Archive of Our Own

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

A Woman Called Calamity began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Jane Cannary rides into Wichita looking for a drink, a bed, and no trouble at all. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"My people have stories about dangerous things," Elias said. "That does not mean every foolish story belongs to us. This one came here in a coffin from somewhere else."

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"If we live through this," Fitch said, "I am printing every word." "If we live through this," Jane replied, "I am denying every word."

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"Can silver kill him?" Fitch asked. Mercer sighed. "I am a physician, not a catalogue of monsters." Jane pushed coins across the table. "Today you are both."

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

The locomotive bucked beneath their boots. Jane caught the ladder with one hand, swung between cars, and fired upward at a pale face leaning over the roofline.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"My people have stories about dangerous things," Elias said. "That does not mean every foolish story belongs to us. This one came here in a coffin from somewhere else."

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"My people have stories about dangerous things," Elias said. "That does not mean every foolish story belongs to us. This one came here in a coffin from somewhere else."

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

Jane kicked the saloon table onto its side as buckshot chewed the wall. Glass came down in a glittering sheet. She rolled, came up behind the bar, and fired through the mirror at the shape moving behind her.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

The Dead Drover began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. A cattleman is found bloodless beside the Arkansas River. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

Elias fired from one knee, patient amid the noise. His shot clipped the rifle from a rooftop hand. Jane crossed the street while the man was still staring at his empty fingers.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

Jane kicked the saloon table onto its side as buckshot chewed the wall. Glass came down in a glittering sheet. She rolled, came up behind the bar, and fired through the mirror at the shape moving behind her.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

Jane's revolver cleared leather with no flourish at all. She fired once. The gunman's hat jumped from his head and sailed backward into the horse trough. 'Next one costs you something harder to replace,' she said.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

The locomotive bucked beneath their boots. Jane caught the ladder with one hand, swung between cars, and fired upward at a pale face leaning over the roofline.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

Elias fired from one knee, patient amid the noise. His shot clipped the rifle from a rooftop hand. Jane crossed the street while the man was still staring at his empty fingers.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

Elias fired from one knee, patient amid the noise. His shot clipped the rifle from a rooftop hand. Jane crossed the street while the man was still staring at his empty fingers.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Two Holes began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Doc Eli Mercer notices what the coroner would rather ignore. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"Can silver kill him?" Fitch asked. Mercer sighed. "I am a physician, not a catalogue of monsters." Jane pushed coins across the table. "Today you are both."

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"My people have stories about dangerous things," Elias said. "That does not mean every foolish story belongs to us. This one came here in a coffin from somewhere else."

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"That is not a legal definition," Pike said. "Then arrest him for being dead without a permit," Jane replied.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

Jane kicked the saloon table onto its side as buckshot chewed the wall. Glass came down in a glittering sheet. She rolled, came up behind the bar, and fired through the mirror at the shape moving behind her.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"If we live through this," Fitch said, "I am printing every word." "If we live through this," Jane replied, "I am denying every word."

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"That is not a legal definition," Pike said. "Then arrest him for being dead without a permit," Jane replied.

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

Elias fired from one knee, patient amid the noise. His shot clipped the rifle from a rooftop hand. Jane crossed the street while the man was still staring at his empty fingers.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Night Train from Abilene began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. A locked freight car arrives with one coffin and no consignee. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"If we live through this," Fitch said, "I am printing every word." "If we live through this," Jane replied, "I am denying every word."

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"My people have stories about dangerous things," Elias said. "That does not mean every foolish story belongs to us. This one came here in a coffin from somewhere else."

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"If we live through this," Fitch said, "I am printing every word." "If we live through this," Jane replied, "I am denying every word."

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

The locomotive bucked beneath their boots. Jane caught the ladder with one hand, swung between cars, and fired upward at a pale face leaning over the roofline.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"That is not a legal definition," Pike said. "Then arrest him for being dead without a permit," Jane replied.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"You believe in vampires?" Mercer asked. Jane considered. "I believe in whatever keeps getting back up after I shoot it."

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

Jane kicked the saloon table onto its side as buckshot chewed the wall. Glass came down in a glittering sheet. She rolled, came up behind the bar, and fired through the mirror at the shape moving behind her.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

The Man in Black Broadcloth began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Silas Vane introduces himself to Wichita society. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"You are remarkably calm," Vane said. "No," Jane told him. "I am remarkably annoyed."

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"If we live through this," Fitch said, "I am printing every word." "If we live through this," Jane replied, "I am denying every word."

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"Can silver kill him?" Fitch asked. Mercer sighed. "I am a physician, not a catalogue of monsters." Jane pushed coins across the table. "Today you are both."

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

Jane kicked the saloon table onto its side as buckshot chewed the wall. Glass came down in a glittering sheet. She rolled, came up behind the bar, and fired through the mirror at the shape moving behind her.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"My people have stories about dangerous things," Elias said. "That does not mean every foolish story belongs to us. This one came here in a coffin from somewhere else."

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"Can silver kill him?" Fitch asked. Mercer sighed. "I am a physician, not a catalogue of monsters." Jane pushed coins across the table. "Today you are both."

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

Elias fired from one knee, patient amid the noise. His shot clipped the rifle from a rooftop hand. Jane crossed the street while the man was still staring at his empty fingers.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

A Horse That Would Not Pass began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Jane's mare refuses the alley behind the Grand Hotel. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"You are remarkably calm," Vane said. "No," Jane told him. "I am remarkably annoyed."

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"You have a reputation," Vane said. "So do rattlesnakes. Difference is, folks have the sense not to invite them to dinner."

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"You have a reputation," Vane said. "So do rattlesnakes. Difference is, folks have the sense not to invite them to dinner."

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment.

She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

Elias fired from one knee, patient amid the noise. His shot clipped the rifle from a rooftop hand. Jane crossed the street while the man was still staring at his empty fingers.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"You believe in vampires?" Mercer asked. Jane considered. "I believe in whatever keeps getting back up after I shoot it."

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"You believe in vampires?" Mercer asked. Jane considered. "I believe in whatever keeps getting back up after I shoot it."

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

Elias fired from one knee, patient amid the noise. His shot clipped the rifle from a rooftop hand. Jane crossed the street while the man was still staring at his empty fingers.

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Blood on Douglas Avenue began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Something hunts beneath the gas lamps. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

Jane kicked the saloon table onto its side as buckshot chewed the wall. Glass came down in a glittering sheet. She rolled, came up behind the bar, and fired through the mirror at the shape moving behind her.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

The pale rider passed among the cattle and every steer recoiled from him at once. Horns clattered. Hooves hammered. Then the whole herd broke as if the moon itself had frightened them.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

Jane kicked the saloon table onto its side as buckshot chewed the wall. Glass came down in a glittering sheet. She rolled, came up behind the bar, and fired through the mirror at the shape moving behind her.

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

Vane moved before the eye could properly follow him. One moment he stood beside the window; the next his hand was around Jane's wrist. She drove the revolver barrel into his jaw. The impact would have dropped an ordinary man. Vane merely smiled wider.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

The pale rider passed among the cattle and every steer recoiled from him at once. Horns clattered. Hooves hammered. Then the whole herd broke as if the moon itself had frightened them.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

Jane's revolver cleared leather with no flourish at all. She fired once. The gunman's hat jumped from his head and sailed backward into the horse trough. 'Next one costs you something harder to replace,' she said.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Marshal Pike began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. The city marshal has laws for gunmen but none for the dead. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"You have a reputation," Vane said. "So do rattlesnakes. Difference is, folks have the sense not to invite them to dinner."

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"My people have stories about dangerous things," Elias said. "That does not mean every foolish story belongs to us. This one came here in a coffin from somewhere else."

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"You believe in vampires?" Mercer asked. Jane considered. "I believe in whatever keeps getting back up after I shoot it."

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

The coffin lid rose an inch. Mercer stopped breathing. It rose another inch. Jane put the muzzle of her Colt against the gap. 'You come out polite,' she said, 'or you come out ventilated.'

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"You have a reputation," Vane said. "So do rattlesnakes. Difference is, folks have the sense not to invite them to dinner."

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

"You believe in vampires?" Mercer asked. Jane considered. "I believe in whatever keeps getting back up after I shoot it."

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

At first the evidence could still be made ordinary if a person worked hard enough at it: punctures blamed on wire, missing blood blamed on the undertaker, frightened horses blamed on thunder. Jane distrusted explanations that required everybody to ignore what they had seen.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

The Coffin Warehouse began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Jane and newspaperman Owen Fitch break into a freight shed after midnight. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

Vane moved before the eye could properly follow him. One moment he stood beside the window; the next his hand was around Jane's wrist. She drove the revolver barrel into his jaw. The impact would have dropped an ordinary man. Vane merely smiled wider.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The locomotive bucked beneath their boots. Jane caught the ladder with one hand, swung between cars, and fired upward at a pale face leaning over the roofline.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

Vane moved before the eye could properly follow him. One moment he stood beside the window; the next his hand was around Jane's wrist. She drove the revolver barrel into his jaw. The impact would have dropped an ordinary man. Vane merely smiled wider.

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The locomotive bucked beneath their boots. Jane caught the ladder with one hand, swung between cars, and fired upward at a pale face leaning over the roofline.

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The coffin lid rose an inch. Mercer stopped breathing. It rose another inch. Jane put the muzzle of her Colt against the gap. 'You come out polite,' she said, 'or you come out ventilated.'

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

A Bullet Through the Heart began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Jane learns that ordinary ammunition only makes the stranger angry. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The pale rider passed among the cattle and every steer recoiled from him at once. Horns clattered. Hooves hammered. Then the whole herd broke as if the moon itself had frightened them.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

Jane kicked the saloon table onto its side as buckshot chewed the wall. Glass came down in a glittering sheet. She rolled, came up behind the bar, and fired through the mirror at the shape moving behind her.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The pale rider passed among the cattle and every steer recoiled from him at once. Horns clattered. Hooves hammered. Then the whole herd broke as if the moon itself had frightened them.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

Elias fired from one knee, patient amid the noise. His shot clipped the rifle from a rooftop hand. Jane crossed the street while the man was still staring at his empty fingers.

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The pale rider passed among the cattle and every steer recoiled from him at once. Horns clattered. Hooves hammered. Then the whole herd broke as if the moon itself had frightened them.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Mrs. Bell's Boarding House began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. A widow remembers Vane from a town that burned twenty years earlier. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

"You have a reputation," Vane said. "So do rattlesnakes. Difference is, folks have the sense not to invite them to dinner."

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

"You believe in vampires?" Mercer asked. Jane considered. "I believe in whatever keeps getting back up after I shoot it."

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

"Miss Cannary, you cannot shoot every problem." Jane looked offended. "I have never claimed that. Some need dynamite."

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The pale rider passed among the cattle and every steer recoiled from him at once. Horns clattered. Hooves hammered. Then the whole herd broke as if the moon itself had frightened them.

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

"You are remarkably calm," Vane said. "No," Jane told him. "I am remarkably annoyed."

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

"That is not a legal definition," Pike said. "Then arrest him for being dead without a permit," Jane replied.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

Jane's revolver cleared leather with no flourish at all. She fired once. The gunman's hat jumped from his head and sailed backward into the horse trough. 'Next one costs you something harder to replace,' she said.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

The Pawnee Scout began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Elias Knife finds tracks that begin like a man's and end like nothing human. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

"You have a reputation," Vane said. "So do rattlesnakes. Difference is, folks have the sense not to invite them to dinner."

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

"Miss Cannary, you cannot shoot every problem." Jane looked offended. "I have never claimed that. Some need dynamite."

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

"If we live through this," Fitch said, "I am printing every word." "If we live through this," Jane replied, "I am denying every word."

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The coffin lid rose an inch. Mercer stopped breathing. It rose another inch. Jane put the muzzle of her Colt against the gap. 'You come out polite,' she said, 'or you come out ventilated.'

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

"Can silver kill him?" Fitch asked. Mercer sighed. "I am a physician, not a catalogue of monsters." Jane pushed coins across the table. "Today you are both."

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

"You are remarkably calm," Vane said. "No," Jane told him. "I am remarkably annoyed."

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

No Grave at Sunrise began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. The first body disappears from the undertaker's table. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

"Can silver kill him?" Fitch asked. Mercer sighed. "I am a physician, not a catalogue of monsters." Jane pushed coins across the table. "Today you are both."

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

"That is not a legal definition," Pike said. "Then arrest him for being dead without a permit," Jane replied.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

"You are remarkably calm," Vane said. "No," Jane told him. "I am remarkably annoyed."

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

Vane moved before the eye could properly follow him. One moment he stood beside the window; the next his hand was around Jane's wrist. She drove the revolver barrel into his jaw. The impact would have dropped an ordinary man. Vane merely smiled wider.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

"Miss Cannary, you cannot shoot every problem." Jane looked offended. "I have never claimed that. Some need dynamite."

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

"My people have stories about dangerous things," Elias said. "That does not mean every foolish story belongs to us. This one came here in a coffin from somewhere else."

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

The Stockyards at Midnight began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Cattle panic as a pale rider crosses the pens. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

Jane's revolver cleared leather with no flourish at all. She fired once. The gunman's hat jumped from his head and sailed backward into the horse trough. 'Next one costs you something harder to replace,' she said.

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The thing in the alley wore a man's coat but climbed the brick wall without using the drainpipe. Fitch made a small sound. Jane raised the Winchester. 'Well,' she said, 'that settles one argument.'

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The thing in the alley wore a man's coat but climbed the brick wall without using the drainpipe. Fitch made a small sound. Jane raised the Winchester. 'Well,' she said, 'that settles one argument.'

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The thing in the alley wore a man's coat but climbed the brick wall without using the drainpipe. Fitch made a small sound. Jane raised the Winchester. 'Well,' she said, 'that settles one argument.'

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

Jane kicked the saloon table onto its side as buckshot chewed the wall. Glass came down in a glittering sheet. She rolled, came up behind the bar, and fired through the mirror at the shape moving behind her.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Silver began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Doc Mercer proposes an experiment Jane considers expensive. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

"Miss Cannary, you cannot shoot every problem." Jane looked offended. "I have never claimed that. Some need dynamite."

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

"That is not a legal definition," Pike said. "Then arrest him for being dead without a permit," Jane replied.

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

"You believe in vampires?" Mercer asked. Jane considered. "I believe in whatever keeps getting back up after I shoot it."

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

Two shots struck Vane in the chest. His coat snapped with the impacts. He looked down at the holes, then back at Jane with mild reproach. 'Madam,' he said, 'those are becoming tiresome.'

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

"You have a reputation," Vane said. "So do rattlesnakes. Difference is, folks have the sense not to invite them to dinner."

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones.

Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

"If we live through this," Fitch said, "I am printing every word." "If we live through this," Jane replied, "I am denying every word."

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The locomotive bucked beneath their boots. Jane caught the ladder with one hand, swung between cars, and fired upward at a pale face leaning over the roofline.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

The Wichita Beacon began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Fitch prints a story nobody believes until the presses stop by themselves. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

"If we live through this," Fitch said, "I am printing every word." "If we live through this," Jane replied, "I am denying every word."

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

"My people have stories about dangerous things," Elias said. "That does not mean every foolish story belongs to us. This one came here in a coffin from somewhere else."

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

"Can silver kill him?" Fitch asked. Mercer sighed. "I am a physician, not a catalogue of monsters." Jane pushed coins across the table. "Today you are both."

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The thing in the alley wore a man's coat but climbed the brick wall without using the drainpipe. Fitch made a small sound. Jane raised the Winchester. 'Well,' she said, 'that settles one argument.'

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

"You have a reputation," Vane said. "So do rattlesnakes. Difference is, folks have the sense not to invite them to dinner."

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

"You believe in vampires?" Mercer asked. Jane considered. "I believe in whatever keeps getting back up after I shoot it."

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

A Saloon Full of Mirrors began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Jane chooses the brightest room in town for a trap. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

Elias fired from one knee, patient amid the noise. His shot clipped the rifle from a rooftop hand. Jane crossed the street while the man was still staring at his empty fingers.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The thing in the alley wore a man's coat but climbed the brick wall without using the drainpipe. Fitch made a small sound. Jane raised the Winchester. 'Well,' she said, 'that settles one argument.'

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

Elias fired from one knee, patient amid the noise. His shot clipped the rifle from a rooftop hand. Jane crossed the street while the man was still staring at his empty fingers.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

Two shots struck Vane in the chest. His coat snapped with the impacts. He looked down at the holes, then back at Jane with mild reproach. 'Madam,' he said, 'those are becoming tiresome.'

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

Elias fired from one knee, patient amid the noise. His shot clipped the rifle from a rooftop hand. Jane crossed the street while the man was still staring at his empty fingers.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The pale rider passed among the cattle and every steer recoiled from him at once. Horns clattered. Hooves hammered. Then the whole herd broke as if the moon itself had frightened them.

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

The Broken Reflection began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Vane comes calling. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The locomotive bucked beneath their boots. Jane caught the ladder with one hand, swung between cars, and fired upward at a pale face leaning over the roofline.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The coffin lid rose an inch. Mercer stopped breathing. It rose another inch. Jane put the muzzle of her Colt against the gap. 'You come out polite,' she said, 'or you come out ventilated.'

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The pale rider passed among the cattle and every steer recoiled from him at once. Horns clattered. Hooves hammered. Then the whole herd broke as if the moon itself had frightened them.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

The thing in the alley wore a man's coat but climbed the brick wall without using the drainpipe. Fitch made a small sound. Jane raised the Winchester. 'Well,' she said, 'that settles one argument.'

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

The pattern sharpened. Vane fed rarely but deliberately, chose people whose deaths would spread fear, and cultivated respectable company by day. He wanted Wichita frightened, divided, and indoors after dark. A city that locked its doors was easier hunting than a cattle camp.

Jane's revolver cleared leather with no flourish at all. She fired once. The gunman's hat jumped from his head and sailed backward into the horse trough. 'Next one costs you something harder to replace,' she said.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Three Coffins South began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. The trail leads toward an abandoned mission beyond the cattle road. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"You believe in vampires?" Mercer asked. Jane considered. "I believe in whatever keeps getting back up after I shoot it."

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"If we live through this," Fitch said, "I am printing every word." "If we live through this," Jane replied, "I am denying every word."

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"Can silver kill him?" Fitch asked. Mercer sighed. "I am a physician, not a catalogue of monsters." Jane pushed coins across the table. "Today you are both."

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

Two shots struck Vane in the chest. His coat snapped with the impacts. He looked down at the holes, then back at Jane with mild reproach. 'Madam,' he said, 'those are becoming tiresome.'

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"You have a reputation," Vane said. "So do rattlesnakes. Difference is, folks have the sense not to invite them to dinner."

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"You are remarkably calm," Vane said. "No," Jane told him. "I am remarkably annoyed."

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

Jane kicked the saloon table onto its side as buckshot chewed the wall. Glass came down in a glittering sheet. She rolled, came up behind the bar, and fired through the mirror at the shape moving behind her.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

The Chapel in the Cottonwoods began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Jane finds names scratched beneath an altar. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"If we live through this," Fitch said, "I am printing every word." "If we live through this," Jane replied, "I am denying every word."

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"You are remarkably calm," Vane said. "No," Jane told him. "I am remarkably annoyed."

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"Miss Cannary, you cannot shoot every problem." Jane looked offended. "I have never claimed that. Some need dynamite."

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

The thing in the alley wore a man's coat but climbed the brick wall without using the drainpipe. Fitch made a small sound. Jane raised the Winchester. 'Well,' she said, 'that settles one argument.'

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"That is not a legal definition," Pike said. "Then arrest him for being dead without a permit," Jane replied.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"Miss Cannary, you cannot shoot every problem." Jane looked offended. "I have never claimed that. Some need dynamite."

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

Jane's revolver cleared leather with no flourish at all. She fired once. The gunman's hat jumped from his head and sailed backward into the horse trough. 'Next one costs you something harder to replace,' she said.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Elias Tells a Story began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. The scout separates old warnings from the foolish tales white men have added to them. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"You are remarkably calm," Vane said. "No," Jane told him. "I am remarkably annoyed."

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"My people have stories about dangerous things," Elias said. "That does not mean every foolish story belongs to us. This one came here in a coffin from somewhere else."

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"If we live through this," Fitch said, "I am printing every word." "If we live through this," Jane replied, "I am denying every word."

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

Two shots struck Vane in the chest. His coat snapped with the impacts. He looked down at the holes, then back at Jane with mild reproach. 'Madam,' he said, 'those are becoming tiresome.'

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"That is not a legal definition," Pike said. "Then arrest him for being dead without a permit," Jane replied.

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"You are remarkably calm," Vane said. "No," Jane told him. "I am remarkably annoyed."

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones.

Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

The locomotive bucked beneath their boots. Jane caught the ladder with one hand, swung between cars, and fired upward at a pale face leaning over the roofline.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

The Night Herd began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. A cattle drive becomes cover for Vane's servants. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

Two shots struck Vane in the chest. His coat snapped with the impacts. He looked down at the holes, then back at Jane with mild reproach. 'Madam,' he said, 'those are becoming tiresome.'

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

Jane kicked the saloon table onto its side as buckshot chewed the wall. Glass came down in a glittering sheet.

She rolled, came up behind the bar, and fired through the mirror at the shape moving behind her.

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

The pale rider passed among the cattle and every steer recoiled from him at once. Horns clattered. Hooves hammered. Then the whole herd broke as if the moon itself had frightened them.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

Elias fired from one knee, patient amid the noise. His shot clipped the rifle from a rooftop hand. Jane crossed the street while the man was still staring at his empty fingers.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

The pale rider passed among the cattle and every steer recoiled from him at once. Horns clattered. Hooves hammered. Then the whole herd broke as if the moon itself had frightened them.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Stampede began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Jane rides straight through two thousand terrified longhorns. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

Elias fired from one knee, patient amid the noise. His shot clipped the rifle from a rooftop hand. Jane crossed the street while the man was still staring at his empty fingers.

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

The thing in the alley wore a man's coat but climbed the brick wall without using the drainpipe. Fitch made a small sound. Jane raised the Winchester. 'Well,' she said, 'that settles one argument.'

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

Jane kicked the saloon table onto its side as buckshot chewed the wall. Glass came down in a glittering sheet. She rolled, came up behind the bar, and fired through the mirror at the shape moving behind her.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

The thing in the alley wore a man's coat but climbed the brick wall without using the drainpipe. Fitch made a small sound. Jane raised the Winchester. 'Well,' she said, 'that settles one argument.'

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

The coffin lid rose an inch. Mercer stopped breathing. It rose another inch. Jane put the muzzle of her Colt against the gap. 'You come out polite,' she said, 'or you come out ventilated.'

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

The locomotive bucked beneath their boots. Jane caught the ladder with one hand, swung between cars, and fired upward at a pale face leaning over the roofline.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

The Bite began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. One of the posse comes back wrong. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

Elias fired from one knee, patient amid the noise. His shot clipped the rifle from a rooftop hand. Jane crossed the street while the man was still staring at his empty fingers.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

Two shots struck Vane in the chest. His coat snapped with the impacts. He looked down at the holes, then back at Jane with mild reproach. 'Madam,' he said, 'those are becoming tiresome.'

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

Elias fired from one knee, patient amid the noise. His shot clipped the rifle from a rooftop hand. Jane crossed the street while the man was still staring at his empty fingers.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

The thing in the alley wore a man's coat but climbed the brick wall without using the drainpipe. Fitch made a small sound. Jane raised the Winchester. 'Well,' she said, 'that settles one argument.'

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

The pale rider passed among the cattle and every steer recoiled from him at once. Horns clattered. Hooves hammered. Then the whole herd broke as if the moon itself had frightened them.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

The locomotive bucked beneath their boots. Jane caught the ladder with one hand, swung between cars, and fired upward at a pale face leaning over the roofline.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Sunlight in a Bottle began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Mercer and Fitch devise a desperate daylight weapon. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"Miss Cannary, you cannot shoot every problem." Jane looked offended. "I have never claimed that. Some need dynamite."

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"If we live through this," Fitch said, "I am printing every word." "If we live through this," Jane replied, "I am denying every word."

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"You believe in vampires?" Mercer asked. Jane considered. "I believe in whatever keeps getting back up after I shoot it."

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

Vane moved before the eye could properly follow him. One moment he stood beside the window; the next his hand was around Jane's wrist. She drove the revolver barrel into his jaw. The impact would have dropped an ordinary man. Vane merely smiled wider.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"That is not a legal definition," Pike said. "Then arrest him for being dead without a permit," Jane replied.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"Can silver kill him?" Fitch asked. Mercer sighed. "I am a physician, not a catalogue of monsters." Jane pushed coins across the table. "Today you are both."

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

Jane's revolver cleared leather with no flourish at all. She fired once. The gunman's hat jumped from his head and sailed backward into the horse trough. 'Next one costs you something harder to replace,' she said.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

The Hotel Siege began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Vane's followers lock Wichita's richest citizens inside the Grand. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"That is not a legal definition," Pike said. "Then arrest him for being dead without a permit," Jane replied.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"If we live through this," Fitch said, "I am printing every word."

"If we live through this," Jane replied, "I am denying every word."

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"Can silver kill him?" Fitch asked. Mercer sighed. "I am a physician, not a catalogue of monsters." Jane pushed coins across the table. "Today you are both."

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

The pale rider passed among the cattle and every steer recoiled from him at once. Horns clattered. Hooves hammered. Then the whole herd broke as if the moon itself had frightened them.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"If we live through this," Fitch said, "I am printing every word." "If we live through this," Jane replied, "I am denying every word."

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"That is not a legal definition," Pike said. "Then arrest him for being dead without a permit," Jane replied.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Calamity on the Roof began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Jane crosses the rooftops under moonlight and rifle fire. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

Elias fired from one knee, patient amid the noise. His shot clipped the rifle from a rooftop hand. Jane crossed the street while the man was still staring at his empty fingers.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

Vane moved before the eye could properly follow him. One moment he stood beside the window; the next his hand was around Jane's wrist. She drove the revolver barrel into his jaw. The impact would have dropped an ordinary man. Vane merely smiled wider.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

Jane kicked the saloon table onto its side as buckshot chewed the wall. Glass came down in a glittering sheet.

She rolled, came up behind the bar, and fired through the mirror at the shape moving behind her.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

The thing in the alley wore a man's coat but climbed the brick wall without using the drainpipe. Fitch made a small sound. Jane raised the Winchester. 'Well,' she said, 'that settles one argument.'

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

Vane moved before the eye could properly follow him. One moment he stood beside the window; the next his hand was around Jane's wrist. She drove the revolver barrel into his jaw. The impact would have dropped an ordinary man. Vane merely smiled wider.

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

Jane's revolver cleared leather with no flourish at all. She fired once. The gunman's hat jumped from his head and sailed backward into the horse trough. 'Next one costs you something harder to replace,' she said.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

The Bell Tower began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. A church bell rings while nobody is pulling the rope. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

Jane's revolver cleared leather with no flourish at all. She fired once. The gunman's hat jumped from his head and sailed backward into the horse trough. 'Next one costs you something harder to replace,' she said.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

The thing in the alley wore a man's coat but climbed the brick wall without using the drainpipe. Fitch made a small sound. Jane raised the Winchester. 'Well,' she said, 'that settles one argument.'

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

Jane kicked the saloon table onto its side as buckshot chewed the wall. Glass came down in a glittering sheet. She rolled, came up behind the bar, and fired through the mirror at the shape moving behind her.

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

The pale rider passed among the cattle and every steer recoiled from him at once. Horns clattered. Hooves hammered. Then the whole herd broke as if the moon itself had frightened them.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

Elias fired from one knee, patient amid the noise. His shot clipped the rifle from a rooftop hand. Jane crossed the street while the man was still staring at his empty fingers.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

The pale rider passed among the cattle and every steer recoiled from him at once. Horns clattered. Hooves hammered. Then the whole herd broke as if the moon itself had frightened them.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

Elias fired from one knee, patient amid the noise. His shot clipped the rifle from a rooftop hand. Jane crossed the street while the man was still staring at his empty fingers.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Marshal Pike's Last Warrant began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Pike decides the law can stretch to cover a vampire. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"You believe in vampires?" Mercer asked. Jane considered. "I believe in whatever keeps getting back up after I shoot it."

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"You are remarkably calm," Vane said. "No," Jane told him. "I am remarkably annoyed."

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"That is not a legal definition," Pike said. "Then arrest him for being dead without a permit," Jane replied.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

Two shots struck Vane in the chest. His coat snapped with the impacts. He looked down at the holes, then back at Jane with mild reproach. 'Madam,' he said, 'those are becoming tiresome.'

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"My people have stories about dangerous things," Elias said. "That does not mean every foolish story belongs to us. This one came here in a coffin from somewhere else."

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

"If we live through this," Fitch said, "I am printing every word." "If we live through this," Jane replied, "I am denying every word."

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

The posse learned rules by surviving mistakes. Silver hurt the creatures. Direct sun weakened them brutally. Fire frightened them. A bullet through the heart was not enough unless the metal carried something the dead flesh could not tolerate. None of these discoveries made the next encounter pleasant.

Elias fired from one knee, patient amid the noise. His shot clipped the rifle from a rooftop hand. Jane crossed the street while the man was still staring at his empty fingers.

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

The River Cellar began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Beneath Wichita, Vane has made himself a nest. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

Jane kicked the saloon table onto its side as buckshot chewed the wall. Glass came down in a glittering sheet. She rolled, came up behind the bar, and fired through the mirror at the shape moving behind her.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

Two shots struck Vane in the chest. His coat snapped with the impacts. He looked down at the holes, then back at Jane with mild reproach. 'Madam,' he said, 'those are becoming tiresome.'

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

Jane kicked the saloon table onto its side as buckshot chewed the wall. Glass came down in a glittering sheet. She rolled, came up behind the bar, and fired through the mirror at the shape moving behind her.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

The thing in the alley wore a man's coat but climbed the brick wall without using the drainpipe. Fitch made a small sound. Jane raised the Winchester. 'Well,' she said, 'that settles one argument.'

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

Elias fired from one knee, patient amid the noise. His shot clipped the rifle from a rooftop hand. Jane crossed the street while the man was still staring at his empty fingers.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

The pale rider passed among the cattle and every steer recoiled from him at once. Horns clattered. Hooves hammered. Then the whole herd broke as if the moon itself had frightened them.

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

Jane's revolver cleared leather with no flourish at all. She fired once. The gunman's hat jumped from his head and sailed backward into the horse trough. 'Next one costs you something harder to replace,' she said.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Jane Goes Underground began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Lantern, revolver, knife, and one extremely bad temper. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

The pale rider passed among the cattle and every steer recoiled from him at once. Horns clattered. Hooves hammered. Then the whole herd broke as if the moon itself had frightened them.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

The locomotive bucked beneath their boots. Jane caught the ladder with one hand, swung between cars, and fired upward at a pale face leaning over the roofline.

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

The coffin lid rose an inch. Mercer stopped breathing. It rose another inch. Jane put the muzzle of her Colt against the gap. 'You come out polite,' she said, 'or you come out ventilated.'

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

Jane kicked the saloon table onto its side as buckshot chewed the wall. Glass came down in a glittering sheet. She rolled, came up behind the bar, and fired through the mirror at the shape moving behind her.

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

Two shots struck Vane in the chest. His coat snapped with the impacts. He looked down at the holes, then back at Jane with mild reproach. 'Madam,' he said, 'those are becoming tiresome.'

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

Jane's revolver cleared leather with no flourish at all. She fired once. The gunman's hat jumped from his head and sailed backward into the horse trough. 'Next one costs you something harder to replace,' she said.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

The Children of Vane began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. The vampire is not alone. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

Elias fired from one knee, patient amid the noise. His shot clipped the rifle from a rooftop hand. Jane crossed the street while the man was still staring at his empty fingers.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

The pale rider passed among the cattle and every steer recoiled from him at once. Horns clattered. Hooves hammered. Then the whole herd broke as if the moon itself had frightened them.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

Two shots struck Vane in the chest. His coat snapped with the impacts. He looked down at the holes, then back at Jane with mild reproach. 'Madam,' he said, 'those are becoming tiresome.'

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment.

She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

The coffin lid rose an inch. Mercer stopped breathing. It rose another inch. Jane put the muzzle of her Colt against the gap. 'You come out polite,' she said, 'or you come out ventilated.'

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

Jane kicked the saloon table onto its side as buckshot chewed the wall. Glass came down in a glittering sheet. She rolled, came up behind the bar, and fired through the mirror at the shape moving behind her.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Fire Under the City began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Fitch sets the wrong thing alight and accidentally improves the plan. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

The locomotive bucked beneath their boots. Jane caught the ladder with one hand, swung between cars, and fired upward at a pale face leaning over the roofline.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

The thing in the alley wore a man's coat but climbed the brick wall without using the drainpipe. Fitch made a small sound. Jane raised the Winchester. 'Well,' she said, 'that settles one argument.'

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

The coffin lid rose an inch. Mercer stopped breathing. It rose another inch. Jane put the muzzle of her Colt against the gap. 'You come out polite,' she said, 'or you come out ventilated.'

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

Vane moved before the eye could properly follow him. One moment he stood beside the window; the next his hand was around Jane's wrist. She drove the revolver barrel into his jaw. The impact would have dropped an ordinary man. Vane merely smiled wider.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

The locomotive bucked beneath their boots. Jane caught the ladder with one hand, swung between cars, and fired upward at a pale face leaning over the roofline.

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

The Coffin Train began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Vane escapes aboard a midnight locomotive. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

Jane's revolver cleared leather with no flourish at all. She fired once. The gunman's hat jumped from his head and sailed backward into the horse trough. 'Next one costs you something harder to replace,' she said.

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

Vane moved before the eye could properly follow him. One moment he stood beside the window; the next his hand was around Jane's wrist. She drove the revolver barrel into his jaw. The impact would have dropped an ordinary man. Vane merely smiled wider.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

Jane kicked the saloon table onto its side as buckshot chewed the wall. Glass came down in a glittering sheet.

She rolled, came up behind the bar, and fired through the mirror at the shape moving behind her.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

Two shots struck Vane in the chest. His coat snapped with the impacts. He looked down at the holes, then back at Jane with mild reproach. 'Madam,' he said, 'those are becoming tiresome.'

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

The locomotive bucked beneath their boots. Jane caught the ladder with one hand, swung between cars, and fired upward at a pale face leaning over the roofline.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

The thing in the alley wore a man's coat but climbed the brick wall without using the drainpipe. Fitch made a small sound. Jane raised the Winchester. 'Well,' she said, 'that settles one argument.'

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

The locomotive bucked beneath their boots. Jane caught the ladder with one hand, swung between cars, and fired upward at a pale face leaning over the roofline.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Ride for the Junction began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Jane and Elias race the train across open prairie. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

Jane kicked the saloon table onto its side as buckshot chewed the wall. Glass came down in a glittering sheet. She rolled, came up behind the bar, and fired through the mirror at the shape moving behind her.

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

Two shots struck Vane in the chest. His coat snapped with the impacts. He looked down at the holes, then back at Jane with mild reproach. 'Madam,' he said, 'those are becoming tiresome.'

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

Jane kicked the saloon table onto its side as buckshot chewed the wall. Glass came down in a glittering sheet. She rolled, came up behind the bar, and fired through the mirror at the shape moving behind her.

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

Two shots struck Vane in the chest. His coat snapped with the impacts. He looked down at the holes, then back at Jane with mild reproach. 'Madam,' he said, 'those are becoming tiresome.'

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

The locomotive bucked beneath their boots. Jane caught the ladder with one hand, swung between cars, and fired upward at a pale face leaning over the roofline.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

Vane moved before the eye could properly follow him. One moment he stood beside the window; the next his hand was around Jane's wrist. She drove the revolver barrel into his jaw. The impact would have dropped an ordinary man. Vane merely smiled wider.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

Elias fired from one knee, patient amid the noise. His shot clipped the rifle from a rooftop hand. Jane crossed the street while the man was still staring at his empty fingers.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Gunfight on the Cars began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. A six-shooter battle at forty miles an hour. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

Jane kicked the saloon table onto its side as buckshot chewed the wall. Glass came down in a glittering sheet. She rolled, came up behind the bar, and fired through the mirror at the shape moving behind her.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

The pale rider passed among the cattle and every steer recoiled from him at once. Horns clattered. Hooves hammered. Then the whole herd broke as if the moon itself had frightened them.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

Elias fired from one knee, patient amid the noise. His shot clipped the rifle from a rooftop hand. Jane crossed the street while the man was still staring at his empty fingers.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

The pale rider passed among the cattle and every steer recoiled from him at once. Horns clattered. Hooves hammered. Then the whole herd broke as if the moon itself had frightened them.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

Jane's revolver cleared leather with no flourish at all. She fired once. The gunman's hat jumped from his head and sailed backward into the horse trough. 'Next one costs you something harder to replace,' she said.

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

Vane moved before the eye could properly follow him. One moment he stood beside the window; the next his hand was around Jane's wrist. She drove the revolver barrel into his jaw. The impact would have dropped an ordinary man. Vane merely smiled wider.

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

Vane's plan was larger than feeding. He meant to leave Wichita with money, followers, and a rail route east. The coffin shipments were not luggage but an infection waiting for schedules and darkness. Stopping him had become less a hunt than a quarantine conducted with horses and revolvers.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

The Burning Trestle began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. The train has nowhere left to go. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

Jane's revolver cleared leather with no flourish at all. She fired once. The gunman's hat jumped from his head and sailed backward into the horse trough. 'Next one costs you something harder to replace,' she said.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

Vane moved before the eye could properly follow him. One moment he stood beside the window; the next his hand was around Jane's wrist. She drove the revolver barrel into his jaw. The impact would have dropped an ordinary man. Vane merely smiled wider.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

Jane kicked the saloon table onto its side as buckshot chewed the wall. Glass came down in a glittering sheet. She rolled, came up behind the bar, and fired through the mirror at the shape moving behind her.

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

The coffin lid rose an inch. Mercer stopped breathing. It rose another inch. Jane put the muzzle of her Colt against the gap. 'You come out polite,' she said, 'or you come out ventilated.'

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

Jane's revolver cleared leather with no flourish at all. She fired once. The gunman's hat jumped from his head and sailed backward into the horse trough. 'Next one costs you something harder to replace,' she said.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

The thing in the alley wore a man's coat but climbed the brick wall without using the drainpipe. Fitch made a small sound. Jane raised the Winchester. 'Well,' she said, 'that settles one argument.'

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

The locomotive bucked beneath their boots. Jane caught the ladder with one hand, swung between cars, and fired upward at a pale face leaning over the roofline.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Vane at Dawn began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Jane meets the vampire on the roof of the last car. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

Jane kicked the saloon table onto its side as buckshot chewed the wall. Glass came down in a glittering sheet. She rolled, came up behind the bar, and fired through the mirror at the shape moving behind her.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

Vane moved before the eye could properly follow him. One moment he stood beside the window; the next his hand was around Jane's wrist. She drove the revolver barrel into his jaw. The impact would have dropped an ordinary man. Vane merely smiled wider.

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

Two shots struck Vane in the chest. His coat snapped with the impacts. He looked down at the holes, then back at Jane with mild reproach. 'Madam,' he said, 'those are becoming tiresome.'

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

Elias fired from one knee, patient amid the noise. His shot clipped the rifle from a rooftop hand. Jane crossed the street while the man was still staring at his empty fingers.

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

Two shots struck Vane in the chest. His coat snapped with the impacts. He looked down at the holes, then back at Jane with mild reproach. 'Madam,' he said, 'those are becoming tiresome.'

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

The locomotive bucked beneath their boots. Jane caught the ladder with one hand, swung between cars, and fired upward at a pale face leaning over the roofline.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

One Silver Cartridge began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. She has exactly one shot left. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

The thing in the alley wore a man's coat but climbed the brick wall without using the drainpipe. Fitch made a small sound. Jane raised the Winchester. 'Well,' she said, 'that settles one argument.'

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

The locomotive bucked beneath their boots. Jane caught the ladder with one hand, swung between cars, and fired upward at a pale face leaning over the roofline.

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

The coffin lid rose an inch. Mercer stopped breathing. It rose another inch. Jane put the muzzle of her Colt against the gap. 'You come out polite,' she said, 'or you come out ventilated.'

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

Elias fired from one knee, patient amid the noise. His shot clipped the rifle from a rooftop hand. Jane crossed the street while the man was still staring at his empty fingers.

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

Vane moved before the eye could properly follow him. One moment he stood beside the window; the next his hand was around Jane's wrist. She drove the revolver barrel into his jaw. The impact would have dropped an ordinary man. Vane merely smiled wider.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

The locomotive bucked beneath their boots. Jane caught the ladder with one hand, swung between cars, and fired upward at a pale face leaning over the roofline.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Ashes in the Arkansas began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Wichita watches the river carry the night away. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

"You believe in vampires?" Mercer asked. Jane considered. "I believe in whatever keeps getting back up after I shoot it."

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

"That is not a legal definition," Pike said. "Then arrest him for being dead without a permit," Jane replied.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

"You believe in vampires?" Mercer asked. Jane considered. "I believe in whatever keeps getting back up after I shoot it."

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

Two shots struck Vane in the chest. His coat snapped with the impacts. He looked down at the holes, then back at Jane with mild reproach. 'Madam,' he said, 'those are becoming tiresome.'

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

They moved on without agreement, which was often the nearest thing to agreement available.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

"Can silver kill him?" Fitch asked. Mercer sighed. "I am a physician, not a catalogue of monsters." Jane pushed coins across the table. "Today you are both."

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

"That is not a legal definition," Pike said. "Then arrest him for being dead without a permit," Jane replied.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

Elias fired from one knee, patient amid the noise. His shot clipped the rifle from a rooftop hand. Jane crossed the street while the man was still staring at his empty fingers.

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

A Quiet Drink began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Jane finally gets the whiskey she asked for in Chapter One. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

"Miss Cannary, you cannot shoot every problem." Jane looked offended. "I have never claimed that. Some need dynamite."

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

"You believe in vampires?" Mercer asked. Jane considered. "I believe in whatever keeps getting back up after I shoot it."

The West had plenty of ghosts without inventing any. Empty homesteads, old battlefields, burned towns, and names carved into cottonwoods could haunt a country perfectly well.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

"Can silver kill him?" Fitch asked. Mercer sighed. "I am a physician, not a catalogue of monsters." Jane pushed coins across the table. "Today you are both."

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

Morning struck the false-front buildings with a hard white glare that made every shadow look guilty.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

Two shots struck Vane in the chest. His coat snapped with the impacts. He looked down at the holes, then back at Jane with mild reproach. 'Madam,' he said, 'those are becoming tiresome.'

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Pike rubbed his jaw and looked toward the dark street. 'I miss bank robbers,' he said.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

"You believe in vampires?" Mercer asked. Jane considered. "I believe in whatever keeps getting back up after I shoot it."

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

"That is not a legal definition," Pike said. "Then arrest him for being dead without a permit," Jane replied.

Jane had never cared much for legends. Legends made people larger after the fact and were no help whatever when a living person needed a hand before supper.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

The alley exploded with gunfire. Pike flattened against brick, Fitch disappeared behind a rain barrel, and Jane shot the lamp above the far doorway. Darkness dropped over the rifleman before he could fire again.

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

The Next Fool Story began, like most trouble in Jane's experience, with somebody insisting there was nothing to worry about. Nobody in the saloon believes her, which suits Calamity Jane just fine. By the time the matter was finished, Wichita would remember the night rather differently.

Silas Vane looked about forty and had apparently looked about forty for a very long time. He dressed in black broadcloth, spoke with old-fashioned courtesy, and regarded every living person with the calm interest of a cattle buyer inspecting stock.

Fitch wrote three words in his notebook, crossed out two, and decided the remaining one was probably libelous.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

"Can silver kill him?" Fitch asked. Mercer sighed. "I am a physician, not a catalogue of monsters." Jane pushed coins across the table. "Today you are both."

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

Rain rattled briefly against the windows, then passed east, leaving the streets black and shining beneath the lamps.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

"That is not a legal definition," Pike said. "Then arrest him for being dead without a permit," Jane replied.

Jane had survived gunmen, weather, bad horses, worse whiskey, and men who thought a woman alone was an invitation. She did not intend to be defeated by a corpse in a fancy coat.

Night lay over the Arkansas River like dark cloth. Frogs called in the reeds, and farther off a locomotive gave one lonely whistle.

Jane Cannary had been called Calamity often enough that the name no longer seemed an insult or a compliment. She wore a man's coat because it had pockets where a woman needed them, rode as if saddle leather had grown around her, and possessed the dangerous habit of helping people while loudly insisting she had no intention of doing any such thing.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

"If we live through this," Fitch said, "I am printing every word." "If we live through this," Jane replied, "I am denying every word."

Mercer had spent his life trusting anatomy. The vampire was becoming a personal insult.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Doctor Eli Mercer was thirty-six, narrow-faced, sober by temperament, and cursed with curiosity. He had come west to treat gunshot wounds, childbirth, fever, broken bones, and the occasional mule kick. He had not included vampirism in his professional plans.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

The pale rider passed among the cattle and every steer recoiled from him at once. Horns clattered. Hooves hammered. Then the whole herd broke as if the moon itself had frightened them.

Elias knew that superstition became dangerous when frightened men used it as permission to stop seeing the people in front of them.

The stockyards smelled of dust, manure, hot iron, and money. By sundown there was another smell beneath them, faint and metallic.

Owen Fitch, reporter for the Wichita Beacon, believed anything was printable if a man could spell it and survive long enough to reach the press. He carried a notebook in one pocket and a tiny derringer in another, trusting the notebook more.

Somewhere a piano kept playing. The tune was cheerful enough to feel insulting.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

"You believe in vampires?" Mercer asked. Jane considered. "I believe in whatever keeps getting back up after I shoot it."

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

A north wind worried the signs along Douglas Avenue and sent paper tumbling between hitch rails.

Elias Knife had worked as scout, interpreter, freighter, and guide. He was Pawnee, knew the prairie by weather and sign rather than romance, and had little patience for eastern writers who turned Native people into either devils or decorations.

Mercer opened his medical bag with the expression of a man hoping science had quietly added a new chapter while he was not looking.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

"Miss Cannary, you cannot shoot every problem." Jane looked offended. "I have never claimed that. Some need dynamite."

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

The prairie evening came down wide and copper-colored, and Wichita began lighting lamps against it.

Marshal Gideon Pike was broad, gray at the temples, and built around the conviction that Wichita had enough ordinary criminals without importing supernatural ones. Events were steadily making that position difficult to maintain.

The horses shifted uneasily at the hitch rail. Jane noticed. Horses were poor theologians but excellent judges of trouble.

By then there was no mystery left. Only speed, sunrise, and the distance between a loaded Colt and a monster who had outlived generations of better people. Jane preferred problems once they became that simple.

The locomotive bucked beneath their boots. Jane caught the ladder with one hand, swung between cars, and fired upward at a pale face leaning over the roofline.

Fear traveled faster than a horse and ate better than one. By midnight half Wichita had heard three different versions of the truth and seven better lies.

Jane drank her whiskey. Outside, Wichita remained stubbornly alive.