«You be the one they call Whip,» Murphy said.

Whip said nothing. He was looking through the mercantile’s dirty window. The Culpepper boys were mounting up and riding out on their lean racing mules.

Shannon was nowhere in sight.

«Leastwise,» Murphy said, «folks done called you Whip ever since you skun out them Canyon City boys for talking dirt to that half-breed Wolfe Lonetree’s white wife.»

Whip turned and looked at Murphy with eyes the color of winter.

«Where is Shannon?» Whip asked.

«She lit out when you cut Beau’s tongue.»

The bullwhip seethed restlessly. Murphy eyed it as warily as he would have a rattlesnake.

«Where?» Whip repeated.

«Yonder,» Murphy said, jerking a dirty thumb toward the north. «Silent John works some claims up a fork of Avalanche Creek.»

«Does she come into Holler Creek often?»

Murphy shook his head.

The bullwhip shivered and leaped softly, whispering to itself.

Murphy swallowed. At the moment, Whip bore an uncomfortable resemblance to an avenging angel.

Or Lucifer himself.

«How often does she come in?» Whip asked.

The gentle tone didn’t fool Murphy. He had gotten a good look at Whip’s eyes. They were a preview of hell.

«Once a year,» Murphy said quickly.

«In the summer?»

«Nope. Just the fall. For the last four or five years she fetched the winter supplies for Silent John.»

Whip’s eyes narrowed.

«Now her tail is in a right narrow crack,» Murphy added. «That snake-mean old man is all what keeps the Culpepper boys away from her. Talk now is he’s dead.»

Hope leaped in Whip.

Maybe Shannon is free.

A young widow.

Damn, a yondering man like me couldn’t ask for more than a widow like Shannon between now and whichever tomorrow the sunrise calls my name again.