Texas Iron

tell the sheriff we knew nothing about it?”

“I did.”

Burkett sat behind his desk quietly for a moment, then said, “Chuck, I want the editor of the newspaper out here.”

Vengeance Creek’s newspaper, the Eagle, was a four-page publication that appeared three times a week.

“The editor of the Eagle? Why is that?”

“I want him to interview me about this attempt on Sam McCall’s life. I want to make it clear in the newspaper that I knew nothing about it. Get him for me.”

“It’ll be dark in half an hour—”

“All right, then, tomorrow, first thing, get him here.”

“I’ll send someone—”

“No, don’t send someone. Get him here yourself.”

“All right, Mr. Burkett,” Conners said.

“Now get out. I’ve got to think about what I’m going to say.”

“Yes, sir.”

Conners left the office, closed the door behind him, and breathed a sigh of relief. From now on he’d leave thethinking to Burkett and did what he did best’take orders.

It was good for a man to find his niche in life.

On the way back to the hotel Sam and Jubal passed the saloon.

“How about a drink before we go to the hotel?” Sam asked.

“Sure, I could use one.”

“You do drink, don’t you?”

“Sam,” Jubal said, “I’m twenty-four, remember. I’m not a kid.”

“Oh, yeah, I keep forgettin’.”

They went into the saloon, which was doing a brisk business as darkness fell. More than a few men knew who Sam was and stared at him. Already word of the shootout had spread, and the stories had conveniently left out the fact that Evan and Jubal McCall were also involved. That was the way legends grew.

They went to the bar, and Sam ordered two beers. In the mirror he could see Coffin sitting at a back table by himself, nursing a beer.

“Make that three,” he told the bartender.

“Who’s the third one for?” Jubal asked.

“A new acquaintance.”

“Who?”

As the bartender laid the beers in front of them Sam picked up two of them and said, “Wait here and watch my back, all right?”

“All right, Sam, but—”

“Just stay here.”

Sam turned and walked with two beers to Coffin’s table.

“Need a fresh one?”

Coffin looked up at him for a moment, then shrugged and said, “Why not?”

Sam laid the fresh beer down in front of Coffin, and then pulled out the chair across from him and sat down.

“I didn’t know the price for the beer would be your company.”

“Let’s cut the shit, Coffin,” Sam said. “I don’t know why, and I don’t know where, but I do know you were out on that street today, and you backshot two of those men.”

“What men are you talking about, McCall?”

“The beer is my way of sayin’ thanks,” Sam went on, “but I have a feeling that you weren’t helpin’ me out of the goodness of your heart. What was in it for you, Coffin?”

“I suppose you’re talking about this already famous telegraph office shootout where you outshot seven men and killed them all?”

“You know as well as I do how reputations are built, Coffin.”

Coffin smiled tightly and said, “Yeah, I know, Sam.”

“Are you workin’ for Burkett?”

“Burkett who?”

“All right,” Sam said, “you had your reasons for what you did. If you are workin’ for Burkett, then maybe you and I will meet, maybe that’s why you helped me out there today, I don’t know. What I do know is that I have enough to do without having to worry about you.”

“You don’t have to worry about me, Sam,” Coffin said.

“If I come for you, for whatever reason, you know I’ll come straight at you.”

“That’s what I figured,” Sam said. “I just wanted to hear you say it. Enjoy the beer.”

“Thanks,” Coffin said, raising the mug to Sam, “I will.”

Sam walked back to the bar and stood next to Jubal.

“Is that Coffin?”

“That’s him.”

“What was that all about?”

Sam sipped his beer and said, “Just establishing the rules, that’s all.”

“Rules?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, “remember that, Jube. Every game has rules, you just have to establish them.”

“I’ll remember.”

“And,” he added, “remember that there’s always somebody around to break them.”

“Coffin?”

“No, Coffin’s a pro and will go by the rules,” Sam said.

“It’s usually the goddamned amateurs who muck everythin’ up.”

“Like today?”

“Exactly like today.”

At Dude Miller’s house Evan was watching Serena prepare dinner. Actually, he was helping her.

“I’m not used to doing this,” he said, trying desperately to peel potatoes.

“You’re doing fine.”

She was cutting several chickens into pieces and when she finished that she sat down and helped him peel the potatoes.

“I’m not used to cooking for so many men,” she said.

“We all eat the same way.”

“But not the same amount.”

She fell silent and looked pensive, so he left her alone with her thoughts. Eventually she would speak her mind.

“Tell me about Sam,” she finally said.

“I’m here and you want to talk about Sam?” he asked.

“You really know how to flatter a guy.”

“I’m just interested.”

“All right,” he said, “What do you want to know about him?”

“His reputation.”

“Serena,” Evan said, “you’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Is he really a killer?” she blurted.

He stared at her for a few moments, then said, “We all killed someone today, Sam, Jube, and me.”

“You know what I mean,” she said. “Is his reputation so…so fearsome that seven men—seven men—had to try and kill him today?”

“There isn’t one of those men who would have had the courage to face him alone,” Evan explained. “That’s their problem, Serena.”