“Nobody’s sayin’ that you did. Kid,” Masterson said. quickly. “But like Wyatt said, you wear your hair like a plainsman. Only you dress like a gunfighter. And you damn well shoot like one.”
“I hear tell you’re a fair hand with a gun yourself,” said Scott.
“It’s been said.” Masterson replied. “A man’s reputation gets around. Only you see, none of us have ever heard of you before. Someone shoots the way you do. you’d think there’d be some talk. The reason for all the questions is that Wyatt here tends to be the careful type. Virgil. too. It’s their job to keep the law in Tombstone and, as you’ve seen, it can be quite a job.
“Like I said, I don’t want any trouble,” Neilson replied. And you’ve got my gun.”
“We’ve got stores in town that sell ’em,” Wyatt said. “there’s no law keeps you from buyin’ another one. Just don’t let me catch you wearin’ it in town.”
“What about Mr. Holliday’?” asked Scott. “I don’t see a badge on him.”
“Doc’s got special permission.” Wyatt said.
“I see.” said Scott. “So the idea here is the law-abiding citizen is disarmed, but the outlaw carries a gun, is that it? You’d think it should be the other way around
“The outlaw is not permitted to carry a gun. either,” Wyatt said.
“Yeah, but if he’s an outlaw, he’ll do it anyway, won’t he’?”
“Only if I don’t catch him at it,” Wyatt replied, severely.
“Tell me something, Marshal,” Scott said. “do you generally catch him before or after he shoots somebody?”
“Before, if I can manage it,” said Wyatt. giving Scott a hard stare.
“And if you can’t manage it. I guess that’s hard luck for the fellow he just shot.” They were pushing him a bit to see how he would handle it. If he didn’t push back slightly, they’d be suspicious, but he had to be careful not to push back too hard
“If you don’t care for the law in Tombstone. Kid, you’re free to move on,” said Virgil, in a neutral tone.
“Oh, now that I’ve been informed of the law. Mr. Earp, I’ll abide by it,” said Scott. “But I guess it’s a lucky thing for your two friends that I wasn’t informed of it before.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “Meet you right here in the morning, Mr. Masterson?”
“Right here’s fine with me. About eight o’clock suit you’.”
“Eight o’clock suits me fine.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Gentlemen…”
They watched him as he left.
“He asked a bunch of questions,” Wyatt said, “but he didn’t answer many. The Montana Kid, eh? I’ve never heard of him before.”
“Oh, well, that was just a little joke of mine,” said Masterson, with a smile. “Frank called him ‘this here Montana kid’ and I just sort of stuck it on him. His real name’s Scott Nelson.”
“Neilson. I think he said,” said Virgil.
“Nelson, Neilson, I never heard of either one of ’em, “said Wyatt. “But that kid’s a gunfighter, that’s for certain. Jack and Slim were sure as hell no greenhorns when it came to shootin’. And he got ’em both right through the heart.”
“The Kid also saved my life.” said Masterson_ “And Frank’s. He could have simply stood there and stayed well out of it. He didn’t have to chance it.”
“Only he did chance it,” Wyatt said. “And the result was that he killed two men in a fair fight. By tomorrow, everyone in Tombstone will be talkin’ about the Montana Kid. And by next week, they’ll be sayin’ that he killed three men. And then four. And then half a dozen. Before long, we’ll have a man in town who’s got himself a reputation as a killer.”
“Isn’t that how you got yours, Wyatt?” Masterson said, with’ a smile.
“Maybe, only I’m wearing a badge.
“Perhaps you should pin one on the Kid,” said Masterson.
“A shootist like that would be handy to have on your side. Especially since Ike Clanton’s already got Sheriff Johnny Behan on his.”
“I don’t need any help against the likes of Ike Clanton,” Wyatt said, drawing on his cigar. Unlike the others. he didn’t drink.
“Maybe not now.” Masterson replied, “but Johnny Behan’s had it in for you ever since you took his girl. He’s close to Clanton and so are his deputies. You’ve got a lot of badges in this town, only not all of them seem to be on the same side. That could develop into a sticky situation.”
“You sayin’ the Kid could side with Clanton and his bunch?”
“Oh. I doubt that very much,” Masterson replied. “Not after he dropped two of them.”
Wyatt grunted. “I can’t say I think much of the men you choose to gamble with, Bat
Masterson shrugged slightly. “I didn’t know them you know I haven’t been in Tombstone that long. Wyatt. I had no idea they were part of Clanton’s bunch. And their money was as good as anybody else’s.”
“You take much of it?”
Masterson smiled and, with a deft motion, produced a card from up his sleeve. It was an ace of spades. “What do you think?”
1
“The Montana Kid, you say?”
The man who was speaking was a striking individual. He was wearing an elegant dark suit with a red brocade vest and an expensive watch and chain. He had a large diamond on his finger, as well as in his stickpin. But it was not his attire that was the most striking thing about him. It was his size and his appearance. He was a large, powerfully built man, incredibly muscular, with arms and a chest that strained the fabric of his clothes. People stared at him with awe when he walked down the street. His thick hair was jet black and curly, giving him a romantic, Byronic aspect, and his handsome features were marred by a knife scar that ran down the side of his face from below his left eye to the corner of his mouth. His voice was deep and resonant and his mouth was cruel, but his eyes were his most striking feature. They were a bright, lambent green, with a gaze so intense it was unsettling.
The pretty young saloon girl standing before him had a hard time meeting his gaze. Not just because of the force of his personality, but because he was her creator.
“It was what the others called him,” she said. “I don’t know what his real name is. If he gave it, I didn’t hear.”
“And you say his speed with a gun was almost superhuman?”
“I’ve never seen anything like it.” she replied. “I’ve seen Wyatt Earp’s draw and even he isn’t that fast. He fired off two shots in a fraction of a second, without even aiming, and he hit both men in the heart.”
“Interesting.” said Nikolai Drakov, with a smile.
“You think he’s one of them? The agents from the future?”
“There was a young man whose path I once crossed in London.” Drakov said. “He was part of the support team working with Delaney, Cross and Steiger. And he was unusually skillful with lead projectile firearms.”
“What was his name?” the girl asked. “What did he look like?”
“We never actually met face to face,” Drakov replied. “But his name was Neilson. Scott Neilson.”
The girl shook her head. “I don’t know.” she said. “He looks very young. Just a boy, perhaps sixteen or seventeen-”
— Appearances could be deceptive if he’s from the future,” Drakov said. “With the antiagathic drugs, he could be anywhere from sixteen or seventeen to twenty-five or thirty. What else can you tell me about him?”
“He has light blond hair. He wears it long, like a plainsman. But he has the look of a gunfighter. Dark suit, vest, green calico shin, black Stetson…”
“How does he wear his gun?”
“In a cross draw holster on his left side.”
“A Colt?”
