As they entered the bar they saw across the crowded room, through a haze of smoke, Carl Dekker seated at a table with three other men, who had the look of hard-cases. Dekker himself had the look of a sore loser who had been drowning his sorrows in drink. There was an empty bottle on the table, and another but half full. Even with four men sharing, Dekker had to be more than a little drunk.
“Maybe we should drink somewhere else,” Stark suggested.
“You all can drink elsewhere,” Masterson said, “but I have a room here, and I intend to go to it after a couple of drinks.”
“We’ll drink here,” Evan said, and that seemed to settle that.
The four men approached the bar and advised the bartender of their choices.
“Who was it that invited Dekker, anyway?” Dick Stark asked.
The other three exchanged glances, no one answering immediately.
“Bat?” Short said. “You were the host this time, weren’t you?”
“I can’t remember who recommended him,” Masterson said, “but I wouldn’t have allowed him in the game if the reference wasn’t a sound one.”
“Maybe you should try to remember who it was,” Short said, “and mark him down as a less than reliable reference for the future.”
“In the morning,” Masterson said, “when I’m not so tired, it’ll come to me.”
Masterson and Short each had a second whiskey and then bade the other two goodnight.
“When are you leaving?” Masterson asked Evan.
“In the morning, Bat.”
“See you next time, then,” Masterson said, extending his hand.
They shook hands all around and then Masterson and Short left the saloon.
“They almost look alike, don’t they?” Stark asked. “I mean, the way they dress, so fine and proper.”
“They dress alike, all right,” Evan said, “but that’s where the resemblance ends.”
Masterson was not yet thirty and clean shaven, while the older Luke Short had a fine mustache that he tended to expertly. Short was probably the better gambler, while Masterson’s talent with a gun was probably the finer of the two. Evan McCall was willing to bet that by the time Masterson reached Short’s age he would be the more famous.
“Another beer?” Stark asked.
“Why not?” Evan said.
“Masterson and Short are gone,” Dekker said. “Now you lily-livered cowards can take McCall.”
“You’re payin’ us enough to gun Evan McCall, Dekker,” one of the men said, “but not nearly enough to tangle with Bat Masterson
The others nodded their agreement.
“Well, they’re gone and McCall is there,” Dekker said, again.
“What about the other man?” another of the men asked.
“I doubt Stark even carries a gun,” Dekker said. “Come on, get it over with.”
“The man must have done you some grievous harm for you to want him dead this bad,” someone said.
“Just do it,” Dekker said, “and never mind my reasons.”
“You gonna take a hand?”
“I might,” Dekker muttered, glaring across the room at Evan McCall’s back, “by golly, I just might.”
Evan McCall was deep in conversation with Dick Stark about where their respective next stops would be, and he didn’t see the batwing doors open to admit a tall, somewhat weary traveler. He did, however, see the three men seated with Dekker rise to their feet—by looking into the mirror behind the bar.
“Stark, are you armed?”
“Why, no,” Stark replied, “why?”
“I suggest you step aside, then, before lead starts flyin’.”
“What?” Stark said, turning and looking behind him. “Oh!”
He saw the three men standing, fanning out across the room, as did others in the saloon. Suddenly people began to scatter, and any hope of taking McCall by surprise was gone.
“Get ’im!” Dekker shouted, standing.
The sound of gunfire filled the room, and gunsmoke mingled with the haze already caused by cigarette and cigar smoke to almost form a fog in the room.
Through the fog the principals fired their weapons, some in haste, and some with cold deliberation.
Evan McCall produced his cutdown Colt .45 from a shoulder rig and did his firing calmly. He was facing four men, and his goal was to do as best he could before their lead took him to the floor.
His first shot drilled one man through the heart after that man’s hastily fired shots went wild. As the man fell Evan turned to fire again, but before he could, a second man—who had also fired wildly—was felled by a bullet. Before Evan McCall knew what was happening, the third man fell in quick order. To Evan’s mind, the rapid succession of unerring shots could only have beenfired by a handful of men, one of whom was his own brother, Sam.
He looked toward the batwing doors and saw Sam standing there, a grin on his face.
“There’s one left, brother,” Sam said, holstering his shotgun.
Evan gave his brother a nod and then turned his attention to Carl Dekker.
“By God, Dekker, draw your gun!”
Dekker, who’d had his coat thrown back so that he could reach his weapon, had been so surprised by the turn of events that he had not been able to draw.
He wet his lips. “McCall—”
“Draw your weapon or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
“You can’t,” Dekker said. “There’s too many witnesses who’ll say I didn’t have my gun out.”
“And there are enough witnesses who know that you and your friend tried to backshoot me,” Evan said.
“They’ll stand behind
Dekker’s eyes darted about the room, searching for salvation. When he saw that none was coming he looked back at Evan McCall.
“Damn you, McCall!” he shouted, and went for his gun.
Evan McCall fired once, the bullet striking Carl Dekker on the bridge of the nose. Dekker’s jaw went slack, his hand fell to his side, and he keeled over backward.
Evan shoved his gun back into his shoulder rig and walked over to where his brother was standing.
“Much obliged, Sam.”
“Anytime, brother.”
Before they could exchange another word the doors swung open to admit a hoard of blue-coated policemen.
The officer in charge surveyed the damage before speaking.
“Who killed these men?” he demanded.
“We did, Officer.” Evan told the truth because there was no hope of denying it—and no reason to.
The officer, tall, barrel chested, in his forties, gave them a stern stare and said, “You’ll both turn your weapons over to me and accompany me to jail.”
“Jail?” Sam McCall said. “These men tried to back-shoot my brother.”
“You and you brother are still standing, my friend,” the officer said loudly. “Until I can get the whole story, you two are the only ones I can take to jail—and by God, that’s where you’re going!”
Suddenly the other officers surrounded the brothers, giving them barely enough elbowroom. Sam and Evan McCall exchanged a helpless glance before turning their weapons over to the policeman.
At the jail they were given separate cells, but it was a simple enough thing to move the pallets over to the common set of bars and talk.
“We shouldn’t be here too long,” Evan said. “Enough people saw what happened.”
Sam nodded.
“So tell me, brother,” Evan said, “how did you happen to be in the right place at the right time?”
Sam stared at his younger brother through the bars for a moment, forming the words in his mind before he
