Royce jammed the rifle barrel into Paul's back, intending to shove him further into the room. The solid resistance took him by surprise, as did Paul's lightning reaction, spinning around and slapping the rifle across the room with his massive hand. Miss June shrieked again, drawing herself up onto the couch in a ball. Royce backed away, barely getting his knife out before the huge bartender was upon him. The hand that clamped on his shoulder felt like a bear trap closing, and he swung the knife up in defensive desperation. Paul gasped, staggering backwards, clutching the ragged wound in his side.

Blood soaked into his shirt and ran out over his fingers, pressing against the cut. He doubled over, grunting and spitting a string of pink saliva onto the mayor's oriental carpet; his huge head lifted slowly, coal black eyes drilling Royce with such a glint of fierceness that he nearly froze in shock. Astonished that the man could still be standing, let alone alive after such a strike, Royce let out a terrified whimper and jumped to the couch, grabbing Miss June by the hair and pressing the bloodied blade against her neck.

Resembling marionettes locked in a bizarre dance, Royce dragged the mewling Miss June down the hallway, trying door handles until he found an unlocked room. He shoved her roughly to the floor and locked the door behind him, fighting to stop the trembling in his hands.

"Make another sound and I'll gut you like fish." He snarled, kicking her hard as he crossed to the window.

Orin crouched transfixed near the top of the stairs, watching wide-eyed as Paul lurched down the hallway, blood pouring from his side. Stopping in front of the door that Royce had disappeared through, Paul groaned loudly, straightening up and sucking in a painful breath. With a mighty roar, he plowed his boulder-sized fist into the door; the entire frame split away, crashing into the room in a shower of splinters.

Royce spun from the window, all hope of escaping quietly, dashed by roaring, towering giant that filled the ragged entrance to the room. He drew both guns, and baring his teeth, emptied them wildly toward the door. Paul teetered in the doorway; the noise of lead hitting flesh sounded like an open-handed smack. He staggered back and heeled over, down the stairs.

Wesley burst into the lobby in time to see the helpless figure of Orin leap up just in time to catch the full weight of the bartender, sending them both crashing into the banister. Orin was bent at an impossible angle, and the sharp snap of his spine was followed quickly by the crunch of splintering wood. The two figures performed a lazy loop in the air before thudding to the lobby floor in a tangled heap of bloodied limbs and shattered kindling.

Tyrone and Bragg froze at the sound of gunfire from the second floor. Quickly, they hurried back to the end of the hall and down the stairs, bumping to a halt as they peered along the empty hallway. A portion of jagged doorframe jutted out into the shaft of weak sunlight painting the hall carpet, and the two men stole cautiously along the landing, their nerves pinging almost audibly. Bragg signaled Tyrone to wait and crept closer to the door. Inside the room he could hear whimpering and the scuffle of feet mixed with harsh, whispered commands.

"Royce! Cable Royce! The hotel's surrounded, you can't get away. Just toss out your gun and come out peaceful, don't make this harder than needs be."

"If I don't get away, this pretty little filly is gonna get spread all over this room. Think you can stand another one?"

Bragg blanched, realizing the filly must be Miss June. He looked back at Tyrone who was staring angrily over the railing to the lobby below. He slipped back beside him and sagged in defeat at the sight of Paul and Orin's tangled, bloody bodies.

"He's got Miss June as a hostage."

"I heard."

"Now what?"

Tyrone's cold look said exactly what Bragg feared. They could not let this maniac escape . . . no matter what.

Wesley leaned against the back wall of the hotel by the door, his hands pressed against his knees, his breath coming in jagged huffs. Seeing Paul and Orin tumble to their death over the railing had scared the liver out of him, and he'd 'bolted, fighting the mix of shock, anger and fear that possessed him. Bragg's warning and Royce's reply had reached his ears loud and clear, and he gradually forced himself to be calm, straightening up and taking in deep gulps of air. Wesley slipped out the back, discovering the rickety fire escape that clung to the back wall of the hotel.

Quietly he inched his way up the wooden steps, his gun out and aimed at the second floor window of the mayor's office. Pausing just below the window, he could hear Royce grappling with his hostage, the savage glee of his grating words drifting outside. Bragg yelled at him again to give up and Wesley heard the rip of cloth and a muffled scream.

He raised his eyes above the frame just enough to see a hand clamped over Miss June's face and another, holding a wicked looking knife, slashing away at her dress. Except for his arms, Royce was out of his line of sight, and Wesley sagged back down on the steps, agonizing over the situation.

"Whatta ya say out there? Do I walk out, or do I start sendin' the little lady out in pieces?" Royce sliced through the laces of Miss June's corset, nicking her skin with the knife as he flipped it open. The blood spotted garment sailed through the ruined doorway into the hall, landing where Bragg and Tyrone could see its message quite clearly.

Forcing his tone to be steady, Tyrone spoke slowly around the edge of the doorway. "This is Federal Marshal, Tyrone Hartman. Come out now with your hands empty and I'll see that you get returned to Bentonville unharmed. Let the woman go or you won't be walkin' anywhere . . . ever."

Royce let out an ugly laugh, reaching down and grabbing the woman between the legs. Her scream cut off sharply as the knifepoint rested against her cheek just below her eye. "No deal, Federal Marshal, Tyrone Hartman. Right now my hands are plenty full, and I ain't givin' this up for no Bentonville." He planted a wet kiss on the helpless woman's neck as he groped between her cold thighs. "Ask the little lady if she'd rather be in here with me, or scattered about the hallway like them undies." He slipped his hand up, squeezing her breast and ordering her to speak.

"P-please, don't let him hurt me! Oofff, ow. Oooh." Her voice filled with sobs of pain as Royce twisted her breast and yanked on its nipple.

"See marshal, she likes it in here with me. Now why don't you just go fetch me a good horse and some supplies while I teach this little beauty some new tricks."

Wesley sat crouched below the window, his entire body rigid with fury. Royce's words, and the pitiful sounds from Miss June, filled his head with images of what had happened to his wife and son. It took all his strength to relax his finger on the trigger of his gun, afraid he would fire off a round and give himself away. Several men had gathered in the yard below him and he waved them back with an angry shushing gesture.

The shots had brought everyone running to the hotel and Wesley could hear the swell of impatient voices out in the street. He pushed himself up the wall until he could peer into the room again; sweat poured down his sides and he shivered nervously. Royce had the young woman bent over the iron rail at the end of the bed while he struggled to undo his trousers, his knife resting threateningly on the nape of her neck.

Right beside him on the dresser, Wesley could see the handle of a revolver; the other was still in Royce's holster. He sucked in his breath and moved into the window opening. This was the moment, the vow he'd made over his family's grave. He straightened his arm, aiming the gun at the back of Royce's head and fought to steady his hand.

*****