brisco wearily as the pair trudged back through the dusty streets to their hotel -- several grades down in luxury from the Grand; they might be working for the President now, but that didn't mean that their accomodations budget had seen much improvement over its original condition under the robber barons -- "this guy's left a trail of burglaries from here to Boston. No one even knows what he looks like ... it's just luck that we spotted him tonight."

"Speak for yourself," Bowler muttered.

"I'm serious. Where do we start with a thief who doesn't even leave tracks?"

"I bin thinkin' about that ... maybe we're lookin' in the wrong place."

Brisco stopped in the middle of the street and fixed Bowler with the look he usually reserved only for people who were being deliberately obscure. "Now what the heck is that supposed to mean?"

"He ain't a ghost, Brisco, he's gonna leave some sorta track if he's on the ground."

"Yeah, but he hasn't."

"Meanin' he can't be on the ground," Bowler replied hotly. "No way could somebody not leave tracks in this stuff." He kicked disgustedly at the fine, dry dust.

Enlightenment broke over the other bounty hunter's chiselled features, accompanied by a grin of returning confidence. "All the burglaries have been on the second floor ... or above. He's not on the ground ... he's using the roofs!"

With one mind they turned in their tracks and set off for the Grand at a dead run.

They were still half a block away when a flicker of movement tugged at the edge of Brisco's vision: a figure in black, slipping out of a doorway and heading quickly down the alley that ran at right angles to the avenue on which they stood. He grabbed Bowler's elbow.

"Down there ...."

The retreating figure didn't seem to have realized it was being followed. It also didn't seem to be in much of a hurry, and there was a swagger in its step that rang a familiar set of bells in Brisco's mind.

Oh, no ... not him. Please, God, anyone but him ....

"Hold it right there," Brisco called, pitching his voice to carry without waking up too many of the slumbering citizens in the surrounding buildings. The figure froze, shoulders instinctively hunching in an automatic cringe that spoke eloquently of frequent encounters with the badge-carrying community. "Put your hands up," Brisco continued, walking forward slowly, "and turn around."

The black-clad midnight denizen complied, and Brisco found himself face-to-face with a very familiar grin under an equally unforgettable moustache.

"Hello, Buhrisco," said Pete Hutter, dragging out the two-syllable name into three syllables with malicious glee. "Fancy meetin' you here."

"Pete," said Brisco disgustedly. Bowler growled. "What are you doing here?"

"Man's got a right to go where he pleases, last time I checked," the outlaw replied, undaunted. "I might ask the same of you."

"We're lookin' for someone," rumbled Bowler.

Pete gave him an eloquently disdainful look. "An' what does that have to do with me?"

"Someone who likes to wear black and sneak into people's rooms to steal their valuables," Bowler continued, his usual aura of menace increasing exponentially.

Pete grinned. "Sorry, gentleman -- and Bowler," he added, needling the bounty hunter into a snarl, "but cat burglary ain't exactly my line o' work."

"And we should believe you why, exactly?" Brisco asked, suspicion coloring his voice.

"Do I look like a cat burglar?" Pete demanded. "Lemme give you a tip: cat burglars don't wear boots, an' they sure as hell don't carry guns. Last thing you need when sneakin' into a building is somethin' that's gonna catch on things." He stopped abruptly, a scowl creasing his forehead.

It was Brisco's turn to grin. "Gosh, Pete, you seem to be pretty knowledgable about cat burglary."

Bowler closed one hand around the rangy gunslinger's arm. "Why don't we go talk about this somewhere? Like the county jail."

Pete turned white. "You can't do this! I have an alibi, dammit!"

Brisco elevated one eyebrow. "Uh-huh. And just how reliable is this alibi, Pete?"

The pallor in Pete's face receeded under a hot flush that reached the tips of his ears. "Ah ... she, ah ... works at Madam ... um ... Trixie's."

Brisco managed to contain the laughter that threatened to overwhelm him, barely. A snort of amusement from Bowler told much the same tale, albeit with marginally less success.

Pete glared. "Fine, laugh. Like I'm the only one .... You gonna go ask, or what?"

"No, we're not gonna go ask ... Bowler, let him go."

Bowler looked at his partner with as much shock as he had ever experienced. "What?! "

"Let him go," Brisco repeated firmly. "I don't think he's our burglar -- and even if he were, we know we can catch him if we have to."

"Oh, thank you very much," Pete growled. He was ignored.

"Brisco," muttered Bowler through clenched teeth, "are you outta your mind? He as good as admitted he's a burglar!"

"Not necessarily," Brisco muttered back. "I'd be awfully surprised if he'd never run into a couple of cat burglars in his line of work" -- Bowler looked unconvinced, and Brisco pulled out the ace -- "but the thing is, he's right. A cat burglar can't go climbing into windows wearing a gun belt ... and when have you ever known Pete Hutter to voluntarily give up his piece?"

"Oh ... okay, you got a point," his partner admitted sulkily, releasing his prisoner's arm. Pete tried to massage some sensation back into his numbed limb. "I still think we oughta keep an eye on him."

"Of course we should. Even if he's not the burglar, he might know who it is ... or be working with him."

"I don't," said Pete coldly, "and I ain't."

"Now why don't I believe that?" said Brisco dryly.

"'Cause you're a suspicious pain in the butt," snapped Pete. Another snort of amusement was heard from Bowler's vicinity. Brisco ignored both with an air of wounded dignity. "Y'know," Pete added, a cagey smile edging up the side of his face, "I do have some passing familiarity with the workin's of the criminal mind ... might be I could be useful to you."

"Getting altruisitc in your old age, Pete?"

The grin returned full-force. "Keep dreamin', County. This is the best way t'get you an' your intrepid collegue off my back."

Brisco exchanged a look with Bowler, and then shrugged. "Okay, Pete. You have a deal. We managed to catch up with the burglar at the Grand hotel, but he got away during a ... uh ... misunderstanding ... with the room's occupant." He rubbed his neck, embarrassment prickling up his spine, and then pulled himself back together. "What's your expert analysis, Pete?"

"He'll try again, o' course."

"That's not real helpful, Hutter. You wanna do a little better this time?" Bowler demanded.

Pete flinched instinctively, and then gave Bowler a dirty look. "If he's got any brains at all -- which I'd say he does, seein' as how he's managed to elude a couple o' dedicated trackers like yourselves" -- the irony in Pete's voice could be spread with a knife -- "he'll try again where nobody'd suspect."

"The same room?" Bowler demanded, disbelief etched on his face.

"Nah," the outlaw replied dismissively, "too obvious. And whoever was in that room is gonna be on guard now. No, it'll be someone who's completely off-guard."

"Another guest in that same hotel?"

"Give the man a cigar."

"Not just another guest," Brisco added, "but another rich guest. The room he broke into earlier was that of Gina Ooglewassenhyphenhaussenoffenburg, the opera diva."

"So who else is staying at the Grand?" asked Bowler.

Brisco looked grim. "I think we're about to find out."

"There he is."

Though his voice was barely audible, Brisco still felt as though he were shouting at the top of his lungs. The trio was crouched on the roof of the General Store next door to the hotel, hiding behind the superstructure of the store's ornate false front and feeling more than a little silly to be lurking like overgrown pigeons.

The spidery form of the cat burglar crept silently over the roofline of the Grand Hotel and paused at the cornice to attatch an almost-invisible rope. A quick twist of the rope around gloved hands, and the burglar stepped backward off the roof and began rappelling down the side of the building, moving toward the window which was, against all logic, propped open. The occupant was practically begging to be robbed.

The burglar was three feet from the window when Bowler pulled one of the smaller knives from its place of concealment, took aim, and threw it. It lodged, quivering, in the pineboard siding as the rope parted with a snap. A thud followed, seconds later.

Brisco risked a glance over the edge and saw, to his mingled relief and surprise, that the foiled burglar was getting unsteadily to his feet; took a few tottering steps, and then legged it for the nearest alley.

A yelp from Bowler was simultaneous with the sound of someone scrambling down the side of the General Store. "Brisco! He's gettin' away!"

"I know!" Brisco yelled back, leaping for the edge. The burglar was already out of sight.

"Not the burglar! Pete!"

Brisco swore and nearly fell the remaining ten feet to the ground. "We can't worry about Pete right now, the burglar's on the run ... c'mon, he went this way."

"Damn amateurs ..." Pete snarled, running down the alley in hot pursuit of the burglar. The slim black figure had vanished around a corner, but its footfalls were still faintly audible, and it was making no attempt to hide its tracks. "Makin' life hard for the rest of us .... I'm gonna tan his hide."

Another corner, another turn, and then, God be praised, a dead end, the burglar penned like an animal, staring up at the walls in winded shock, his back to the entrance as he tried deperately to find an escape route ....

Pete's Piece appeared in his hand. "Goin' somewhere?"

The burglar froze, hands instinctively raised to protect the back of its neck, shoulders hunched in anticipation of a blow.

Pete sauntered up, holstering his Piece with a flamboyant twirl, and grabbed the catburglar's mask -- "I always like to know who I'm dealin' with," he drawled, grinning -- and yanked. The mask flipped off into his hand, revealing a pale, thin face under an untidy thatch of red-brown hair. Enormous green eyes stared into his for a paralyzed moment that was broken by the sound of running feet and an inarticulate shout from Bowler. The thief whirled and ran for the alley, latched onto the drainpipe and was halfway up the side of the building when the bounty hunters came pounding up beside Pete, who was still staring, frozen, at the space just vacated by the unmasked burglar.

"Hold it!" Brisco shouted; the figure wavered but kept climbing.

"I'll stop 'im," Bowler growled; raised his gun and sighted along the barrel at the catburglar's undefended back

"No!" Pete grabbed Bowler's wrist and knocked it offline; the gun discharged and took a large chunk out of the cornice. Lights began coming on in the surrounding buildings, accompanied by the sounds of complaints from the awakened tenants.

Pete found himself dangling from Bowler's fist, his oxygen supply becoming alarmingly low due to the pressure of the extra-large bounty hunter's extra-large fist curled in the collar of his shirt.

"You wanna explain what the hell you did that for, Hutter?" The question came out as a particularly threatening growl. Pete gawped soundlessly. Brisco tapped his erstwhile "sidekick" on the arm.

"You'll probably get more answers if you let him breathe."

Bowler let go abruptly. Pete landed on his heels, fell, and sat gasping in the dirt while the color in his face returned to something approximating its normal pallid hue.

"Well?" Bowler demanded in a voice that would have inspired a grizzly bear to find a less hazardous habitat.

"I ... know ... her," Pete managed to wheeze, giving Bowler a particularly dirty look.

Brisco and Bowler looked at each other and replied, in perfect chorus, "'Her?'"

"Okay, Hutter, start talkin'."

Pete had been "persuaded" to return to the hotel and "discuss" the situation -- a nice way, Brisco observed, of saying that Lord Bowler had growled at him until he folded. The rangy thief was now slumped at the table, staring into a shotglass that had, two seconds eariler, contained two fingers of something not much smoother than raw turpentine. Brisco doubted Pete had even noticed.

"Her name's Felicia Merriweather," he said tonelessly. "'Bout seven years ago I rode with her brother Zeke."

"Ezekiel Merriweather, the train robber?" Brisco demanded, incredulous. Pete nodded, still staring at the glass as though it held a vision of the past from which he was narrating.

"Didn't your dad put him away?" asked Bowler.

"Yeah, about five years ago ... you weren't with him then," Brisco added to Pete, reaching across the table and lifting the shotglass out of his hands. Pete looked up and seemed to snap back from whatever private reverie had captured him; leaned back in the chair with something approaching his usual snide demeanor.

"Nah, Ezekiel and I had had a minor contract renegotiation at that juncture, and I was runnin' solo."

"This falling-out wouldn't happen to have anything to do with Zeke's little sister, would it?" asked Brisco cagily.

Pete glared at him. "No," he said pointedly, "it did not. Zeke thought I was exercizin' excessive liberties with regards to profit distribution --"

"-- in other words," said Brisco dryly, "you were skimming a little extra off the take."

Pete gave him a look that would fry ants. "If you're finished with this little digression, Buhrisco, we'll get back to the point. Zeke an' I had a fight. It had nothin' to do with Felicia; who, I might add, was all of fifteen at the time."

"So?" said Bowler in such a patently insinuating tone that Pete sat up straight for the first time during the entire evening and, ignoring the fact that Bowler outweighed him by at least fifty pounds and had a considerably longer reach, fixed him with a look that would peel paint. "Pretty little thing, was she?" Bowler added coyly, pouring salt on the wound.

"I resent your pedophiliac insinuation, Bowler." Pete's voice dropped out of its usual tenor whine into a growl. "I might not exactly fit your definition of a model citizen, but I don't beat women and I don't court little girls." Brisco found himself believing Pete in spite of himself: Hutter was a thief and a scoundrel who had the scruples of a weasel, not to mention his association with Bly ... but somehow cradle-robbing didn't seem to be his style. "Felicia was Zeke's kid sister," Pete continued heatedly, "she hung around us a lot. We taught her to ride and shoot and pick locks .... And no, she wasn't pretty. She was all knees and elbows, little quick skinny thing ...." A look of dreamy recollection crossed his face. "Never seen anyone who could go up a drainpipe faster ...."

"Obviously she hasn't lost that skill," Brisco observed dryly. "So you trained Merriweather's sister to be a cat burglar."

Pete shook his head, a sardonic smile quirking the moustache. "This inclination toward nocturnal larceny is a recent development. Last I knew, she was bein' sent to live with her aunt back East."

"But you suspected."

"Yeah, okay, I had my suspicions ... right place, right time, right modus operandi ...." Pete shrugged with studied carelessness. "Not a crime, is it?"

"So why're you here, Hutter?" Bowler gave him the "don't mess with me, I eat bigger guys than you for breakfast" look that was almost guaranteed to intimidate anyone into a confession. "An' I want the real reason, not some cock-and-bull story you pull outta your hat to put us off the scent."

Pete slumped in the chair with a hang-dog expression and didn't answer.

"I can't imagine it's out of any sort of altruism," Brisco observed with calculated brusqueness. "You must have had some deal cut with her and she took the profits and ran. I'm right, aren't I?" he added as Pete looked up with a half-crazed murderous glint in his eyes. Of course, Pete always looked half-crazed to begin with; not for the first time, Brisco wondered just how much of that was an act.

"Wrong again, County. I'm lookin' for Felicia, but not 'cause she swindled me. I wanted to find her before some overzealous bounty hunter" -- he shot them a pointed glare -- "put a bullet in her skull."

"Why?"

"Because I owe it to Zeke, dammit!" Pete stood so fast that the chair went over backward. "I owe it to both of them to keep her from gettin' killed if I can ... is that what you wanted to know?"

Brisco stared at him for a moment, surprised by the man's vehemence, and then nodded. "Yeah, Pete." He stood and picked up his hat. "Come on, Bowler. We have work to do."

Pete's eyes narrowed. "What kinda work?"

"We're gonna help you keep that promise."

Bowler turned to his partner, a look of incredulity on his face. "We are?"

****

Another midnight rooftop, another open window. Brisco shifted restlessly in the bed, trying to match his movement to that of a sleeper oblivious to the cat-footed shadow creeping down the wall outside his window. His suggestion that they set a trap for the intrepid Miss Merriweather, with him -- or rather, his gambler facade's pocketbook -- as bait, had been met with scoffing from both Pete and Bowler ... but it would appear, he noted with satisfaction, as a black-shod foot slipped through the window, that it wasn't such a bad idea after all.

She made no sound as she moved across the room, headed purposefully toward his jacket on the dressing table and the wallet just visible as a rectangular bulge in the inside pocket. Deftly, she extracted it from its place of concealment, tucked it into her waitcoat, and stole back toward the window. He let her get one leg over the sill before turning on the light.

She froze. He grinned at her over the barrel of his gun. "Good evening, Miss Merriweather. Don't believe I've had the pleasure."

Felicia Merriweather stared at him for a second longer, eyes huge behind the mask, and then, before he could stop her, turned and jumped out the window.

Brisco launched himself out of the bed in time to see her hit the ground. Luckily, it was only a two-storey fall, and she caught herself on hands and feet and was running almost before the dust had settled.

"Felicia! Wait! ... damn!"

Felicia turned and fled down the alley, Brisco and Bowler in hot pursuit ... the sounds of their footfalls grew fainter with distance as she wound through the labyrinth of pine boards and slate tile ... around another corner and up over a roof, and she was safe ....

... and, while looking over her shoulder, ran right into Pete. Felicia sat down, hard, winded and bemused, and looked up into Pete's astonished stare.

"Hi, Pete," said Felicia weakly. "Like the moustache ...."

Pete wasn't given a chance to respond to this non-sequitor. Bowler grabbed Felicia by the arm and hauled her to her feet.

"Howdy, Miz Merriweather. Nice night for collectin' a bounty, ain't it?"

Felicia twisted loose, much to his suprise, and staggered a few steps before her knees gave out. "This is just not my night."

"Yeah, well, it ain't exactly my night either," Bowler growled. "I wasn't intending on chasin' after some second-rate thief."

Felicia clapped one hand dramatically over her heart and winced as she hit herself harder than she'd expected. "Only second-rate? I'm hurt." She reached into the watch pocket of her vest and pulled out a rather good gold pocketwatch. "Nice watch," she observed cheerfully, turning to Bowler. "Catch." She threw it in a smooth underhand toss.

Bowler caught it one-handed, looked at it, and swore.

"What?" asked Brisco.

"It's my watch," said Bowler.

"And it's five minutes slow," added Felicia, grinning.

Brisco grinned at his partner's expression of exasperation, and then sobered as he turned to the girl sitting on the ground. "Miss Merriweather --"

"Felicia," she said firmly. "The other is such a mouthful."

"-- Felicia, then. I'm afraid I'm going to have to take you in."

"Yeah, I thought so." She stood slowly. "I'm sure you understand that I feel it only my duty to try to escape at every opportinity."

"That's fine," said Brisco blandly, "as long as you don't take our recapturing you personally."

Felicia grinned. "Oh, not at all. So now that we've come to this understanding ...." She turned and leapt into a sprint in one smooth motion, and Bowler, equally smoothly, stuck out one foot and tripped her, sending her sprawling.

"Ooops," said Bowler, the grin completely giving the lie to that statement.

"Somehow," Felicia muttered from ankle-level, "I fail to be convinced of your peaceable intentions."

During the few minutes it took to relocate to the sheriff's office, Felicia tried twice more to escape, and twice more was restrained. Brisco had a feeling that falling out of windows two nights running would probably take the fight out of almost anyone.

Unnoticed, Pete Hutter slipped away into the darkness. He had a sinking feeling that the nagging disquiet in his stream of consciousness was due to the discovery of a conscience.

****

"Okay, Felicia," said Brisco in the calm, even voice that was so often successful in coaxing an explanation from just about anyone, "suppose you explain why you were shimmying up that drainpipe at three in the morning?"

"I don't suppose you'll believe me if I say that I felt the need for a little light exercize?" she asked cagily, with a grin that was eerily reminiscent of Pete's.

"No," said Bowler in a voice containing the finality of a tomb-lid crashing shut.

Felicia raised a single, well-arched eyebrow, but said nothing. Brisco took the opportunity to study her, wondering, as he did so, what on earth a girl like this was doing sneaking around rooftops.

Felicia Merriweather was tall for a woman, slim but not willowy -- there was muscle in those arms and legs strong enough to permit (or probably because of) her lifestyle -- and fair-skinned; her red-brown hair touselled and gleaming copper under the lamplight; big green eyes in a narrow oval face.

How Pete could think she's not pretty is beyond me .... Felicia wasn't conventionally pretty, admittedly: there was too much strength in her face, too much character in the long nose and pointed chin, but the great green eyes under dark even brows, arched like gull's wings, were captivating, and when she smiled her whole face lit up ... and she smiled a lot.

Eventually she sighed and leaned forward on her elbows. "Okay," she said wearily. "The wife of railroad magnate Walter MacGowan was staying in that hotel. In her luggage is a sapphire the size of my thumb, it's called the Star of Persia, and I was going to ... 'borrow' ... it ... for a while."

"'Course you were," said Bowler, a world of scepticism heavy in his deep voice. "And then you were gonna give it back once you'd done playin' with it, right?"

Felicia looked up at him, anger sparking in her viridian gaze. "As a matter of fact, Mr. Bowler," she replied tightly, "I was."

"An' we're supposed to believe that?"

She made a dismissive gesture and leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest. "Believe what you like. It doesn't matter to me."

"Well, then, let's see how much a night in jail matters to you."

Chapter 2: Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend

"You wanna get these bracelets off me?" Felicia asked plaintively. "They don't really go with my ensemble."

"The cuffs stay," said Brisco firmly, closing the door of the cramped cell and locking it securely. He had taken two steps in the direction of the sheriff's desk when a sudden rattling clink made him look down at the floor by his feet.

The handcuffs were lying beside his right boot. Slowly, he bent down and picked them up; then looked back at Felicia. She had, he realized, the wickedest grin he had ever seen on a woman.

"Oops," she said, and held up her unshackled hands in a gesture of helpless defeat. "They slipped."

"Uh-huh," said Brisco warily, watching as she slipped fluidly off the cot and strode over to lean on crossed arms against the door.

"Shoddy construction," she observed. "Locks just fall open ...." She ran one hand over the lock. Brisco was prepared, by now, and knew what to look for; but he barely saw her fingers move before the door swung open with a defeated creak.

"Very fancy," he drawled, thinking all the while, with something akin to dismay, she's good -- she's very, very good. How am I supposed to keep her locked up if she can pick locks that easily? Thank you so much, Pete. She's obviously been practicing those lessons you gave her ....

She saw the thoughts passing over his face and shook her head, one dark copper lock falling haphazardly over her face. "I won't run, Mr. County. You caught me fair and square .... I just want a chance to tell my side of things. Fair?"

He shrugged. "Sounds fair enough. I don't know how far you'd get if you tried to run; I'm not the only one guarding this place."

Felicia grinned. "I know. I hardly expected less." She hoisted herself onto the edge of the desk and sat there, feet swinging against the old dark wood in a rhythmic tatoo. "I knew this would happen sooner or later," she said softly, talking more to herself, it seemed, than to him. "I admit I was expecting it to be more later, but, then, I wasn't expecting them to put you on my trail, either."

"It's hardly a low-profile case," Brisco pointed out, leaning back in his chair. "You've robbed some of the richest and most influential people in the country."

She shot him a quick, uneven smile through the curtain of hair that had fallen forward to hide her face. "Not to mention the proudest and most paranoid," she added with a trace of humor. "They didn't tell you that they got the stuff back, did they?"

Brisco sat up abruptly. "They what?"

Felicia shrugged. "I gave it back. I always give it back. I just take the stuff to shake them up a bit, maybe get them to look at their security a little better. I never keep the stuff ...." Her voice faded and she stared at him for a moment before shaking her head. "They didn't tell you that, did they?"

"No, they didn't." Brisco's voice had turned thoughtful. "I wonder why not ...."

"Well, they could hardly have persuaded you to come after me if they told you that everything had been returned."

"Yeah, but why would they be so adamant about capturing you, then?"

"I don't know." For the first time, a note of uncertainty entered her voice. "I mean, that's the whole reason I make sure to return everything -- besides the fact that I really don't want it," she added frankly, "I mean, some of that jewelry is really ugly -- I don't want a bunch of bounty hunters on my tail. It kind of takes the joy out of life, y'know?"

"Yeah, I know," Brisco muttered, remembering a time when he'd felt the same pressure.

Felicia rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands and sighed. "So I guess the question now is, are you taking me in?"

He shook his head slowly. "I don't know, Felicia. I'd like to believe you, but ...."

She nodded. "I understand, really. I just ... I don't want to go to jail for something I didn't actually do." She was silent for a moment before looking up at him, a calculating glint in her viridian eyes. "Um ... I don't suppose you'd be willing to tell me exactly why I'm being taken in, and on whose orders?"

He shook his head. "All I have is the warrant for your arrest."

"Yeah, but who gave it to you?"

"The president."

Her eyebrows peaked. "Really? That's odd ... I mean, surely he has better things to worry about than one burglar."

"You're right," he said thoughtfully, tapping the desk absently. "It makes me wonder ..."

"So let's get some answers."

He looked at her, surprised -- and made wary by the expression of pure devilment lurking behind her smile. "What do you have in mind?"

Felicia Merriweather slid off the desk and turned to face him, hands together at the wrists as though already shackled. "Congratulations, Mr. County, you caught me. Now let's go tell the boss."

She was on her third glass of root beer by the time Socrates Poole arrived, looking slightly pink in the face and decidedly worse for the wear.

Brisco turned and waved him into a chair at the table. "So, what did the president say?"

Socrates plopped gratefully into the chair and mopped his brow with a slightly crumpled handkerchief. "Everything's set. The extradition procedures will begin in the morning."

"Extradition?" Felicia and Brisco demanded in unison. She gave him a look. He returned it before leaning over the table to the fair-haired lawyer. "Soc, what're you talking about? Extradition to where?"

"Mexico, of course." He looked from one to the other, genuine befuddlement creasing his brow. "Surely you knew ... Felicia Merriweather is wanted for theft of state secrets from General Benvolio Falcone. The general has threatened to march on our borders if she isn't turned over to him for execution."

"Exe ..." Felicia choked. "This is crazy! I've never even been to Mexico, let alone stolen 'state secrets!' I'm a burlgar, not a spy!" Her voice cracked.

Socrates gave her a look that was not entirely devoid of sympathy. "That's as may be, Miss Merriweather, but the fact remains that the president himself has ordered your arrest and extradition. I'm sorry ... we haven't any choice."

Brisco looked at him, jaw set in a very familiar expression.

Socrates groaned. "Oh, no ... not again."

Brisco's room was slightly less comfortable than the saloon and only marginally more private, but it had been chosen as the most favorable venue in which to continue the debate. Felicia was currently sitting on the edge of the bed, in a mild state of shock, as Brisco paced and Socrates leaned on the door, looking uncomfortable, as was his wont.

His discomfort increased exponentially as Bowler entered in his usual straight-forward manner, knocking the door into the wall and squishing the lawyer, who squeaked.

"Bowler," said Brisco in a slightly chastizing tone. Bowler looked behind him to see Socrates emerging from the wainscotting, looking considerably rumpled and fumbling his wire-rimmed specs back onto his nose.

Bowler grinned. "Sorry, Poole."

"Any news?" Brisco asked quickly, before Socrates could say anything.

"Nah ... everything's quiet." He jerked one thumb in Felicia's direction. "So what're we gonna do with her?"

Brisco shook his head. "I don't know, Bowler ... for all I know, she could be telling the truth."

"For all you know, she could be lyin'."

"I still don't like the idea of handing her over to this general for execution, no matter what she stole."

Felicia looked up at that. "You think I'm really looking forward to that myself? Look, I'm no saint, but I've never done anything to deserve a firing squad."

"Do you have any idea why General Falcone would be so eager to have you killed?"

She shook her head slightly, and then paused, a contemplative look crossing her face. "I don't know for certain, but I could hazard a guess."

"Well?"

"Okay, we know that Falcone is one of the people I burgled. So he must think I kept something -- which I didn't."

"You sure?" Bowler asked pointedly.

"I'm sure. As a matter of fact, I didn't even take anything from that burglary, now that I think of it."

"Why not?"

"Well, for one thing, I heard someone coming ... but there also wasn't anything worth taking. Just a bunch of papers."

Brisco and Bowler stared at her, turned to each other, and looked back at the young sneakthief. She looked back at them. "What?"

"Soc mentioned something to me about a week ago," Brisco said slowly, almost thinking aloud, "something about a rumor that someone was trying to start another war between the US and Mexico."

"Not again," groaned Bowler. "We just got that Jennifer Hart mess straightened out; you mean we gotta go do it again?"

"So how does Falcone fit in?" Felicia demanded sceptically. "He's the instigator?"

"Maybe." Brisco looked at her, hard. "Felicia, did you see anything in those papers? Anything you can remember that might be damaging to Falcone?"

She was silent for a long time, eyes closed, until Bowler began to fidget.

"Brisco, this ain't gettin' us nowhere." Brisco shushed him.

Her eyes snapped open. "All I can remember is a letter from someone to Falcone, about some sort of 'merchandise' that was ready for shipping ...."

Inspiration ignited behind Brisco's eyes. "Hey, Bowler. Wasn't there a shipment of guns stolen recently, en route to the army?"

Bowler rolled his eyes. "Oh, no ... not this, too. Can't anybody ever come up with somethin' original for a change?"

" ... but I don't recall anything about an invasion," she continued.

"Well, then," said Brisco, setting his hat firmly and rising to his feet with the air of a man with a mission, "let's go ask him."

"Ask who?" Socrates demanded in the tones of a man who already knows the answer but wishes he didn't.

"General Falcone."

"But, Brisco," said Bowler tiredly, "we don't even know where he is."

"No, but I think I know someone who might."

"Pete!"

Pete Hutter, without even looking to identify the caller, broke into a run.

"Pete!" Brisco yelled, pounding after him. "We just need to ask you --"

"Forget it! That's the last time I help you, County!"

"But Felicia --"

"-- is in jail, thanks to you!"

"Pete, dammit, stop!"

"Make me!"

"My pleasure," announced Lord Bowler, stepping out of the shadows at the other end of the alley, and caught Pete with a right cross to the jaw that the outlaw literally ran into, full-force. Pete slumped to the ground, unconscious.

Brisco gave Bowler a singularly eloquent look.

"Well, he was gettin' on my nerves."

"Fine. You carry him."

Consciousness returned with relative speed; one advantage of being knocked out by Lord Bowler was that he knew how to make sure you'd be waking up again within a reasonable interval, if only because he didn't want to wait too long for interrogation. Pete sat up, repressing a groan as his head started to throb, and looked around.

He was in a jail cell. This in and of itself was nothing unusual; he had spent most of his adult life either on the run or incarcerated. The unusual part was that, as far as he knew, he hadn't done anything to merit his current imprisonment.

Movement on the other side of the bars caught his attention, and he turned to see two very familiar faces watching him. Brisco and Bowler. I thought so .... The conversation prior to his unconsciousness returned in fragments. Of all the nerve ... if they think they're gonna get me to talk by stickin' me in this hole, they have another thing comin'.

Something, though, felt wrong; something so instinctive that it took him a moment to pinpoint the source of nagging disquiet tugging at his attention. Something was missing: a familiar weight was gone from his narrow hipbones. The gunbelt that he'd made a part of himself since the age of thirteen was currently sitting on the sheriff's desk, six inches from Brisco's hand; the gunbelt, and his Piece. Pete felt a certain dithering panic begin to dissolve the edges of his mind -- my Piece! He has my Piece, he touched my Piece! -- and pulled himself under control, turning the panic into anger that stiffened his spine and let him ignore the throbbing in his skull.

"You know, Buhrisco," Pete growled, staggering to his feet and across the cell to wrap his hands around the bars in a white-knuckled grip, "there are more agreeable methods of recruitin' me for these little endeavors." Brisco smiled at him from the chair in which he was lounging.

"Well, I considered trying to appeal to your better instincts until I realized that was probably a lost cause."

"I'm hurt."

"Not as much as you could be."

Pete's eyes flicked, rodent-like, to Lord Bowler's forboding countenance and back to Brisco.

"What d'you want, County?"

"Where's Falcone?"

"Now how the hell should I know that?" He jerked on the bars irritably, not expecting any results and therefore not disappointed when the door held firm. "Do I look like a trusted member of the General's cadre?"

"You do know something, though," Brisco replied levelly. "What?"

The calculating glint returned to Pete's eyes. "If I tell you, what'll it get me?"

Brisco exchanged a rather long-suffering look with Bowler before turning back to Pete. "You tell me what you know, and I'll let you out."

It took Pete all of three seconds to weigh the alternatives. Freedom won hands-down. "He has a hideout three miles southeast of Tecate. It's heavily guarded and you'd need an army to get in there. Can I go now?"

In answer, Brisco unlocked the door and swung it open. "Thanks for your help." He managed to keep most of the sarcasm out of his voice.

Pete didn't notice, being too intent upon reclaiming his Piece from the sheriff's desk.

"I don't suppose you'd be willing to help us?" Brisco asked as Pete returned his gunbelt to its accustomed place.

Pete gave him a look that defined 'withering scorn.' "No thanks, County. I'd like to keep breathin' for a while longer, if you catch my drift."

Brisco shrugged. "No surprise there, Pete. Try to stay out of trouble, okay?" He grabbed his hat from the desk and headed, Bowler hard on his heels, for the door, which opened to admit Felicia's head.

"We ready?"

Bowler looked disgustedly at Pete, who hadn't moved. "Yeah. Let's go."

Felicia glanced at Pete with an unreadable expression; and, when he didn't react, hitched one shoulder in a gesture that might have been a shrug, stepping back from the doorway to allow the bounty hunters to pass.

The door closed with a small, accusing click.

Pete stared after them in silence for a moment, a muscle in his jaw twitching spasmodically, before striding to the door and opening it with a savage yank. Three horses were gone from the hitching post, and the dust was still settling in heavy, tawny swirls from their departure. The one remaining -- an unusually dark roan -- pricked its ears at him expectantly and champed its bit. It was one of the fastest horses in the territories, a characteristic which had served Pete well in the past and would probably continue to do so. Certainly it was faster than Bowler's tall black mount or Felicia's palamino; whether it could catch Comet was something he'd never before tried to determine.

Pete swore and unhitched the roan from the post, mounted and turned its head to the road out of town and, to the distant south, Tecate, and spurred it into a flat-out gallop.

Chapter 3: A Piece of the Action

"There's somebody behind us," said Bowler. "One horse, movin' fast. You expectin' anybody, Brisco?"

"No," said Brisco, reining Comet and wheeling the horse to face back the way they'd come, "but I can't say I'm surprised ...."

The black-clad rider reined in his horse with smooth unconcern and grinned. "Hello, Buhrisco."

"Pete. What the heck are you doing here?"

"Man's got a right to travel where he likes, don't he?"

"Well, I can't argue with that," Brisco drawled with something akin to malicious humor, "but some people might say you were following us. Wouldn't you agree, Bowler?" he added, as the other bounty hunter rode forward out of the brush.

"Yeah," said Bowler, with a horrible grin. "Why d'you think that is, Brisco?"

"Oh, this is very comradely," Pete snapped, "I feel so welcome."

"You ain't," said Bowler.

"Bowler," said Brisco, slightly chiding (but only slightly).

"Look," said Pete, "I just happen to be travellin' in the same direction as your little caravan, that's all. There's no need to get all defensive and mistrustful."

"Hunh," said Bowler.

Brisco looked at Pete. Pete lifted his chin and stared back defiantly. "Okay," said Brisco wearily. "Since you're heading in the same direction, do you want to ride with us?"

Bowler opened his mouth to object, but Brisco silenced him with a look that said, as clearly as any spoken word, I'd rather have him where I can see him; wouldn't you? Bowler subsided with a growl.

Pete hadn't missed the unspoken communication; one corner of his moustache quirked in an ironic half-smile. "Very kind of you, Buhrisco," he drawled. "Don't mind if I do."

Bowler fixed the blond mercenary with a look eloquent of distaste. "Yeah, well, I do."

****

"So why do you run around on rooftops?" asked Brisco.

Felicia grinned. "It seemed like the best option available at the time."

"You wanna explain exactly what you mean by that?" Bowler demanded.

"Look at it my way." She half-turned in the saddle to face him. "I'm too independent to be a wife, too honest to be a mistress, and too proud to be a whore ... and there quite frankly aren't that many options open to a woman in this day and age, even out here on the frontier, and even more so back East.

"Zeke and his friends had a great thing going," she continued, addressing her saddlebow, "or, at least, that's how it seemed to a disillusioned fifteen-year-old .... It was free, and --" she gave them a self-depracating grin "-- very romantic; I didn't really pay attention to the fact that they were robbing people and causing all sorts of damage. And of course, I ..." She inadvertently half-looked over her shoulder and turned back quickly to study her saddlebow.

Brisco looked back at Pete, who was bringing up the rear, and the light began to dawn. He didn't know whether to be fascinated or horrified ....

"My aunt decided that it wasn't lady-like to be running around like a 'wild savage,'" Felicia continued, "and sent for me to live with her in Boston, to get a 'civilizing influence' and finish my schooling. That was the last time I saw my brother or any of his gang ..." Her voice trailed off.

"I went to school back East myself," offered Brisco, when she fell silent with the realization that she would never see her brother again: Zeke Merriweather had been shot and killed while trying to escape from prison.

Felicia sat up and shook herself briskly. "Dull, wasn't it?" she replied, half-smiling. "I hated it ... not the learning part, of course," she added quickly, "I loved that. But all that social preening and gesturing ... all those endless, boring parties ... and of course, I wasn't allowed to wear trousers or ride properly or anything; it wasn't 'proper.'" She tilted her nose and pronounced the last word with an upper-crust accent that turned it into "pro-pah."

"So you took up burglary."

"Well, you know ...." She shrugged easily. "Just to pass the time. I mean, Zeke and Pete had taught me how to pick locks and get into buildings without being seen or heard; and I was always good at climbing things. So ... the Boston Burglar was born. I never kept anything, though," she added firmly. "I always gave it back ... usually in a pillowcase, left on the front step, and I'd wait until someone came out and got it before I left. I mean, what's the point in going to all the trouble of bringing it back if someone else is gonna walk off with it?"

Pete urged his mount into a slightly quicker amble and pulled up level with them. "If you don't mind me askin', what exactly is the point of this little road trip?"

"We're going to Falcone's headquarters," said Brisco shortly.

"I kinda gathered that," Pete retorted. "What I want to know is why."

"If we can find out why he wants Felicia dead, we might be able to clear her name and keep the rest of the bounty hunters off her back."

"'Might?'" said Felicia dryly. "Forgive me if I'm less than thrilled by your confidence."

Brisco grinned. "You're forgiven. Come on." Comet leapt forward in a flat gallop, and the other three followed a heart-beat later.

****

The road -- though it hardly deserved to be dignified with the name, being little more than a winding dirt track -- up to Falcone's hacienda was heavily guarded. This was less of a problem than it might have been otherwise, given that no one in the party was surprised by this, and all of them were well-experienced in avoiding detection, particularly by bored, sun-dazzled guards who were more interested in their hand-rolled cigarettes than any surruptitious activity in the bushes.

"Okay," said Brisco quietly. "That'd be Falcone's office --"

"Where?" Bowler demanded.

"There. The building he just walked out of." The foursome quickly disappeared back into the sagebrush. After a suitable interval, they re-emerged, shaking sticks and the occasional curious insect from their garb. "I'm guessing that would be a good place to start looking."

"Sounds reasonable," Felicia muttered.

"So how're we gonna get in?"

The back door, on inspection, was locked, as were the other accessible entrances. Brisco leaned against the building with a discouraged sigh and pushed his hat back. "We have to find a way in ... Felicia, can't you pick the lock?" He looked around, realizing suddenly that Felicia was nowhere to be seen. "Oh, no ... Felicia?"

"Looking for me?" She stuck her head out the door and grinned at the varying expressions of outrage on the men's faces. "Do try to keep up, boys ... now come on, I don't know how long we'll have to search."

"I don't think it's gonna take much looking," Bowler observed dryly. The room was dominated by a singularly impressive table, the entire top of which was occupied by a map of the border region.

"Well, that's convenient," said Felicia.

Brisco whistled quietly. "Looks like he has his entire invasion plan laid out here."

"So I take it we have enough evidence to clear me?"

The dark-haired bounty hunter looked up at her with a grimly-satisfied smile. "More than that, Felicia. We have enough evidence here to make sure that Falcone won't be making trouble for anyone, for a very long time."

And then General Benvolio Falcone walked through the door.

There was a frozen, horrified moment in which no one could bring themselves to blink, much less move. Falcone was the first to recover; and in a single motion he drew the pistol from its holster at his side and fired. There was a muffled gasp and a thud as Felicia hit the wall and slid down it, eyes wide with shock, a brilliant carmine streak following her path to the floor.

Pete's leap for her was interrupted by half a dozen of Falcone's men piling into the room, guns drawn. Falcone used the distraction to grab Felicia and throw her over his shoulder, ignoring the damage her wounds were doing to his immaculate uniform, and run for the door.

His action was missed by no one; but it was several minutes before they could fight their way through the blockade and into the street.

"Where --" Pete demanded.

"There!" Brisco pointed down the street -- which was rapidly filling with Falcone's men, all of whom were armed and none of whom were shy about using said armament.

A bullet splintered the pine boards beside Pete's ear, and in a single motion he turned, drew, and fired; and the sniper yelped in astonished pain as the rifle barrel exploded.

"Nice shootin', Hutter," Bowler snarled grudgingly as he ducked behind a convenient wagon, guns drawn, beside the rangy thief.

"Hey!" said Brisco, outrage coloring his voice. "That was my shot!"

"What?" said Pete.

"That was my trick shot, Pete ... you know, the one where you shoot up the barrel of the other guy's gun and it explodes and he yells in shock and drops it?"

"'Scuse me for steppin' on your toes, County," Pete growled, "but this ain't exactly the time to be arguin' about copyright infringement!"

"I hate to asy this, Brisco," muttered Bowler under his breath, "but I gotta agree with Hutter. Can we talk about this some other time? Like, when Falcone's army ain't shootin' at us?"

"Okay, okay." Brisco shot a final glare at Pete, who didn't notice, preoccupied as he was with clearing a path to Falcone. He noticed that the muscles in Pete's jaw were twitching; the outlaw was grinding his teeth in fury. Not that his rage was in any way unjustified; Brisco was singularly unimpressed by Falcone's decision to shoot Felicia and run. By this point, the general was halfway down the street and three dozen hand-picked troops were filling the rapidly-increasing gap.

Hutter didn't have a reputation as a gun-slinger for nothing: he was fast and accurate, but he did have to stop and reload. He stepped back as Brisco moved forward and took down another half-dozen -- by now, distinctly intimidated -- of Falcone's troops, shooting to wound, not to kill. Falcone's men, of course, were not being nearly as considerate. Brisco bit down on an exclamation of pain as an unusually well-aimed bullet jerked his right shoulder back.

"You okay?" Bowler calmly dropped the man responsible with a bullet in the leg. The man yowled and fell over. The rest of Falcone's troops wavered and then decided that a strategic retreat was the best option.

"Fine," Brisco gritted through clenched teeth. "Just grazed me. Come on, he's getting away."

The building into which Falcone had dragged Felicia was guarded, of course; and with predictable lack of ingenuity, the guards jumped the trio as soon as they walked through the door.

"This ... is really getting old," Brisco observed, blocking a rather clumsy blow before landing one of his own that snapped the transgressor's head back and dropped him with gratifying speed.

"Is she worth it?" Bowler returned sourly. An unusually large guard took advantage of his temporary distraction to sucker-punch him. Bowler just looked at him disgustedly and then backhanded him across the room.

"You tell me," his erstwhile partner demanded thickly -- one of his opponents had landed a lucky punch and split his lip -- "I thought you were just after the bounty on her head."

"Yeah, well, money ain't everything."

Brisco grinned tightly as he broke a chair over the head of yet another misguided guard, and then looked around. "Where's Pete?"

Pete was skulking down the corridor in pursuit of Falcone. A solidly-contructed oak door barred his path and bore an even-more solid lock; kicking it in was simply not an option unless he wanted to hobble through the rest of this mess with a broken foot.

Falcone's voice was dimly audible through the heavy oak panels. Pete dropped into a crouch and set to work on the lock, listening with as much attention as he could spare.

"Who did you tell? Who else knows of this?" The man's voice was loud enough to be heard even through the door as he furiously interrogated the room's other occupant -- Felicia! -- the questions punctuated by the sound of a hand cracking across the prisoner's face.

Pete felt an unfamiliar rage begin to build, and squashed it. Losing his temper right now wasn't going to do anyone any good.

"Tell me!" Falcone demanded, fury cracking his voice. "You will tell me!"

He wouldn't be interrogating her if she were dead or unconscious, said the logical part of Pete's brain. The emotional part was incoherently mumbling comments along the lines of I'm gonna rip his lungs out.

"Go to hell," said an indistinct contralto, followed by a sound that could only be a fist landing on a jaw. Pete ground his teeth and twisted the pick in the lock, which resisted for a second longer; and then, with a tired click, the bolt shot back. The door swung open under the impetus of his shoulder against it; Falcone whirled and found himself staring straight down the gleaming barrel of Pete's Piece.

"Hello, Falcone," said Pete. "Ready to spend a little quality time with the Reaper?"

"Pete, no!" Brisco came pounding down the corridor and skidded to a halt beside him. "It's over. Falcone's going to jail. We've stopped the invasion, Pete; now put down the gun."

"No way, County." Pete's voice was perfectly level, but it was white-hot with fury. "Falcone's gonna experience the unique sensation of having his cerebellum smeared across the opposite wall."

"Pete. If you shoot him, you won't just be wanted for robbing trains and God-knows what else. You'll be wanted for murder. You'll have every bounty hunter in the country on your trail."

"Like I don't already? Nice try, Buhrisco, but I've avoided incarceration this long, an' I'm willin' to risk it." His finger tightened on the trigger ... and Falcone collapsed with a groan. "Wha --" said Pete.

Felicia stood over the crumpled form of the General, the twelve-inch Bowie grasped loosely in one bloody hand.

"You didn't," said Brisco, horrified.

She looked up and gave him a slow, weary grin. "Nope." She held up both hands and Brisco realized that the blade was clean. The blood slicking her hands had its source in the raw, abraded skin of her wrists. "Just knocked him out, County; I know I don't want my bounty any higher than it already is." She glanced over at Pete, the grin creeping higher. "Wouldja mind puttin' that thing away? You're scaring me."

Pete realized that he was still aiming at the space that had just been vacated by General Falcone, which meant that, should he actually pull the trigger, Felicia would end up with a bullet between the eyes. He uncocked his piece and holstered it quickly.

"Didn't you get shot?" asked Bowler in the tone of voice that meant he knew he probably wouldn't like the answer but had to ask anyway.

Felicia nodded, tight-lipped; and the intrepid trio realized almost simultaneously that (a) despite whatever protests she was undoubtedly going to make, she had just been rather seriously wounded; and (b) judging from the unhealthy greenish tinge to her normally fair complexion, she was about to faint.

She did. It was a nearly vertical drop as her knees went out, and Brisco and Pete caught her under each arm. The shock of her weight coming down on the shoulder which had just had a bullet pass through it brought her back to consciousness long enough to scream before fainting again.

"That was entertaining," said Brisco, and draped her limply over his shoulder. "Now what do you say we get out of here?"

No Man's Land ...

Felicia woke up and immediately wished she hadn't. The pain in her shoulder promptly leapt upon her and did horrible things to the equilibrium of her brain. She lay flat on her back and let the icy sweat trickle down her back and off her temples into her ears for a few minutes until the pain subsided, and then opened her eyes.

Nice room, was her first thought. Hard on the heels of that was: Where the heck is it? It was too hot, the sun too harsh even through the curtains, for Boston -- and she sincerely doubted that Brisco and Bowler would have been able to get her Boston without her knowing it, unless they had been knocking her out regularly for several days, at least. Not any hotel she'd been in, certainly, and while it didn't appear to be anyone's private room, it was considerably less sterile and impersonal than most hotel rooms. Someone had obviously gone to a bit of trouble to make her comfortable, and she found herself hoping she would have a chance to thank them.

As if on cue, there was a knock at the door.

"Yeah," said Felicia. Okay, not real articulate ... but what do they expect from somebody who was shot and then dragged God-knows how far to be dumped in a strange bed?

The door opened to admit a small, black-haired Hispanic woman with a rather comforting smile and a taller blonde who looked extraordinarily out of place in a Stetson and a chambray shirt, although Felicia couldn't say for the life of her what she was expecting to see the woman wearing.

"You're awake," said the blonde.

"Very perceptive," Felicia muttered. I think something died in my mouth ... ugh. I hate the taste of old blood. "And you are?"

She smiled, apparently unruffled by Felicia's brusqueness. "Jenny Taylor. I'm the sheriff."

"Really? Wow. Where the heck am I, anyway?"

"No Man's Land," said the Hispanic woman, who was unwrapping the gauze swathing Felicia's shoulder. "Hold still."

"I'm sorry, I'm being really obtuse and very rude, but I have no idea what you're talking about."

The blonde -- Jenny -- smiled. "Ask Brisco about it; I'm sure he'll explain. I would, but I have some business to take care of."

"This business wouldn't happen to have anything to do with a certain hired gun by the name of Hutter, would it?" Felicia asked warily.

Jenny looked a little surprised. "As a matter of fact, yes, it does. How did you know?"

Felicia let her head fall back into the pillows and began to giggle. "The experience of a lifetime, ma'am."

Pete hung between the unyielding grips of the Swenge sisters like a dead squirrel. He had about as much chance of breaking the blonde blacksmiths' grips as he did of surviving a quick dip in fresh lava; and, to judge by the expression on his face, would prefer the agony of the latter to the humiliation of the former.

"Okay, Pete," Brisco said wearily, pushing his hat back on his head and rubbing his forehead. "What've you done this time?"

"Nothin'!" the outlaw protested, his voice cracking with mingled outrage and fear. "Honest, Buhrisco, you got the wrong man!"

Brisco gave him a particularly sceptical once-over, and transferred his attention to the Swenge sisters. "What'd he do?"

Ilsa gave Pete a shake that knocked him off his feet. "Notink, yet," she admitted. "He vas hangink around the saloon and makink everyone nerwous, so ve tought it best to bring him back to you so you could keep an eye on him."

"A man ain't allowed to get a drink in this town?" Pete demanded petulantly. He was solidly ignored.

"Isn't he vanted for sometink?" Katrina added curiously.

"Not at the moment," Brisco replied dryly. "He was pardoned -- we thought posthumously -- after that Jennifer Hart mess; unless he's done something since then that we need to know about." He gave Pete a hard look.

Pete glared at him. "Thank you for your confidence, Buhrisco," he growled. "For your information, I have no current outstanding warrants; I've been a model of deportment since then."

"Why don't I believe this?" Bowler demanded rhetorically.

"I think you can leave him with us," Brisco observed sardonically. "He isn't going to cause any trouble. Are you, Pete?" he added as the Swenge sisters released their captive.

Pete adjusted the brim of his hat and gave his sleeves a quick dust. "Wouldn't dream of it, Buhrisco."

Dr. Quintano, Medicine Woman, had left, after giving her strict orders not to stir from the bed. "The bullet just missed your subclavian artery," she had said earnestly. "You're lucky to be alive."

Felicia made a face. "Lucky. Right. With half the bounty hunters in the country after me for something I didn't even do. And I feel like I've been dragged backward through a barrel cactus. Real lucky."

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes in a brief undirected prayer; sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Nausea sat up and kicked her in the head. She steadied herself against the bedpost and hitched herself up to stand, swaying and grey-faced, by the bed, before staggering over to the chair where her clothing was neatly stacked and grabbing the shirt. Her shoulder gave her quite a lot of trouble putting it on, and she had to fasten the buttons single-handed, which was no mean feat; she stared down at her trousers and realized that it was just going to get worse from here.

The door opened. Felicia jumped, slipped, and ended up sitting down in the middle of the floor with a thud that made her teeth rattle.

Brisco looked down at her. "I didn't think you were supposed to be up yet."

"I'm beginning to come to that conclusion myself," she admitted grudgingly, struggling to her knees. He offered a hand, which she accepted, drew her to her feet and assisted her back to the bed, where she collapsed gratefully, hating the weakness in her knees and knowing that, if she couldn't get across the room to get dressed, she was certainly not going to be able to make it downstairs, much less out of town.

"How much blood did I lose, anyway?" she muttered irritably.

"A lot," said Brisco. "It was pretty close there, you know."

"So I've heard." Felicia realized that she was sitting on the edge of the bed wearing only a shirt -- the tails of which, admittedly, came down to mid-thigh, but the sides left rather a lot of leg and hip on display -- and underwear. She briefly considered being embarrassed and then decided it wasn't worth the effort.

"So you mind telling me just why you were trying to get dressed? Thinking about leaving, maybe?"

She grinned. "That about covers it, yeah."

"Why?" Brisco folded into the rocking chair and studied her with some confusion, one dark curl falling over his forehead. Wow, he's cute when he does that ... too bad -- She cut that thought off before it could even take form and shrugged.

"Seemed like a good idea. You know, get a head start on the bounty hunters, that sort of thing."

"Bounty hunters?" The confusion clouding his brow cleared rapidly, and he grinned at her. "Oh, that's right, you were unconscious ... or at least out of it. There won't be any bounty hunters on your trail. We wired Soc and got everything cleared up. The charges against you were dropped. You're free."

"You're kidding."

"Would I lie?"

"I don't know; would you?"

He looked wounded. She gave him the wicked grin that would have had her burned at the stake had she lived in Salem at the wrong period of history.

"No offence."

"Oh, none taken." He grinned at her, and stood. "Get some rest. You don't have to be anywhere anytime soon; and I'm darn sure you're not supposed to be that color."

Felicia laughed and scooted back under the blanket with not a little relief. "Yessir! ... and Brisco?" she added, more soberly.

He turned back from the door with a quizzical look.

She smiled at him. "Thanks for saving my hide."

He tipped his hat to her. "My pleasure, Miss Merriweather." The door closed softly behind him.

Felicia lay back and folded her arms behind her head. "Mine too."

***

The hotel was dark and still in the moonlight as the mysterious shadowy figure made its way silently across the sidewalk and through the glass-panelled double doors into the lobby, a suspiciously lumpy bundle half-concealed beneath one arm. As it set foot on the first riser of the staircase leading to the rooms on the second floor, the darkness was interrupted by the brief flare of a match being struck.

"Where do you think you're going, Mr. Hutter?"

Pete paused and looked back to the open door to see Jenny Taylor leaning against the jamb, a lamp in her hand and a cynical smile on her lips.

"Just takin' a small token of my regard to Miss Merriweather, if that's all right with you, ma'am." He tipped his hat to her, sarcastically.

"What kind of 'token?'"

Pete muttered sourly under his breath and produced the bottle of apricot brandy he'd just bought at the saloon. "This kind."

"According to Dr. Quintano, liquor is very bad for someone healing from a gunshot wound. And according to Brisco County," she stepped closer to him, menacingly, "you are an unprincipled scoundrel. If you intend to get that poor girl drunk and then take advantage of her ...."

"Miz Taylor," said Pete dryly, with the superior, ingratiating smile he reserved for those he considered truly misguided and hopeless, "I have known that 'poor girl' since she was twelve. The one you oughta be watchin' is Buhrisco. The man has a trail of broken hearts followin' him all the way from Harvard. Now, if you'll excuse me ...." He turned and sauntered up the stairs as Jenny glowered after him.

"Bastard," she muttered. The faint strains of "Amazing Grace" floated back down to her from the second storey.

The light doze into which Felicia had accidentally slipped was interrupted by a quiet knock at the door.

She sat up with a jerk. "Come in ...."

"You decent?" asked a familiar voice.

Felicia started to grin. "Decent as I ever get. Come in, Pete."

Pete sauntered into the room, closing the door carefully behind him, and presented her the lumpy paper bag with a flourish. "A present ... for strictly medicinal purposes, o' course."

"Oh, of course." She deftly extricated the bottle from the bag and examined it with interest. "Oo, apricot brandy. My favorite ... bet this set you back a bit."

Pete shrugged. "What's it for, if not to spend it? Enjoy." He turned to go.

"Hold it," said Felicia. "You think I'm gonna drink this alone like some sad old woman? Pull up a glass."

A smile unfolded across Pete's face, starting in his eyes. "Well, if you insist ...."

****

"Hush, little baby, don't say a word ...."

It was a surprisingly sweet contralto, and Brisco, walking down the hall to his room, thought for a moment that Dixie Cousins had showed up in his life again ....

"... Mama's gonna buy you a mockin' bird ...."

The last time he had heard anyone sing that song was during that little escapade with the future Emperor of China. "I thought you didn't know any lullabyes," he'd said, and she had smiled at him with those incredibly blue eyes and said something that hadn't really mattered ....

"If that mockingbird don't sing, Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring."

And then she'd gone to China, and he hadn't seen her for ... well, too long. Their lives were too bizarre for them to be together; but frankly neither of them could bear the thought of never seeing the other again ....

"If that diamond ring turn to glass, Mama's gonna give you a kick in the ass."

Brisco pulled himself back to the present with a jerk and realized that he'd been standing in the hallway, lost in reminiscence, outside of someone else's room ... someone who was singing a distinctly twisted version of "Hush, little baby," and giggling hysterically. In stereo. Two people laughing ... and one voice that he recognized all too well.

He opened the door and looked in.

Felicia looked back, sitting cross-legged on the floor with her back against the bedframe, a shotglass in her hand, choking back the laughter that still threatened to overwhelm her.

"Hello, Buhrisco."

Much to Brisco's relief, that distinctive greeting had not come from Felicia -- he didn't think he could stand two people using the same incredibly annoying inflection -- although "relief" was probably not quite the right word to describe his feelings on seeing Pete sprawled in a chair, an insouciant grin on his face and a half-empty bottle of apricot brandy on the table at his elbow.

"Pete," said Brisco flatly.

Felicia grinned at him. "What am I, an endtable?"

Pete gave her a quick once-over. "Not yet. 'Nother couple shots 'a this, maybe ...." Felicia dissolved into another fit of giggling.

"You're drunk," said Brisco, in something between accusation and wonder.

"Totally smashed," agreed Felicia, grinning merrily.

"Personally, I prefer the expression 'catatonically inebriated,'" drawled Pete. His laconic speech-patterns, Brisco observed, tended to be exaggerated at this state of intoxication.

"You're still talking, Pete," Felicia objected, "you can't be catatonic yet."

"Fine, pick on a man when he's drunk."

"Okay." Felicia picked herself up enough to punch him in the arm before collapsing bonelessly to the floor, giggling, as her balance abruptly deserted her.

"I think I'll leave you two alone," said Brisco, a glint of humor in his eyes, and stepped back into the hallway.

"Why?" said Felicia innocently. "It's not like we're doing anything."

"Yet," added Pete, and then snickered.

Brisco suppressed a groan and closed the door.

Felicia let her head fall to the side, resting against Pete's knee. She never drank, had never let herself get to this point before, where all the barriers were down; she was completely vulnerable and that in itself was terrifying; but she knew that she would never, otherwise, be able to say what suddenly needed to be said, and she knew as well that this was a night that was never going to happen again.

"Why'd you leave, Pete?"

"Hmmm?"

"Seven years ago. Why'd you go?"

"It was that or get shot by your brother ... I decided discretion was the better part of valor, and vamoosed."

She rubbed her head against his knee and stared into the amber depths of the trickle of brandy in her glass. "Yeah, but why'd he wanna shoot you?"

Pete had a significantly higher alcohol tolerance, and, as a result, was considerably more coherent; but he'd had enough to losen a few inhibitions of his own; enough to make him talk where he would ordinarily avoid the question. "Well, it was mostly 'cause I was takin' more than he thought was my fair share o' the profits ... but also 'cause he thought I was entertainin' dishonorable intentions toward his sister."

Felicia grinned to herself. "Were you?"

Pete didn't answer for a moment. Felicia experienced a moment of sinking panic.

"Well .... Not the way Zeke thought," he answered finally. "I mean, she was just a kid" -- Felicia noticed that he was still referring to her in the third person, but at least he was talking -- "... but there was somethin' there, she had ... potential."

"And you liked it?"

"Yeah." Pete was staring off into the middle distance, eyes half-unfocused as he looked back across seven years at the potential he'd seen in the gamine fifteen-year-old sister of his partner. He didn't seem to notice that his hand had fallen onto Felicia's head and was stroking her hair. "If she'd been older ... "

"Pete?"

"Yeah?"

Felicia sat up and braced herself with her hands on the arm of the chair, and forced him to meet her eyes. "I'm older."

Pete turned and looked at her. "I know ...."

They stayed that way for a moment, and then Felicia dropped her gaze and turned away to sit again with her back to the chair; slid down to land on her bottom with a thud, stared into the glass still in her hand, and, after a moment's hesitation, slugged back the rest of the brandy.

"Anyway," she said, breaking the silence that had grown agonizing, "what're you gonna do now?"

"Oh, I dunno," he replied, relief edging his voice as the conversation returned to slightly less dangerous ground. The brandy had stripped the nasal whine from his voice even as it intensified his accent. "Lotsa trains out there; lotsa big rocks. I might find Owen and return to the ol' stand-by." Felicia laughed. "What about you?" he asked idly. "Where are you gonna go?"

She stared into the shotglass, a slightly wistful smile curving her lips. "Oh ... away. It's a big country, Pete, there's a lot of it I haven't seen yet." She paused. "I was wondering ... if maybe you wouldn't like to come with me."

Pete shut his ears against the faint, plaintive note of hope in her voice, and shook his head. "Nah, Felicia, that's not a good idea ... travellin' with someone who's had a twenty-five thousand dollar bounty on their head kinda takes the light-hearted spontaneity outta one's escapades."

She nodded. "Yeah ... but you know I had to ask."

He hefted the bottle of brandy thoughtfully and then poured a generous amount into each of their glasses with relatively little error. "I'll drink to that."

"Pete, you'd drink to anything."

"Shut up and enjoy it." The shotglasses met with a clink. Caught up in the spirit, as it were, Felicia slugged back the whole thing in one gulp and then was forced to sit gasping as the brandy scoured her throat and burned straight through her stomach to her feet. Pete grinned at her. "On second thought, maybe you should slow down on the enjoyment a bit."

"Shut up," Felicia managed to wheeze, and tucked her feet up beneath her to sit on her ankles. "'s the hardest bloody floor .... My bottom hurts." Pete snickered. "You're sitting in the chair," she said carefully, with the exacting pronunciation of someone who is finding the operation of their vocal apparatus more than slightly impaired, "you have no room to talk."

"I wasn't talkin'."

"No room to snicker, then."

"Okay," said Pete cheerfully, and slid bonelessly out of the chair. Felicia collapsed in helpless giggling, the small part of her brain still possessing most of its faculties making pointedly disgusted comments. The rest of her brain was having a field day and ignored it. She sat up, wiping her eyes, and found out the hard way that Pete had just bent over her to see if she was all right. Their skulls met with a strikingly hollow clonk.

"Ow." This time the giggling was simultaneous. Pete had a particularly infectious grin that completely destroyed all chances of Felicia regaining her composure. She decided, on further reflection, to forego all future attempts and stretched out flat on her back, staring at the ceiling, still laughing. Pete joined her, arms folded behind his head.

"What d'you see up there?"

She studied the cracked plaster for a moment. "A camel ... there." Her hand unsteadily indicated its rough outline in water damage and spiderwebbed cracks.

"'S a badger."

"It is not." She muffled a yawn with the back of her hand.

"Is to. See, there's its ears."

"Badgers don' have ears like that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She yawned again. So did he.

"What else?" he asked quietly, voice softened to a warm, dark purr that made Felicia think of chocolate and honey.

"Cloud."

"Orig'nal." She elbowed him in the ribs.

"What d'you see, then?"

"Horses." He yawned. "Runnin' ... tossin' manes an' that sort o' thing." Another yawn. "Your turn." From Felicia there was only silence. Pete looked over at her, surprised, to find that she was asleep, lashes curling dark against the pallor of her cheeks.

"Horses," said Pete again, and felt the floating warmth of sleep claim him.

****

Someone was hammering railroad ties into his skull -- at least, that was his first impression. His second was that a large angry man was kicking him in the head with concrete boots.

Pete opened his eyes and groaned as a stray sliver of early morning sun lanced through his eyes and into his brain. Much to his irritation, both impressions were in some way correct. Someone was hammering on the door, and it was probably a large and perpetually angry man.

"Where the hell are they?" a familiar voice demanded, muffled only slightly by an inch-and-a-half of oak. "Pete ain't in his room either, an' now we can't find Felicia ... what's goin' on?"

Bowler. "I hate this part," Pete growled quietly, the events leading up to his current state of post-inebriation agony marching with dreadful clarity through his skull. The recollection was aided in no small way by the sight of the nearly-empty bottle of apricot brandy on the table. Getting drunk just wasn't worth the aftereffects ... but why had he gotten himself into that condition in the first place?

Felicia squeaked her displeasure at the tentative return of consciousness and tried to burrow deeper into the shelter of Pete's collarbone.

Oh yeah.

Pause.

What the ....

Surprise temporarily blocked the hangover as he looked down and realized that somehow, during the course of the night, Felicia had insinuated herself under his arm with her head resting on his shoulder, and the reason he couldn't move his right hand was simply because his cuff buttons were caught in the ribbon on her camisole.

Simply. Yeah.

The hammering on the door redoubled, accompanied by the faint and quickly aborted complaints from neighboring rooms.

"Felicia," hissed Pete, "wake up."

Felicia groaned. "What died in my mouth?" she demanded weakly, eyes still closed. "And why can't I move my right arm?"

"I'm lyin' on it."

That got her attention marginally faster than could almost any other remark save "Federal Marshal! Drop the bag!"

"Why, exactly, are you lying on my arm?"she asked in a carefully neutral voice.

"Because I can't get up 'cause I'm stuck in your blouse."

"Felicia?" Brisco called. "Everything all right in there?"

"Fine!" shouted both miscreants simultaneously. There was a mild commotion in the hall.

"Pete?! What the hell are you doing in there?"

"Nothing!"

"Then open the door!"

"Can you give me a minute on that?"

"Hutter!" bellowed Bowler from the hall.

"Hold your horses, amigo!" Pete snapped, trying to unwind the knot ensnaring his buttons. It was a delicate maneuver at best, and his hands weren't entirely as steady as he might have wished. Pete could feel the blood burning crimson in his face. "Sorry ... oops. Uh."

"How the hell did we get into this mess?" Felicia growled, yanking his wrist up to the level of her chin in a somewhat feral attempt to gnaw through the ribbon. The maneuver unfastened another three buttons on her already-disarrayed camisole.

Pete closed his eyes and tried to think about old monks. "I have no clue."

"Pete, will you come on?" Brisco yelled.

"I'm comin', I'm comin'! Gimme a minute, will ya?"

"Forget that," said Bowler, and kicked open the door.

There was profound silence for several minutes.

"Ah ... we'll just leave you two alone," said Brisco quickly, and made a futile attempt to drag a horrified Lord Bowler from the room.

"This isn't what it looks like," said Felicia quickly. The fact that when she blushed it spread down her neck to the upper curves of her breasts was rather unfortunately obvious. Pete tried to think of dead puppies.

"Oh yeah?" said Bowler. "Then what is it?"

Pete and Felicia looked at each other. "Um," said Felicia.

"Well," said Pete.

"You go first."

"No, no, ladies first."

"No, I insist."

"I don't really want to know," said Brisco.

"Me neither," said Bowler.

"Good," said Felicia, "'cause I'll be damned if we know either." She looked down at the cause of the problem. "Can I borrow a knife?"

Brisco, realizing that Bowler was half-paralysed with shock and horror, offered her the knife from his belt. She and Pete both automatically reached for it. Pete being right-handed, this had rather disastrous consequences on what was left of the buttons on Felicia's camisole.

"Oh, hell," said Felicia; grabbed his wrist and yanked it back to provide at least some coverage of her assets; and took the knife from Brisco. "Hold still," she ordered Pete firmly, ignoring the fact that Pete had just been embarrassed into virtual catatonia and therefore was unlikely to do much of anything at the moment, and sawed through the offending knot. The frayed ribbon parted with a snap.

Felicia handed the knife back to Brisco and went to stand up, clutching together the ruins of her underwear; and nearly fainted as the blood rushed out of her head. Pete snapped out of his catatonia in time to catch her, steadied her, realized he was touching her, and let go so fast she almost fell over again. She caught herself on the edge of the table and waved off his tentatively outstretched hand.

"I'll get the doctor," said Brisco quickly.

"I'll help you," Bowler announced. The door slammed behind them.

"I ... better be goin'," said Pete, just as quickly, and headed for the door.

"What about your stuff?" Felicia asked, hating the plaintive note in her voice and completely unable to do anything about it.

"I'll get it later." The door swung closed on his heels and opened almost instantly again to admit Dr. Quintano, who took one look at her patient standing grey-faced and stricken by the table and immediately shooed her into bed.

"I'm okay," Felicia protested weakly.

"I don't think so," said Dr. Quintano briskly. "How much of that --" she indicated the mostly-empty bottle of brandy on the table with a jerk of her head "-- did you have last night?"

"I don't really remember." Felicia rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands and tried to subdue the tears she could feel threatening at the back of her throat. "I ... feel really sick."

"I'm not surprised. I told you not to drink; it makes you heal much more slowly, and the last thing you need on top of bloodloss is a hangover."

"Yeah, tell me about it .... Sometimes, though, you have to just take the chances you're given ...." The tears broke through her control, and Felicia let them come; curled up in a ball on the rumpled bed and sobbed.

Dr. Quintano glared once at the door and set to work changing the dressings on Felicia's shoulder, lips pursed in anger.

No Man's Land was a small town; and, its gender-biased population notwithstanding, it obeyed most of the adages about small towns. Particularly the one about news travelling fast. Faster, in many cases, than the truth.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me you'd thrown a shoe."

Comet whickered.

"That's no excuse."

"Could you get him to hold still, please?" said Ilsa Swenge from behind the horse's hindquarters.

"Sorry." Brisco gave Comet a piece of the apple he'd been eating and was about to continue the discussion when another voice intruded.

"... don't know for certain," it was saying, accompanied by two pairs of footsteps, "but there was a nearly empty bottle of brandy on the table, her camisole was ruined ... and she was crying. What would you think?"

"What's wrong?"

Jenny Taylor and Dr. Quintano looked into the smithy, an expression approximating relief crossing the sheriff's face as she walked in.

"I've been looking for you ... Dr. Quintano was telling me about what happened this morning in Felicia Merriweather's room."

Embarrassment flooded Brisco's face as he remembered, in exacting detail, what he'd seen. "Uh ... yeah. I have to admit I was kinda surprised, but --"

"It's not that surprising when you figure that she was drunk."

"Apricot brandy will do that on an empty stomach," he observed neutrally, "especially to someone as small as Felicia."

"So you knew he was getting her drunk?" Jenny demanded incredulously, anger building in her voice. "And you didn't have the decency to stop him?"

"Felicia's twenty-two years old," Brisco replied, puzzled. "They're both adults; if she wants to --"

"I sincerely doubt that what she wanted had anything to do with what happened last night." The blonde sheriff's voice was tight with rage.

"Wait a minute," said Brisco slowly, "are you saying that he ... that he deliberately got her drunk so he could ....?"

"What else am I supposed to think? The girl was sick to death this morning, Mr. County, and crying her eyes out. Do I really have to draw you a picture?"

An expression settled across the bounty hunter's face that had spelled doom for more than one outlaw. "Where's Pete now?"

Bootheels cracked like the Trump of Doom against the floorboards as Jenny Taylor strode into the saloon and stormed over to the corner table where Pete sat hunched over a glass of cheap whiskey. An observer might have noticed that he wasn't actually drinking it, and hadn't been for the past half-hour; he was clinging to it like a life preserver as he stared bleakly into the distance; but at this hour of the morning, the only observers were the bartender and the badly-taxidermied head of a decrepit antelope.

"Mr. Hutter, you're under arrest."

Pete jumped several inches and turned to face her. He looked as though he hadn't slept in a week, a fire-eaten, haunted expression that was completely lost on Jenny Taylor in her current state of mind.

She pressed on. "I should have thrown you in jail the moment you set foot in my town. You have the morals of a weasel and the principles of a snake, and you make me sick."

The abuse was sufficient to elicit a response, even in Pete's distracted state. "What the hell did I do to you?"

She leaned across the table and gave him a look that could incinerate the entire state of Missouri. "I'm talking about what you did to Felicia Merriweather, you bastard."

Pete stared at her, speechless, until he finally unglued his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "What ... what're you talkin' about? I didn't do anything to her. I wouldn't. I ...."

Jenny cut him off mid-sentence. "Don't give me that. You think I haven't heard the whispers going around? You were seen leaving her room in quite a hurry this morning, Mr. Hutter; and Dr. Quintano says the girl was tears when you left."

"She what? But I ...."

"Did you honestly think you could get away with getting a girl drunk and then raping her? Especially in this town?"

"I never ...!" Pete almost overturned the table as he leapt to his feet, eyes blazing. "I have never forced myself on a woman! And I've certainly never stooped to getting a girl -- who'd just been shot! -- drunk so I could have her!"

Jenny Taylor stared at him, arms folded and eyebrows raised, skepticism etched on her features by the same heavy hand that had carved the Grand Canyon. "You're a thief and a rapist, Mr. Hutter, and you're under arrest. Give me your gun and come with me, or I'll have you dragged there."

Pete stared back at her, the muscles in his jaw and temples shifting as he ground his teeth in mute fury; and when he did finally speak his voice was the level snarl of someone very nearly at the end of his rope. "First thing, Miz Taylor: no one touches my Piece. And second, if you think I'd ever do somethin' like that, especially to Felicia Merriweather, you're insane."

"And you're a liar."

His hand moved almost before she had finished speaking; he stopped it, with obvious effort, barely an inch from her face. "I have never hit a woman," said Pete quietly, in a voice no less threatening for its lack of volume, "but I wouldn't press my luck just now, Miz Taylor." He pulled his hand back, clenched in a fist so tight that every tendon was clearly etched beneath the skin, and turned with the tightly-controlled movements of a predator -- or someone trying desperately to control his temper -- and stalked toward the door.

His exit was interrupted, however, by the preciptous arrival of Brisco County and co.

"Pete," said Brisco coldly.

"Hutter," Bowler growled. "Just the low-life we wanted to see."

Pete's hand twitched instinctively toward his piece. "Yeah?"

"There're some things I thought even you wouldn't stoop to, Pete," Brisco continued as though no one else had spoken, every word freighted with cold menace. "I guess I was wrong."

"That depends on what you think I've done."

"Don't play dumb, Hutter," Bowler snarled. "We know what you did to Felicia." A particularly nasty smile curled the bounty hunter's lip. "Looks like you need a lesson in etiquette."

Pete's eyes narrowed. "Whenever you're ready."

Bowler reached for his gun, but before his hand could close around the stock a familiar voice interceded.

"Why the hell does everyone in this damn town feel obligated to defend my honor?"

Every eye in the room turned to the girl standing silhouetted in the doorway. She didn't carry herself with her normal fluid grace, but whether that was due to the gunshot wound in her shoulder or the tension of aggravation, no one could say.

"What're you doing up?" Brisco demanded, concern replacing the frigid anger in his voice. "You're in no condition --"

"I'm in no condition to let this go on any longer!" She silenced anything further he might have said with a scorching glare. "And if I did let it continue, Pete would probably end up being lynched, and I don't want that, so it's damn well time I say something!

"Yes, he did spend the night in my room last night." The silence, if anything, deepened. Until that moment, she hadn't known such a thing was possible. "And yes, we got drunk. But nothing happened." A wry smile quirked her lips. "Trust me on this ... I'd know, okay? We drank each other under the table and fell asleep, and that is all."

"But how can you --" Brisco started, then stopped, embarrassment cringing across his chiselled features.

Felicia gave him a particularly eloquent stare, complete with a single arched eyebrow, before letting him off the hook. "Well, for one thing, we were both fully dressed when we woke up ... I think that's a good indication right there, don't you? Unless he's really good," she added, a wicked grin pulling at the corner of her mouth.

Brisco decided that was one line of thought he definitely didn't want to pursue further. "But Dr. Quintano said you were crying," he added carefully. "If ... if he hadn't --"

She grinned sharply. "You ever been shot and then had to deal with a hangover on top of that? I felt awful. I was ... " she glanced involuntarily at Pete, who was conscientiously looking away. "I'd just been injured, I was sick ... you'd have been crying, too."

Jenny put a hand on the girl's shoulder. "Felicia, you can't deny he got you drunk ... and that you can't remember too well what happened. How can you --"

"I'm a virgin."

There was a profound silence for a moment.

"Oh," said Brisco eventually. There didn't seem to be anything else to say.

"Yes," said Felicia, a flush burning in her cheeks that did nothing to diminish the lock-jawed determination in her eyes. "Do I have to go on?"

"No ma'am," said Bowler quickly.

Brisco shot Pete a suspicious glare, which Pete returned, albeit without the suspicion. "But if you have any trouble ...."

"I won't," said Felicia firmly. "Think I can't take care of myself? You have a lot to learn, bounty hunter. Now why don't you two go catch some real bad guys or something? Pete and I need to talk."

The saloon slowly filled with voices again as the bounty hunters' footsteps retreated down the boardwalk; and Felicia, after a moment's silence, said "C'mon, Pete. I need some air."

He followed her silently outside and down the street to the livery stable, adjusting his pace to match hers -- an unfamiliar necessity; Pete realized for the first time that, all her life, Felicia had adjusted her stride to match his. Her step had lost some of its usual spring, but he wasn't sure if it was a result of being shot or something more complicated.

In the shade of the stable's east wall, she turned to face him, leaning carefully against the weathered silver boards and looking up at him with unreadable green eyes. Pete looked back at her; at the shadows beneath her eyes and the telltale catches in her movement that told how much pain she was hiding, and an unfamiliar sense of remorse kicked him in the chest.

"So,"said Felicia, after a moment's silent staring, "tired of being harrassed?"

"You could say that," he drawled, more than a touch of irony infusing his voice. He paused. "You didn't think that I --"

"No. Of course not."

"'Course not ...." He looked away from her, to the side and down; and now it was Felicia who could no longer read the expression in his eyes. She remembered, suddenly, her first thought on waking; and the look on his face he had tried to hide; and the way it felt to lie against him, warm and content ... and the fluttering lurch under her breastbone as his hands brushed her skin ....

She felt a flush creeping up her cheeks and prayed that the shadows were enough to hide it.

Pete kept his eyes fixed on the ground, afraid that if he looked up she would see in his expression the memory of waking to find her in his arms; of how it felt to hold her for a brief stolen moment with her head against his shoulder; and that the shaking in his hands was not solely attributable to the previous night's drinking.

Felicia cleared her throat. He jumped and looked up at her guiltily.

"So ... um," she said carefully, "if you don't mind my asking ... um, what did happen last night?"

"How much d'you remember?" he asked with equal caution.

She squinted at the brittle sky, remembering as best she could through the alcohol haze that had clouded her mind. "I think ... I remember sitting on the floor asking you why you'd left; and I remember --" she grinned suddenly "-- smacking my head against yours 'cause you bent down just as I sat up ...." The possible associations there were simply too much, at the moment, and she moved on quickly. "And I remember ... something about a badger? Or a camel?"

Pete grinned in spite of himself. "Water spots on the ceiling."

A look of intense relief crossed her face, and she grinned back. "Thank goodness ... I thought I was losing it there, for a minute."

"Nah. We stared at the ceilin' for a few minutes, and then you fell asleep."

"And that's it."

"That's it. I swear."

She smiled at him, an unexpectedly, unusually sweet smile in contrast to her usual wicked grin. "You don't have to swear it to me, Pete ... I trust you."

He looked down at her, eyes gone dark and troubled with an emotion she -- that he, too -- could not identify; and then smiled crookedly. "'Least somebody does ... not always a good idea, y'know."

Felicia laughed quietly. "Yeah, I know ...." The uncomfortable silence threatened again, and she stepped forward quickly, uncertain about what she intended to say or do but determined not to let it fall.

Pete stepped back, looked around, and said, with forced brightness, "Well. I ... uh. Better go, I think; it's --"

"Yes," said Felicia, just as quickly, "I know; I have a lot to do before we -- before I go, and Dr. Quintano said --"

"You'd better get back, then," said Pete, ruthlessly trampling the heels of her words, "before someone thinks --"

"Yeah. Uh," said Felicia. "Well. I'll see you later, then."

"Yes," said Pete. "Um. Be careful."

"Oh, I will." She paused; and, in a much softer voice, added "You too."

"I will." Another moment stretched into agonizing uncertainty as each tried to find a way to tell the other something about which they weren't even certain themselves, and failed again.

"Bye," said Pete with an air of finality, turned on his heel and strode away quickly before he could say anything else.

"Goodbye," said Felicia, her voice soft and tight with misery as she watched him walk away.

****

Six AM, Felicia decided, was entirely too damn early to be awake; but the ache in her shoulder wouldn't let her sleep any longer, and with a heart-felt groan she swung her legs out of bed and staggered to her feet, pulling her clothes on distractedly. A vigorous splash of icy water from the demijohn on the washstand went a long way toward waking her up. So did the idea of coffee.

Downstairs. They have to have coffee downstairs. This is a civilized country, I don't believe they wouldn't have coffee.

Her room was on the second floor of the hotel. It had not escaped her notice that Brisco and Bowler had positioned their rooms on either side of hers ... and that Pete had been installed at the opposite end of the hall. At another time, this observation would have been amusing. Most of the time, it was; but six AM was too early for her sense of humor to be fully functional yet.

Much to her relief, however, the kitchen was not only open but had just produced a large pot of fresh coffee. Felicia ensconced herself in a corner table with a steaming cup and the day's newspaper, and began to think that things were looking up.

"Good morning," said a familiar voice behind her.

Felicia set down the paper and turned to face him. "'Morning, Pete." She gestured to one of the empty chairs. "Join me?"

He looked around warily. "You sure none o' your over-zealous bodyguards are gonna take offense?"

She grinned. "Yeah, they are awfully persistant, aren't they? But they're not here right now. Have a seat."

He pulled out a chair and dropped into it, folded his arms on the table and looked at her. "So. You okay?"

She nodded over the edge of her cup. "Mm-hm. I'm fine, really. Just a little stiff."

"Yeah, that's usual after bein' shot."

Felicia gave him the raised eyebrow treatment. "You been shot often?"

Pete grinned crookedly. "Once or twice .... That's enough, ain't it?"

"No argument here." She finished off the coffee and set the cup back in its saucer, not quite looking at him. "So ... what happens now?"

He leaned back in the chair with studied non-chalance. "Well, since there's no longer a price on your head, I'm assumin' you'll probably be goin' back East; Buhrisco and Bowler will return to their usual harrassment of free-thinkin' individuals such as myself ...."

"And where are you going?"

Pete shrugged, a little awkwardly, and kept his eyes on the table. "Prob'ly take a brief sabbatical in Sutter's Creek, see which way the wind's blowin'."

Felicia nodded, mostly to herself, and toyed briefly with the coffee cup. "So I guess I won't be seeing you again for a while."

"Guess not." There was something in his voice which might have been identifiable as regret ... but, then again, might not have been. Felicia looked up from her coffee cup just as he looked up from his lengthy perusal of the tabletop, and a sudden silence enveloped their tableau.

Impulsively, Pete leaned forward; but before he could open his mouth to speak, the thunder of feet on the stairs interrupted him.

Brisco and Bowler entered, saw them; and, in perfect unspoken agreement, headed over to the table.

"'Morning, Felicia," said Brisco, the gallantry in his voice only slightly forced. "Mind if we join you?"

Pete jumped to his feet, almost catching his knees under the edge of the table, and put a healthy distance between himself and the seat he had just been occupying. "I was just leavin'," he said quickly, carefully not looking at Felicia, who stalled the involuntary gesture of entreaty she had made toward him and folded her hands tightly on the table before her. "I'll see you around," he added in Felicia's general direction, and strode quickly from the room.

"So," said Bowler, with a certain air of smug satisfaction, taking Pete's vacated chair, "what's for breakfast?"

"You know what," said Felicia, standing and folding the newspaper with short, angry motions, "I'm not really hungry after all. Gentlemen." She gave them a small ironic bow and stomped back up to her room.

"Think we interrupted something?" Brisco observed dryly, watching her back, rigid with barely-controlled irritation, retreat up the stairs.

"Yep," said Bowler, the aura of smug satisfaction increasing exponentially.

A thoughtful frown creased the other bounty hunter's forehead. "Y'know, she is an adult," he said slowly. "And she certainly knows how to take care of herself ...." An expression of impatient incredulity began to suffuse Bowler's face, along with a certain air of 'here we go again.' "It's none of our business, really. Maybe we ought to --"

"Aw, Brisco," Bowler groaned, "we been through this. You really trust Pete Hutter to behave himself?"

"Damn it, Bowler, we can't run their lives for them!"

"Yeah, well, somebody oughta," Bowler growled back. "'Cause they sure don't know how."

Brisco was quiet for a moment. "No ... I have to give you that one, Bowler. I don't think they do know how to handle this ... but have either of them ever had a chance to learn before?"

Bowler opened his mouth to retort, and stopped as that last rejoinder sank in. He sank back into his chair morosely. "Yeah, well ...."

"What do you say we cut them a little slack?" said Brisco seriously; and a sudden grin split his face. "Besides, if it came down to it ... my money's on Felicia."

An answering grin stretched across Bowler's features. "I'm widcha."

****

Pete stepped out into the burning daylight and rubbed his eyes briefly.

"Going somewhere, Mr. Hutter?"

He looked up into the sardonic blue eyes of No Man's Land's sheriff as she leaned against the hitching rail, arms folded.

"That depends on your definition of 'somewhere,'" he growled.

"I was hoping it included the phrase 'out of town.'"

"Sorry to disappoint you, then." He hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and stepped down off the porch.

Jenny stepped in front of him. "Why are you still here, Mr. Hutter?"

He shrugged. "Nowhere else I have to be. Now, if you don't mind ...." He moved around her, and this time she didn't stop him.

It was impossible to get lost in No Man's Land, considering that it consisted of three streets running north and south and another four running east and west; but Pete was working on it. Not watching where he was going tended to make it a little easier.

When he did look up from his lengthy contemplation of the ground two inches in front of his feet, it was find himself standing in front of the town's only church.

Pete hadn't set foot inside a church since he was ten, but he felt a sudden need to do so now.

The interior was dark and cool as he walked inside, hat in hand, and smelled faintly of furniture polish and strongly of candles. It was also completely deserted, much to his relief.

The pews were just as hard as he remembered from childhood, but there was a certain measure of comfort there. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands as fragments of memory chased themselves throuhg his mind.

... why are you still here?

... I guess I won't be seeing you again ....

I trust you.

He sighed wearily. Why am I still here? If I had any sense, I'da left as soon as I knew Felicia was all right ... it's not like I'm exactly welcome here. Bounty hunters an' the sheriff breathin' down my neck ... have I completely lost my mind?

Deeper in his mind, below the conscious level, where he could barely even recognize it, was the addendum or something else ...

He let his head fall back and stared up -- and through -- the ceiling. I can't bring her with me ... but I don't want to leave without her.

What am I s'posed to do?

****

Pete Hutter was, in all likelihood, the most personally fastidious outlaw in the territories; something which would probably have earned him considerable derision and hazing from his peers had he not also been known as something of a homicidal maniac when his honor and dignity were impugned. On the trail, one simply had to put up with a certain amount of dust and grit; but here in No Man's Land, with access to proper facilities, such laxness no longer had to be tolerated.

Admittedly, it was hardly the most cosmopolitan town; and the bath house wasn't the most luxurious he'd ever seen, but it was private, it was empty, and he had access to both soap and towels.

Most importantly, however, the water was very hot and there was plenty of it. Pete sank gratefully into the tub and felt the warmth begin to loosen the knotted muscles in his back and shoulders. A bath in something other than an ice-cold river, a chance to wash the trail dust from his hair -- to be really, thoroughly, gloriously clean -- and to shave with the aid of a mirror, not the dim, wavering reflection from a bowl of water, was a rare and much-appreciated luxury. Three days had shadowed his jawline and blurred the carefully-cultivated lines of moustache and beard. Pete tilted the shaving mirror to a better angle and proceeded to rectify the situation.

Felicia crept soundlessly over the weathered tiles toward the edge of the roof; knelt at the brink and looked down. The window was open, fortuitously; she was mostly recovered from the gunshot wound, but she didn't particularly want to test that while hanging upside down two stories above the hard-packed dirt. Carefully, she attatched the grappling line to the cornice and lowered herself over the edge, rappelling silently down the wall, soft-shod feet making no sound on the stripped pine siding.

She side-stepped the window carefully, paused on the ledge and looked in.

Pete had just finished shaving, hair plastered sleek and dark halfway down his back and pushed back behind his ears, revealing the lines of his neck and shoulders. It made his skin look even paler than usual, and smooth as ivory. He stretched, back arching until the ribs showed clearly under his skin, the muscles across his shoulders clenching; and reached for the soap.

Felicia rested her elbows on the window ledge and her chin on her hands and watched him, undaunted by the thought that this was more than a little voyeuristic. The thought that she was hanging fifteen feet above street-level, supported only by her arms on the windowsill and her feet braced against the wall, had a similar lack of effect on her resolve.

Pete submerged himself in the bath and stretched out, a move requiring him to prop his ankles on the opposite rim; tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

Felicia transferred her weight to the palms of her hands and swung one leg silently through the window, clambering through with surprising ease for someone who had been shot two days ago. A quick inspection of the room revealed that the door was not only closed by locked; and, emboldened by her success, she padded softly over to stand behind the bath, leaned down and whispered, "Hello, Pete," not two inches from his ear.

Pete's reaction was extraordinarily gratifying. In one single move, he sat up, saw her, yelped in mortification, and lunged for the towel lying beside his clothes. He managed to grab it, but in doing so hit the porcelain jug on the washstand with his foot. It hit the floor with a crash and shattered, sending ceramic shrapnel flying. Felicia ducked instinctively, and then yelped herself as a particularly large and high-velocity piece hit her in the shin.

Pete managed to wrap himself in the towel without either dragging it through the now-tepid bathwater or embarrassing himself further, and stepped out of the water, wringing out his hair impatiently. "Felicia?" he demanded incredulously. "D'you mind tellin' me what the hell you're doin' in here?!"

Felicia gave him a bright, manic, wicked grin. "Trying to embarrass you."

Pete stared at her. "You're doin' a good job," he managed finally. "Why?"

The grin, if anything, became even more wicked. "'Cause you're cute when you blush."

Pete realized that he was, indeed, blushing furiously, and tried to cover it with a growl. "Settin' that aside for the moment, how'd you get up here?"

She shrugged. "The usual. Wanted to make sure I hadn't lost my touch after being shot."

"You what? That is the dumbest --" He broke off, shaking his head; and when he looked back up at her, a grin was struggling to break through the scowl. "You tryin' to get yourself killed?"

"No more so than you," she observed wryly. "What have you been doing to yourself?"

Pete realized that most of the scars he had accumulated over the course of his career were on display at the moment, dressed as he was in a towel. The blush deepened.

"I mean," Felicia continued inexorably, knowing that she was making him uncomfortable and taking a certain perverse pleasure in that, "admittedly, there are not a few men who've been shot in their lifetimes and survived, but this is ridiculous. What on earth happened here, for example?" She indicated a line of four evenly-spaced teardrop-shaped scars across the left side of his ribcage.

Pete pulled away quickly. "Had a bit of a run-in with a pitchfork .... Uh, Felicia, would you mind lettin' me get dressed? This is gettin' kind of awkward."

Felicia grinned at him. "Poor Pete. Am I making you nervous?"

"No," he said quickly, giving the lie to that statement as his voice cracked. "It's just ...."

Felicia's grin widened. "Just what?" She stepped a little closer, and this time he didn't retreat. "Pete," she began, suddenly completely serious, "I --"

Whatever she had been about to say was lost amid someone hammering on the door.

"Pete?" yelled Brisco. "We heard a crash. What happened?"

Pete turned involuntarily toward the door; and when he turned back, Felicia was gone.

The door crashed open under the impact of Bowler's foot. "What's goin' on in here?" the bounty hunter demanded suspiciously.

Pete glared at him. "Nothin'," he growled. "I knocked over the washstand. And you are bad news for the doors in this town."

"What's going on?" Jenny Taylor demanded; stuck her head through the door, saw Pete dripping, furious, and barely-clad; blushed, and retreated.

"Nothing," Brisco answered her levelly, giving the freshly-bathed outlaw a rather jaundiced stare which was returned in full. "Come on, Bowler."

Pete stalked over to the door as they left, slammed it and locked it, and went back to the window.

"Felicia ...?"

She was gone, the only evidence of her presence a slightly scuffed footprint on the windowsill. He rubbed it out with the edge of his towel and closed the window with a sigh.

Epilogue ...

Brisco found Felicia in the livery stable just after dawn, feeding slices of apple to Comet and eating the occasional slice herself. "Heading out?" he asked quietly, absently rubbing Comet's nose. Comet snorted and nosed his pockets in hopes of finding more apples.

She looked up and smiled. "Yeah ... too many people around here know me now, it's time to move on."

"You could stay, get an honest job ...."

She shook her head. "And have everyone wondering if I'm skimming off the profits? Nah .... Besides, there's still plenty of places in this country I've not yet seen. And --"

She was interrupted by a familiar bellow of "Brisco!" as Lord Bowler strode in, saw her, and stopped.

"You leavin'?"

"Yep."

"Good." He turned away and began setting his tack to rights. Felicia grinned briefly and shook her head, unruffled by his brusqueness.

"So what are you planning to do now?" Brisco asked, tightening the saddle girths on Comet, who grumbled and tried to knock off his hat.

"Oh, I don't know." Felicia kicked at the straw with one toe. "Travel ... see the world ... maybe go back to school."

"No more catburglary?" Bowler demanded suspiciously.

Felicia gave him a wicked, unrepentant grin. "I wouldn't go that far ... a girl needs a hobby." She offered him her hand; after a moment's hesitation, he took it. "Take care, Bowler."

"Yeah, well, I'm gonna count my stuff when you leave," he growled, "and if anything's missing --"

"Oh yeah." She dug into her back pocket and pulled out a watch. "Thanks for reminding me. You really need to wind it once in a while." Bowler started visibly, took it, glared at her, and then sighed wearily.

"'Least you're not boring."

"God forbid." She turned to Brisco, who shook her hand without hesitation. "Be careful, Brisco County Junior ... not all thieves are as honorable as I am."

"You too, Felicia. Not all bounty hunters are as open-minded as Bowler and I." He winked.

Felicia laughed. "I'll keep that in mind ...." She turned toward the stable doors and found herself face-to-face with Pete. She smiled. "'Bye, Pete. It was good seeing you again."

"You too." He quickly turned the smile threatening behind the moustache into his usual ironic smirk.

"You sure you don't want to come with me?"

"Well," he drawled sardonically, "as much as the pleasure and intellectual stimulation of your company appeal to my finer sensibilities, I think I'm better off goin' solo."

She sighed. "Well, you can't say I didn't try .... Take care of yourself, Pete." She threw her arms around his neck in a brief embrace that left him off-balance -- physically and otherwise -- and strode out of the stable. She paused at the door and turned back with a wicked grin. "See you later, Buhrisco," she drawled in shockingly accurate mimicry of Pete's distinctive pronunciation, and vanished into the growing daylight, a laugh hanging ghostlike on the air behind her.

Brisco and Bowler exchanged a look as Pete stared, bemused, after her.

"Now there goes one amazing young lady," Brisco observed, pushing back the brim of his hat.

"The amazin' part bein' that she ain't behind bars," replied Bowler, swinging into the saddle. "C'mon, Brisco, we gotta be in San Francisco by tomorrow."

"Yeah ...." Brisco swung himself into Comet's saddle and gathered the reins, turning the horse toward the stable doors. "I wonder if we'll see her again ...."

A sudden yelp stopped them in their tracks, and they turned back to see Pete clap one hand to his empty holster, still staring dumbstruck in the direction in which Felicia had vanished, an expression of outraged astonishment spreading across his features. "My piece! She took my piece!"

Someone outside laughed; and Felicia leaned around the door, a very familiar pistol swinging from one finger. "Someone missing this?"

"My piece!"

"Hey, Pete," said Felicia, grinning like a fiend from Hell, "come and get it." The grin spoke volumes, and not just about the reclamation of pilfered firearms.

Pete dove for the door, just missing her as she jumped back, laughing, and tucked the gun under the back of her belt. Brisco and Bowler cleared the doorway in time to see her leap into the saddle of a running horse, Pete right behind her.

"You thief!" he howled. "You ... you felonius miscreant!"

"Takes one to know one!" she yelled back.

Brisco looked at Bowler. "I think one of us is gonna be seeing her real soon."

.... And After ....

Five miles outside of town, Felicia slowed enough for Pete to catch up. He knew it. It didn't improve his mood. As his horse pulled even with hers, he reached out and grabbed her by the belt, swinging her off the horse's back and knocking her breathless. Unfortunately, his horse chose the same moment to shy at something in the road, dumping Pete and his captive unceremoniously onto the ground.

"Gimme my piece," Pete wheezed, having been slightly winded himself by the impact.

"Make me," said Felicia, struggling to her feet. Pete grabbed her ankle and jerked her feet out from under her, dropping her onto her backside in the dust; dragged her back and pinned her hands above her head with one hand on each wrist.

"Nobody touches my piece, Felicia, give it back."

Felicia stared up at him, eyes dancing wickedly. "How can I, when you're leaning on my hands?"

Pete made an exasperated noise, dropped his right forearm onto her hands and reached around her waist to remove his gun, which was digging into her back anyway; yanked it out ... and realized that he couldn't reach his holster with his left hand. He swore. "What am I gonna do with you?" he demanded. "You're just as bad as when you were fifteen."

"I'd like to think I've improved a little in seven years."

"And I'd like to think I'm gonna live to see tomorrow," he retorted hotly.

"What," she demanded, "you think I've branched out to assassination?"

"No, I think bein' in your company is hazardous to my health!"

"So why are you here now?"

"You took my piece."

"If I'm that dangerous," she said reasonably, "why not get another?"

"Because it's my piece," he replied with an infuriating stubbornness usually restricted the very young or the hopelessly stupid.

"You were always touchy about that gun," said Felicia curiously. "Why is that?"

"None o' your business," said Pete.

"You," said Felicia, "are no fun." She delivered that pronouncement as though it were the most damning conviction ever spoken by Man. Pete supposed that, to her, it was. This was, after all, the woman who had become one of the most skilled catburglars in the country simply because she was bored. "What happened to your sense of humor?"

"It got perforated," he muttered, trying to figure out how to get his gun into the holster without releasing Felicia, who giggled.

"You wanna know something?" she asked abruptly, eyes sparkling with hell-light.

"What?" said Pete absently.

"I've never been caught by anyone that I actually stole anything from before."

"Is that so?" said Pete, whose attention was currently focused on simple geometry rather than elementary negotiation.

"Yeah." She grinned. "You wanna know something else?"

"What?" It occurred to him suddenly that Felicia never gave up this easily unless it meant she had already won a game he didn't even know they were playing ... and that, for the first time in several days, they were finally alone together.

"I've never been kissed by anyone that I actually stole anything from, either."

"Is that so," said Pete, and decisively altered that status.

"Did I mention," said Felicia, several minutes later, once they had come up for air, "that I like the moustache?"