Two of his best men were down. One had a hand missing, the other eight broken ribs. This mine better be as good as they say. It wouldn’t give him an...eye back or fix his ruined face, but people can forget a lot when money gets in their eyes. He could give a shit whether Darby lived or died. It was an association of convenience and he was getting downright inconveinent. He’d figure a way to get rid of him later. Right now he needed what few guns he had left and all his miners.“We got ‘em all but. But Clara stayed at the bar, tossing back drinks. She had a hollow leg when it came to them, so much so that when the bar closed, she barely felt tipsy. The barman was a tousled-looking elder, at least in his sixties, with rheumy eyes and a five o'clock shadow that seemed perpetual. His eyes were openly leering as he refilled her glass, and Clara couldn't blame him, dressed as she was in a leather jacket, a smart skirt that came down to mid-thigh, and a top that was low-cut enough to need the. More

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