“His castle?”
“That’s what folks around here call it. It’s made of logs, but it ain’t nothin’ like any log cabin you’ve ever seen. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t the biggest house in all Wyoming.”
“How long will it take to get the bath ready?” Matt asked.
“Not long. Fifteen minutes or so. Are you goin’ to be takin’ a room here? ’Cause if you are, I’ll have the bathtub brought up to your room and filled with hot water.”
Matt took out another two dollars. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll take a room. But for now, I saw a mercantile across the street. I’m going to go buy a new pair of trousers and a shirt. That is, if the same man that owns this place doesn’t own that store. If he does, I probably can’t afford it.”
“Mr. Oliver don’t own it ... yet,” the bartender said. “But he’s been tryin’ to buy it, and like as not, he will some day.”
“Would your name be Matt Jensen?”
The question came from the man at the far end of the bar, the small man dressed in black. Hanging low in a quick-draw holster on the right side of a bullet-studded pistol belt was a silver-plated Colt .44, its grip inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The man’s eyes were so pale a blue that they looked like chips of ice.
He had not turned toward Matt yet, but was watching him in the mirror. He tossed the rest of his drink down, then took a towel from one of the bar rings and, very carefully, dabbed at his mouth. That done, he replaced the towel, then turned to look at Matt.
“Hey, you.”
Matt did not turn.
“I’m talkin’ to you, Mister.”
“Are you, now?” Matt said. He knew from the tone of the man’s voice, though, that he wasn’t being offered a simple greeting.
“You’re Matt Jensen, are you?”
Matt didn’t answer.
“I seen you once down in Laramie. Matt Jensen. That is you, ain’t it?”
“I’m Matt Jensen.”
“You’re the famous gunfighter, are you?”
“Mister, seems to me like you’ve got something sticking in your craw. Why don’t you let me buy you a drink, then we’ll each just go our own way?” Matt said.
“Huh, uh,” the man said. “It don’t happen like that.”
Matt finally turned to face the belligerent little man. “I think I see where you are going with this,” he said. “And if you’d take a little friendly advice, I’d say, don’t go there.”
“Don’t go there? Don’t go there?” the little man replied. He turned to address the others. The saloon had grown deathly still now, as the patrons sat quietly, nervously, and yet drawn by morbid curiosity to the drama that was playing out before them. “Is that what you said?”
“That’s what I said,” Matt said. “Don’t go there.”
“Is that how you’ve built your reputation, Mr. Matt Jensen? By frightening people into not drawing against you? Am I supposed to be afraid now, just because I am in the presence of the great Matt Jensen?”
“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” Matt asked.
“No, I ain’t goin’ to let it go,” the little man answered. “You see, I make my livin’ with my gun, and I’ve been hired to kill you. Well, sir, I don’t want to be hung for murder, so the only way I can justify killin’ you is if it is a fair fight. So, that’s what I’m wantin’ to do now. I want to goad you into drawin’ on me.”
“What is your name?” Matt asked.
“The name is Houston. Kyle Houston,” the man replied. A slow, confident smile spread across his face. “I reckon you’ve heard of me.”
“Yeah, I have,” Matt replied.
Houston’s smile broadened. “Really? What have you heard?”
“I’ve heard that you are a bully and a coward, trying to make a reputation by back-shooting old men and young boys. I heard you’ve never faced a man down in your life.”
Matt hadn’t heard any of that, nor had he even heard of Kyle Houston, but he knew that it would make the man blind with rage, and so it did.
Houston’s smile quickly turned to an angry snarl. “Draw, Jensen!” he shouted, going for his own gun even before he issued the challenge.
Houston was quick, quicker than anyone else in this town had ever seen. And as he started his draw, a broad, triumphant smile spread across his face. He had caught Matt by surprise, and Matt was going to have to react to the draw.
Then, even before Houston could bring his pistol to bear, he realized that he wasn’t quick enough. The arrogant smile left, and one could see in the man’s eyes the knowledge, then the acceptance of reality. And the reality was that Kyle Houston was about to be killed.
The two pistols discharged almost simultaneously, but Matt was first and accurate. His bullet plunged into Houston’s chest, while the bullet from Houston’s gun smashed through the front window of the building.
Looking down at himself, Houston put his hand over his wound, then pulled it away and examined the blood
