The sound he heard couldn’t be described as a scream.  Not even a muffled scream.  More of an unintended distress call like a wounded animal might make unintentionally, lest additional predators arrive.  Someone in his line of work was trained to recognize that sound, not always acting on it.  It always meant trouble and trouble came with a price he wasn’t always willing to pay.

The shadows in the alley behind the Lucky Lady Lounge were easy to make out.  A man and a woman.  The man was large, the woman was slender.  When the headlights of his Lincoln Zephyr rounded the corner and put them both squarely in the spotlight, it was obvious she was at a disadvantage in a competition she was destined not to win.  The black and white wingtip on his right foot instinctively pushed the accelerator of the sleek Lincoln to the floor.  Shortly after, the blasts exploding from the business end of the .38 lit up the scene more brightly than the headlights had, but only for a split second each.

The man stood in disbelief long enough for his knees to give out.  He was dead before his head hit the asphalt.

The Zephyr came to a full stop six feet from the pot hole filling up quickly with the O Negative draining out of the brute’s chest.  “Maybe it’s a good thing Fort Stockton hasn’t gotten around to filling these yet,” he murmured to himself as stepped over it and right into right into a murder scene.

Hunt Digby recognized Lana from inside the Lucky Lady.  She was one of the most attractive of several of the young ladies that served watered down beverages in the joint, and he wouldn’t kick any of them out of bed for eating crackers.  He’d noticed her a few times he’d been in the bar, but not enough to ever pursue her.  He figured she’d had all the pursuit she’d needed, anyway.  Lana looked amazingly calm for someone who had just pumped enough lead into someone’s chest to leave a huge sucking wound that even his atrocious floral tie couldn’t camouflage.  Perhaps it wasn’t her first rodeo.

He tipped his fedora.  “Ma’am,” Hunt said.

“Don’t suppose you have a cigarette,” Lana replied.  “Might take the edge off.”

She leaned back against the pointed hood of the Zephyr while he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of Chesterfields, shook it once so two could be expelled from the opening just far enough to be extracted.  He handed her one, and put the second one between his own lips.  In the flickering flame of the Zippo he could make out the softness of her features up close.  If looks could kill . . .

“Was it personal or business?” Hunt asked, not really expecting an answer.

“Yes,” Lana replied.  “It was business for me to lure him upstairs to the card games.  That’s where the profits are made.  The bar downstairs is just for show.  Poor bastard took it personally when he lost.  Lost big.”  She took a long drag from the Chesterfield and exhaled the smoke with her head tilted back so it formed a cloud above her.  “He figured I was responsible for the dough he’d lost.  Wanted me to make it up to him in other ways.”

“Looks like you did,” he said.  “Just not the way he expected.”

“Serves him right.  Every other able-bodied young man in Fort Stockton is off fighting the Krauts or the Japs, and this dumb loser is trying to beat the odds at cards, or get lucky with someone out of his league.”

“None of us ever know just where we’ll meet our fate,” Hunt said.  “Nonetheless, it won’t be long before you’re going to have to make some tough decisions.  On the off chance nobody heard what just happened, it still won’t be long before your Riverboat Gambler is discovered with his personable smile and compliant personality no longer his most distinguishing features.”  

The light drizzle that had blanketed the scene thus far gave way to an actual soft rain.  “Step inside the car while you think about your next move.”  He opened the passenger door for her.  He couldn’t help but watch her slide into the cabin of the Lincoln.  One complemented the other quite well, each possessing curves that could only be penned by a master of design.

“Nice ride,” she said.

He didn’t admit those were the words that came to his mind when she’d slid into the cabin.  “You from around here?” Hunt asked.

“Only a few months.  Originally from Nebraska.  Needed a change of scenery.  More sun, less corn.”

“I’m going to suggest taking a trip.  Not back to Nebraska.  Maybe California.”  He spun the big burgundy wheel around as he put the gear shift in reverse and pointed the bulbous backend of the close-coupled coupe the opposite direction of the recently deceased.  At the end of the alley he slammed the transmission into first and spun the rear tires onto Main Street, leaving the Lucky Lady in the shadows of the oval rearview mirror that hung from atop the windshield.  “Where do you live?”

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, attempting to determine if he could be trusted.

“Remember who had the gun.  Who just off’d a guy.  I’m just here to help.”  He had a point, but she was not a woman who had easily trusted men before.  Or maybe she had trusted too many men, and all too easily.

“The Alamo Arms.  Take a right at the stop sign,” she said.

Hunt pulled the long, low coupe up to the sidewalk leading to the entrance and shut the V-12 off.  “My guess is you travel lite.  I’ll wait here.  Don’t want you to think there’s any ulterior motives involved.  Take fifteen minutes.  Put everything you own that’s important into whatever suitcases you have.  Leave anything that doesn’t fit.  Leave a note for the landlady.  Tell her there’s been an emergency back in Omaha.  Something with your mom.  She’ll relate to that.”

Lana grabbed the curved chrome handle and pulled down to let herself out.  She got out but turned around, bent over, and peered back into the car.  “I’ve got a cat.  I can’t just leave it in the apartment.  I’m not even supposed to have it.”

“You’re a real rule-follower, aren’t you?” Hunt said, somewhat dismayed.  “Bring the cat.  I’ll handle it.”

“You’re not going to . . .”

“You’re the one with the trigger finger.  Don’t worry about the cat.  You’ve only got thirteen minutes left.”

At the station, after getting two cups of black coffee at the snack bar, they watched the sun come up over the horizon.  Hunt looked into her eyes and saw for the first time in the light that they were the same deep shade of blue as the Lincoln.  He reached into the pocket of his wool overcoat and pulled out a worn, tan, calfskin wallet.  Opening it, he pulled two one hundred dollar bills and a fifty out and handed them to Lana.  “Your cut,” he said.

“Of what?” she asked.

“You did what I came here to do,” he said.  “I’m a bounty hunter.  Dead or alive.  The bounty on this one was five hundred bucks.  Put the .38 in the glove box.  Walk away.  It never happened.”  She looked at him like he was reading a dime store novel and had come to the part she couldn’t believe.  “I’ll square it with the Chief here in town.  He knew I was coming and wouldn’t be surprised.  Your friend from the alley won’t bother you, but everyone has family.  Get as far away as possible.  Just in case.”

When the Lone Star Zephyr pulled into the depot, she was the first one to get on, after handing two bulging suitcases to the porter at the steps.  Hunt didn’t know where the ticket she bought would take her.  He didn’t want that information for a number of reasons.  Sometimes ignorance was a blessing, knowledge a curse.  Taking her seat on the sleek chrome railcar, she looked out the window at Hunt, the royal blue Lincoln, and Fort Stockton waking up in the scene unfolding just beyond the train station.  Twelve hours ago, she was starting her shift at the Lucky Lady.  “Things never look like you think they’re going to,” her mother used to tell her.

Hunt pointed the waterfall bow of the Lincoln towards the police station to fill out paperwork and sign a statement.  He began sneezing and looked down at the cat on the floorboard of the passenger side. He cracked the window and guided the Lincoln back into a parking space just outside the main entrance to the depot.  Tears in his eyes, Hunt stumbled into the station, made his way to the glass ticket window and pushed the person in front of him in line out of the way.

“The woman with the blue eyes.  The first one that got on the train,” Hunt said to the guy on the other side of the glass.  “What was her destination?”