Heather Graham - Nightwalker

“Is anyone going to deal?” Murphy demanded. “I would like to win my money back.”

“We’ll get right back to it,” John said to Murphy. He turned back to Varny. “Actually, I’m only half-red. My mother was white. She was working in this very saloon when she was captured, and she soon realized she had a better life as a Paiute captive than a white barmaid.”

“Barmaid? Whore, more like,” Varny spat out.

John looked evenly into the other man’s eyes. “Whatever she might have done in life to survive, she was a far better person than you. Hell, Varny, you murdering scum. That makes her pretty damn fine in comparison, no matter what the hell she did.”

Varny drew his gun, and his men drew theirs. Left with no choice, John Wolf rose, kicking the table over and using it for cover, as he drew, himself. He noticed Murphy drawing his own gun, evening the odds at least slightly.

As the shots began to explode and ricochet, the sheriff and Davison dived for cover, and Milly Taylor ducked behind the piano and screamed.

To John Wolf, the world seemed to slow down, letting him see every little detail of what was happening.

Murphy was good. Faster than lightning, even in John’s slowed-down view. As the sheriff threw himself under a nearby table for protection, Murphy held his ground, both guns blazing. John heard the sickening thuds as first one bullet struck home, then the other, as Murphy took out two of Varny’s men, saving John’s hide.

John Wolf took that in even as his own guns blazed against Varny’s other two thugs.

Another thud, and a spray of brilliant color as one man was struck in the heart. A moment later, the other took a bullet in the lung. Blood streamed across the floor, matching the sunset.

Varny’s men were dead, all four of them, but Ringo Murphy been hit himself. He looked at John before he died. “Sorry, partner,” he said, and fell. Hiding under a table hadn’t helped the sheriff; he was sprawled out under it now, his eyes glazed in death. It hadn’t saved the skinny fool from the East, either. Davison was bleeding out on top of the sheriff; his jugular had been hit, his geysering blood turning into a deep, dark river as it mingled with the dirt on the floor.

Milly Taylor wasn’t dead, though. She had wilted against the piano and was sobbing. The wall was blown out behind her. Varny had been hit in the right arm, but he was still standing.

Now it was just the two of them.

They stood in the midst of the carnage and stared at one another.

“You’re a lucky son of a bitch,” Varny said. “Your buddy there took down Riley and Austin. Without him, you’d be dead. You couldn’t have shot all four of them.”

“The world is full of what might have happened,” John said softly.

Varny grinned slowly. “I’m going to kill you, you know. Thing is, why the hell are you holding out? Give me the gold and I’ll let you live. Are you going to give me some cock and bull about your father’s people? You said that it was your land now. So which is it? Misplaced heroics or personal greed?”

John shrugged. “Misplaced heroics? Those who came here first, my father’s people, they need it. They’ll share. And you, you already have more than any man needs in a lifetime. You know, there’s a rumor out there that you have Indian blood, too.”

“The hell I do.”

“Thank God. The Indian nations don’t need your kind.”

Varny knew how to hold his temper, and he grinned, even if there was a tic at the vein in his throat. “What about your white half, boy?”

John hiked a brow slowly. Boy? “Well, Pops, my mother is dead. And what folks she had, I never knew about. But this isn’t about red or white. It’s about greed. Yours. You’ve managed to cause a hell of a lot of trouble since the Paiute War, kidnapping women from the villages, discarding them like garbage. And when their husbands, fathers and brothers have come after you, you’ve managed to shoot them down or get them hanged. All you’ve wanted for as long as I’ve known about you is gold. Paiute gold. And you’re not going to get it. This land—and any gold that’s on it—is the tribe’s now.”

Varny’s eyes filled with rage, but he kept his distance. John couldn’t be sure, but he thought Varny might be out of ammunition. It had been hard to count when a half-dozen guns were blazing, but if Varny carried the old army Colts he always had, he was most probably out of bullets.

Then Varny smiled coldly. “I’ve got something you want as much as I want that gold.”

John didn’t allow any sign of wariness to show on his features. He waited. What the hell did he have to lose at this point? Things hadn’t gone the way he’d expected, but now it was down to Varny and himself. He might die, but he would take Varny down with him if he did.

“Did you think I’d play all my cards so quickly?” Varny asked. He never looked away from John. “Tobias! Get in here!”

Tobias was a big man, like some corn-fed Nebraskan. He didn’t look happy as he came in, straw-colored hair flying, denims held up by suspenders.

But that didn’t give John pause. What caused his heart to skip a beat was the fact that Tobias was dragging a terrified captive.

Mariah.

She was in deerskin and moccasins, her hair braided, as befitted a Paiute maiden. But her eyes were bluer than a clear sky at noon, and her skin was as pale as porcelain. She was one of those rare creatures who found happiness and harmony wherever she went; she adored her Indian stepsiblings as much as she had loved her white father, before he died and the Paiute took her in. She was a voice of sanity and peace, and Varny must have grabbed her as she had hurried here to meet him.

“I’ll kill her,” Varny said flatly. There was no emotion in the man’s voice at all. “I’d have fun with her first, except she’s such a timid little mouse, and that’s no fun at all. But who knows? I might give it a try. I actually prefer my women wild and wicked, like Milly over there, but I’m willing to put up with a lot for that deed and that vein of gold. Then again, there’s nothing like blowing off someone’s kneecap. That would hurt like hell, and I’m betting it would get you to talk.”

The first thought that occurred to John was that he would do anything, anything at all, to save Mariah’s life. He would give up all the gold in the universe, salvation for the world, just to see her free. He should drop his weapons and give Varny everything he wanted.

But it wouldn’t help. Varny was going to kill them both, possibly torture them both, no matter what he said to the contrary, once he had the gold.

“Well?” Varny pressed.

It was amazing, John thought, that Varny hadn’t realized the truth about the gold.

“Don’t give him anything!” Mariah cried, fighting the hold Varny’s lackey had upon her. “Don’t give him anything at all.”

Her eyes flashed with her fury and her hatred, which only seemed to amuse Varny—and appeal to him.

“Maybe the lady isn’t so boring after all,” he mused.

With only split seconds before the choice was no longer his, John weighed his options. And they were few. No aid was coming. Ringo Murphy was dead on the ground, and he was the only fool who would have dared to help.

How good was he? John asked himself. He could take down Varny, but could he do that and save Mariah? Maybe. If he tried negotiation, if he stalled, if Varny was the first to draw…

No help, no hope.

He drew.

He fired like lightning; both guns blazing. One bullet for Tobias, one for Varny.

But Varny was fast, too.

John’s bullets struck both men, but Varny hit John in the chest, dead center, as well. Oddly, he didn’t feel pain. Just the punch of the bullet, and then…cold.