Tim reached the third man at a bound and knocked him flat with a blow that sent his shotgun spinning into the snow. Red gained his feet as the man rolled over. He leveled the pistol at the man’s head. The man went pale and raised his hands.
Tim said, “I’ll see to Missus Flint.”
Tim followed her footprints across the snow. She lay face down, a still, dark shape against the glare. As he walked a numbness moved along his legs and the pumping of his heart beat like thunder in his ears.
She was quiet as night and her pulse was still. He turned her over. Blood had soaked her doeskin jacket and stained the snow. With his thumb and middle finger he felt for her eyelids and gently closed her unseeing eyes.
He rose to his feet, a fist of anger burning in his chest, and walked slowly toward Red and the other man.
When the man saw Tim’s face he started to shake. Tim reached out his hand and took the revolver. He pointed it straight at the man’s heart. “Who killed the woman?”
“Not me,” the man breathed.
“You lie.”
The man sank to the ground, his knees skidding foolishly in the snow. “Oh no. Great God,” he screamed, swaying and gesturing toward the stocky man. “It was Billy, there. Sure enough it was. And even so, the woman shot first.”
Red said, “I believe he speaks the truth.”