name into saloon talk.' He waited, hands on hips.
He knew Bill's temper, knew that it was at the exploding point. He knew by the tic that was twitching a jaw muscle.
'I warned you,' Bill grated, and his hand flashed to his hip. But the twitching jaw muscle telegraphed his move, and Kirby's gun spoke before Bill's could clear leather. Bill spun half around as if someone had seized his shoulder and jerked it. His gun fell from nerveless fingers and he looked stupidly at the blood beginning to drip into the sawdust on the floor.
'I could have killed you, Bill. Probably be sorry I didn't. If you ever cross me again, I will. Remember that.' Kirby holstered his gun and, aware of the staring eyes of the men who had taken cover behind chairs and tables, started once again for his jacket. Once again a voice stopped him as he bent over. He was aware of men scurrying out of range for the second time. He turned slowly to face one of the two men who had come in with Bill, the one wearing two low-slung 45's. Cold blue eyes, opaque in the lamplight, met his own in an unwinking stare.
'Hold it, Street; I'm buying in this,' said the cold voice, and although Kirby was not a coward, he knew an instant's fleeting fear as he met the eyes of a killer… a man who sold his gun for the sheer love of killing.
'You get odds, mister. I'm givin' you first move…' The cold monotone stopped in a gasp as the barrel of a .45 descended upon his head and he crumpled to the floor.
Sheriff Lon Peters straddled the fallen man and whisked the two guns from their holsters. He tossed them on the bar. 'Never did like a hired gunman,' he said softly. 'Always wanted to whack one.' He gave a tired sigh. 'Knew things were too danged quiet. Always ends in trouble.' He turned his stony gray regard on the second puncher who had come with Bill into the saloon. 'You, Pete, get your boss outa here to the doc 'fore he bleeds to death. Someone give me a hand with this gunslick. He needs to cool off in a nice quiet cell.' With the help of one of the onlookers, they dragged the gunman to his feet and followed Pete and Bill to the door. At the door, he paused.
'Always did want to jug me a danged gunhawk,' he murmured. 'Kirby, if you stay in town, leave your gun at my office, will you?'
Kirby came back to reality with a start. 'No worry there, Lon. I'm pulling out for Wagon. And thanks for handling that fellow for me.'
The sheriff sighed. 'Never did like hired killers. Be glad to run this one outa the country come sunup, maybe without breakfast. Wait'll the deputies hear I jugged me a killer.' He dragged his victim through the batwings.
Kirby shrugged into his jacket, taking in the babble of voices that broke loose as the play for which they had been waiting came to an end. He walked to the bar.
'They tell me whiskey is good for the nerves,' he told Joe.
'Yeah,' was the reply. The worried frown was starting to fade beneath the familiar grin. 'So I've heard, Kirby.' Joe reached beneath the bar for a dusty bottle. 'Private stock… on the house, Kirby.'
The whiskey made a warm glow in his middle as Kirby stepped out on the board sidewalk in front of the Nugget. The early evening chill had sharpened to a keen bite as a rising wind blew directly off peaks covered with the season's first snow. Swift scud flew before the wind, and he felt the taste of moisture on his tongue.
Winter, thought Kirby, shrugging his shoulders more comfortably into the brush jacket. What's it good for except dead cows and hard work? He started for his claybank gelding tied at the far end of the hitchrack. Folks were ready for the big show; he smiled faintly. Not a space left in front of the Nugget.
His heels thumped hollowly on loose boards, muffled by wind and moisture, as he went past the bank and post office. He paused, his attention caught by the yellow glow from the doctor's office. He ducked under the railing. The gelding pricked up his ears and stamped as he recognized his rider. Kirby had the tie rope in his hands, and was jerking at the knot, when a soft voice stopped him.
'Wait a minute, Kirby.' Jennifer Bryant moved from the shadows of the bank door.
'Jen! I didn't see you there.' His voice was concerned. 'Is something wrong? What are you doing out alone?'
'I had to see you. I've been waiting forever.'
'Then you knew what was going on in the Nugget?'
Her voice held scorn. 'Every gossip in Streeter has been chewing on it all day. It's a wonder Joe didn't sell tickets.'
He grinned wryly. Jerking loose the tie rope, he said, 'Better than a minstrel show. Reckon you can't blame folks much. There's little excitement in Streeter. Come on; I'll walk you home.'
They went in silence, her hand warm beneath his arm, the gelding crowding their heels. They stopped before the white gate of the little cottage Ma and Muddy had given her as a present when she had graduated from the Teacher's Seminary.
'Was Bill hurt bad?' she finally asked. 'I saw them take him into Doc Williams' office.'
He shook his head. 'Just winged, Jen, through the arm. Glad I hit where I aimed. Wouldn't be very happy now if I'd killed him.'
She shuddered. 'Did I have anything to do with it?'
Kirby had never been untruthful with this slender, quiet-voiced girl. He couldn't see her face distinctly in the dark, but every feature was as clear as if she had been standing in bright sunlight.
'Your name was mentioned,' he admitted. 'Bill should have known better.'
'Then I was the cause of gunplay.' Her voice sounded infinitely tired. 'That's what I had to know.' He could feel her withdraw into herself as she had done when they were kids. When she spoke again, her voice was so low that Kirby had to bend his head to hear what she was saying before the wind whipped the words away.
'Kirby, I've decided to leave Streeter. I'm going away before things get any worse.'
His voice was shocked. 'You can't be serious. I can't let you…'
She interrupted, 'You can't stop me, any more than you can stop this thing between you and Bill. But I don't have to be a part of it. I've talked to Mr. Burch at the bank, and he said he would help me get a teaching job in Galeyville. That's far enough away…' Her voice died out.
He was silent before the finality in her voice. He could imagine the determined set to her square little chin, the serious expression in her gray eyes. He took the only approach possible, knowing that no plea he could make for himself would alter her decision.
'Jen, listen. Your school is about ready to start. A lot of kids have already come in to board for the winter. What about them? Where could Streeter get another teacher this late if at all?' She stirred in the darkness as she was assailed by the logic of his words.
'Stay until spring. By then, if things haven't changed, I won't try to stop you. In the meantime your kids won't be without a teacher.' He paused and thought a moment. 'I think I can promise you there'll be no more trouble… at least concerning you. I'll be plenty busy at Wagon. Think about it, Jen. Don't make a decision tonight… you're too close to what happened. And believe me, you were only a small part of it.' He stopped lest his words undo the good his plea for her school had done.
Her answer was a long time coming. 'Ma and Muddy would be hurt if I left Streeter without a teacher. They were real proud of the school. I hope I'm not doing wrong, but I'll stay until spring. But you've got to promise me something, and Bill will have to make the same promise. Don't either of you come to see me, even talk to me on the street. I won't have blood on my hands… yours or Bill's.'
'That's a mighty tough condition,' he told her. 'Going to make this a mighty long winter. But if that's the way you want it—' He sighed. 'Jen, I hope you know I planned to ask you to come back to Wagon to live this winter, and for the rest of your life and mine…'
She interrupted with a sob in her voice. 'Don't say any more… please. Just leave things as they are.'
Silently he turned to his horse. As his foot sought the stirrup, her hands caught his shoulder and turned him around.
'This will have to last all winter,' she said, and raised her face for his kiss. Hungrily he tried to bury her deeper in his arms, but she tore herself from his grasp. Without a word she fled into the house.
'Goodbye, Jen,' he said to the empty blackness.
Kirby was as wet as a drowned sage hen and chilled to the bone when he rode into Wagon that night. His young hostler, Miguel, had been watching the poker game in the bunkhouse, and when he heard Kirby ride in came to take the horse.
