Savage Texas: The Stampeders by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

them all the time.”
    “Hard work never really reaches its end, does it?” she said, and began to step away. Timothy watched her go and wished he had the gift of talking to females in a way that interested them. He knew his mind was slow, and he suffered greatly in most conversations, lacking things to say. Sometimes he saved up items to share that he thought might interest others . . . and one came to his mind as Julia walked away.
    He hesitated only a moment, then ran after her. “Wait, Miss Julia, wait!”
    She turned and frowned at him before she could stop herself. “Timothy? I’m sorry . . . I thought we’d finished talking.”
    “There was just something I heard about, and thought you might not have heard. Everybody’s talking about it.”
    “Tell me, then.”
    “Did you hear about the dead man Sam Heller found on the road into town? Him and some other man, a stranger.”
    “No, I’ve not heard . . .”
    “The dead man was an outlaw. He’d been shot dead by somebody, right through the brow’s what I heard.”
    “How dreadful! An outlaw, you said?”
    Timothy could tell that he’d authentically interested her this time. He knew that most people who talked to him were merely humoring him because they felt sorry for him. “Yes, ma’am. An outlaw name of... of . . .” His mind blanked.
    “Can you not remember, Timothy? I’d really like to know.”
    “His name was . . . oh, I can’t recollect it.” He paused, thinking hard. “But wait . . . I do remember that they were saying he was somebody who has a brother that looks just like him. They’re kind of famous, I think.”
    “A brother . . . a twin?”
    “That’s what I heard a man saying to another man while they went past me going into the Emporium.”
    “Toleen? Might that have been the name?”
    Timothy lightly slapped his fingers against the side of his head as his memory was refreshed. “That’s right! Toleen was his name. I remember now that you said it. But how’d you know?”
    “Well . . . it’s like you said, Timothy. They are famous outlaws.”
    “Outlaws are bad,” Timothy said. “I don’t like them.”
    “Some are worse than others, Timothy.”
    “You know outlaws, Miss Julia?”
    She waved dismissively, giving no verbal answer, and made a show of admiring the paper flower he’d given her. “Thank you again for this dear gift, Timothy. You are a good friend. But now I have to be going.”
    “Good-bye, then, Miss Julia. I reckon I’ll see you later on.”
    “I’ll look for you every time I go to the Emporium.”
    “I’ll look for you, too.”
    “Good-bye, Timothy. Have a wonderful day.”
    “You, too, ma’am.”
    “Timothy, you’re sure that the name was Toleen?”
    “That’s what I heard.”
    “But his first name . . .”
    “Don’t know, Miss Julia. Maybe Sheriff Barton knows. I can go find him and ask him for you, if you’d like me to.”
    “No need for that, Timothy. It’s not really important. Good day.”
    “Good day to you, Miss Julia.”

C HAPTER S EVEN
    They buried the slain outlaw in a grave on Boot Hill, near the Hangtree Church, and stuck in a cross with no name but Toleen written upon it, because no one knew which of the infamous Toleen brothers this one was. No one grieved the loss of the man because neither Toleen brother had done anything but bad with his life. Losing one was as good as losing the other.
    With the dead outlaw in the ground, the only hope of identifying him lay in either finding and knowing his brother, living or dead, thus identifying this one at the same time, or in identifying the slain man through the death photograph made by Otto Perkins. That image, with some of the more gruesome facial damage obscured, had been placed on display in the Dog Star Saloon in the hope that someone would come along who knew the Toleen brothers and how to distinguish between them. Then the name on the crossbar of the Boot Hill grave marker could be completed.
    So far no such identifier