My husband will kill you for this.
Butch turned over the pale blue scarf in his hands and smiled, enjoying the rough grating of his mauled lip over the silver tooth. That'd be a trick. He'd thought it was an accomplishment to have killed off the two Reid boys, and now, having Collins finish off the woman and the runt, there was nothing in his way. No Rangers constantly on his tail, no crying women grieving for dead husbands, no whining kids staring at him like he was a stuffed buffalo on display. Absolutely nothing. And God, if the freedom didn't leave him feeling elated.
Of course, there was still Latham to deal with. His own brother. If anyone was going to get in Butch's way, it would be Latham. Never mind that the silver had been discovered by the two of them - if Latham wanted Butch gone, he'd find a way to do it. Just like Dan Reid. Eventually, when the time was right, Butch would have to get rid of Latham. But for now, the fat old fool was still useful - no banker in their right mind would do business with the likes of Butch, and with the connections in the railroad company that Latham still held, it would be impossible to manage the silver on his own.
No, the time wasn't right for Latham to die. Yet. But one day, there would be nothing stopping Butch from taking it all for himself - the silver, the profits - and Latham wouldn't be around to interfere. The railroad could go to the Devil for all Butch cared about that. He wanted something more valuable, something... sweeter.
He lifted the scarf to his nose and inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of the Reid woman. A satisfied hum escaped him. A shame, really, that she had to go. He would have enjoyed having her around, getting to know her far, far better. And who knew - maybe Latham had actually shown up on time and had already found her, assuming Collins had suddenly turned coward and refused to shoot her. It wouldn't have surprised Butch, although he did have to give the old tracker credit for the part he played in Dan's murder. Luring all seven Rangers into the canyon like puppets on strings, all for the promise of a few silver pieces that he would never even see.
Butch smirked and tucked the scarf into his pocket again, looking around him at the men lounging uncomfortably on the rocks. Several were watching him carefully but most were directing their gaze anywhere but at him. They feared him; good. He would hate for them to forget who they were working for.
Mounting his horse, he directed the beast in the direction of the river and dug his spurs into the animal's sides. Without looking back he knew the rest of them were following close behind. The dull echo of horses' hooves thudding against the sand brought his mind back to that day in the canyon. Images of the Rangers scrambling madly flashed through his head. He suddenly remembered Frank's words, something about a Ranger being alive. Yeah, Butch thought to himself with a smirk, the ghost of Dan Reid.
Butch Cavendish had never believed in ghost stories.
