“It’s on my hands,” Donnie said. Laughing, he ran his hands through Christine’s hair. “And now it’s in your hair.”
“Donnie, stop it!” Christine shouted in alarm.
“Oh, don’t get so excited, I didn’t really put pig shit in your hair,” Donnie said.
“Don’t be using words like that.”
“Words like what?”
“You know.”
“How am I going to know, unless you tell me?” Donnie teased.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Hold your hands under the pump.”
Donnie stuck his hands under the mouth of the pump and Christine worked the handle until a solid stream of water poured out. Then, wringing his hands to get rid of the water, Donnie and Christine walked into the house. As soon as they got inside they sensed something was wrong. Three men were standing in the kitchen, while Donnie’s mother and father were sitting in chairs against the wall. Donnie’s mother had cooked pork chops for dinner and one of the men was holding a pork chop in his hand. He had just taken a bite and a bit of it was hanging from his moustache. He was, by far, the biggest of the three. The other two men were not much taller than Donnie.
“Mama, Papa, what’s going on?” Christine asked, the tone of her voice reflecting her concern.
“Children, these gentlemen are Egan Drumm, and Clete and Luke Mueller,” Chris Dumey said.
“The Mueller brothers!” Donnie said.
One of the two small men smiled at Donnie, though the smile did nothing to ease the tension in the room.
“So, you’ve heard of us, have you?”
“I’ve heard you rob banks and trains,” Donnie said.
“What do you think, Luke? We’re famous.”
“Shut up, Clete, you damn fool.” Luke said.
“Where at’s the money?” Egan Drumm asked. Using his teeth, he tore the last bit of meat from the pork chop bone, then tossed the bone onto the floor.
“What money?” Chris Dumey asked.
“Tell him what money, Luke,” Drumm said.
Luke’s pistol was in his holster, but he drew it and fired in the blink of an eye. The bullet hit Lillian Dumey in her left leg, and blood began to ooze down over her foot. She screamed out in pain, then doubled forward to grab the wound.
“Mama!” Christine shouted, and she ran to her mother.
“You son of a bitch!” Chris Dumey yelled angrily.
“I know you got a lot of money from selling your hogs yesterday,” Drumm said. “So don’t be playing dumb with me. I’m going to ask you one more time, where is the money, and if you don’t answer, I’ll put a bullet in her other leg.”
“No, please! All right, all right, I’ll tell you! Just don’t hurt her anymore! The money is over there, in that vase, under the flowers.
Drumm nodded at Clete Mueller, and he walked over to the vase, picked it up, then threw it on the floor, smashing it. In the shards of broken glass, was a packet of bills, tied together with a string into one neat bundle.
“Ha!” Clete said, holding up the money. “Here it is!”
“How much is there?” Drumm asked.
Clete began to count. “Six hunnert dollars,” he said after a moment.
Drumm smiled. “That’s a pretty good haul,” he said. “Two hunnert dollars apiece.”
“That’s an entire year’s work,” Dumey protested. “If you take that, how will I feed my family?”
“You won’t have to worry about feedin’ ’em,” Drumm said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’ll all be dead.” He shot Dumey down, and, laughing, Luke and Clete began shooting as well.
Some time later, Chris Dumey came to. For a moment, he wondered why he was lying on the kitchen floor, then remembered what had happened. Looking around he saw his wife, and both his children, lying lifeless on the floor with him.
There was blood everywhere. Dipping his finger into it, he began to write on the kitchen floor:
WE WAS KILT BY DRUM AND MUELLER BR…
From there the letters trailed off and that was as far as he got before he died.
Egan Drumm and the Muellers rode hard, away from Dumey ranch, each with two hundred dollars in their pocket. They had ridden for a little better than an hour, when Clete spoke up.
“What do you boys say the next town we come to we get us a couple drinks and maybe a woman?”
“A woman, Clete?” Luke replied, laughing. “You want us to all share the same woman?”
“Well, why not? It’ll be cheaper if we share one.”
“I ain’t sharin’ a woman with nobody,” Luke said. “What about you, Egan?”
“I ain’t sharin’ ’cause I ain’t goin’ into town,” Drumm replied.
“Why not? We’re far enough away, there ain’t likely to be nobody aroun’ here to know nothin’ about what we just done. Fac’ is, I doubt there’s anyone here ’bout who has ever even heard of the Dumeys.”
“That ain’t it,” Drumm said.
“Then what is?”
“I aim to go out on my own, now.”
“Damn, Egan, you don’t like us no more?” Clete asked.
“No, it ain’t that,” Drumm said. “It’s just—well, think about it. We just kilt four people back there, and what did we get for it? Two hunnert dollars apiece. Two hunnert dollars, that’s all.”
“Two hunnert dollars ain’t nothin’ to sneeze at,” Luke said. “Hell, if you was ridin’ for twenty and found, it’d take you damn near a year to earn that much money.”
“I know, I know, that’s why I don’t ride for twenty and found,” Drumm said. “But I think I want to go out on my own, none the less. No hard feelin’s.”
“No hard feelin’s,” Luke replied.
As Luke and Clete turned their horses in the direction of the small town, Drumm continued to ride on in the same direction they had been going.
“Where do you reckon he’s a’goin?” Clete asked.
“Who knows? He’s got a burr in his saddle over somethin’,” Luke replied. “Ahh, we don’t need him. We’ll find someone else to work with the next time we do a job, and when we do, it’ll be a lot bigger than this one we just pulled.”
“Yeah,” Clete said. “We don’t need him no more, no how.”
Brownville, Colorado, one month later
In the Gold Digs Saloon Clete Mueller was talking with one of the bar girls. Talking was all he could do because he had already spent nearly all of the money he had gotten from the Dumeys.
Luke Mueller was playing cards with three others. Ollie Terrell was dealing the cards. He had only three fingers on his left hand. Bo Caldwell had a patch over his right eye, though a few minutes earlier he had removed the patch to scratch his eyebrow, and Luke saw there was no eye there at all, just a puff of scar tissue. The third man