The marshal shook his head. “We’ve never met,” he said. “But I’ve sure heard of you. My name is Drew. And if I can be of any assistance while you’re, uh, doing whatever it is you are going to do for Mr. Frewen, please, just let me know.”
“All right, Marshal Drew,” Matt replied. “Thank you, I appreciate that.”
Marshal Drew turned to the bartender. “Harry, I’ll get Welsh down here to pick up the body and get it cleared away for you,” he said.
“No hurry, Marshal,” Moore replied with a broad smile. “Havin’ Houston shot by a man like Matt Jensen is goin’ to bring in the business. Hell, I may get Dysart to come set up his camera. I’ll charge people to have their pictures took with Houston’s body.”
Leaving the saloon, Matt rode down to the end of the street where he had boarded his horse, Spirit, in the livery. Then, trying to stay on the board that crossed the road so as to avoid as much of the mud and liquefied horse apples as he could, he walked back to the mercantile.
There were seven or eight people in the store when he walked in, and from the way they reacted at seeing him, he knew that they had already heard the story of the shooting in the The Lion and The Crown. They moved aside to give him as much room as possible.
The frightened reaction people had to him used to bother Matt. He wanted to yell at them, to ask them if they thought he was going to go berserk and start shooting them all. Now he just turned his mind off to it.
A very overweight man with white muttonchop whiskers came up to talk to him.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Jensen. How may I help you?”
Matt was not surprised that the clerk knew his name. He figured that by now, everyone in town probably knew him. That also meant that Moreton Frewen, the man who had sent for him, knew that he was in town as well.
“I need a pair of trousers and a new shirt,” Matt said.
The clerk, evidently believing that he had a gift for fashion, attempted to pick out the trousers and shirt. He chose a pair of fawn-colored trousers and a bright orange shirt.
“Oh, I think you would look very nice in this,” the clerk said.
“I would feel better in this,” Matt said, picking up a pair of blue denims and a white collarless shirt.
Both Teasdale and Moreton Frewen had telephones in their houses, with direct lines to the switchboard in town. In fact, they were two of only thirty-five private telephones in the entire town; but Teasdale’s foreman, Stan Reed, was in town, and shortly after the gunfight occurred, he went directly to the telephone exchange.
The switchboard was in the living room of Gordon Prouty’s house. Prouty was the operator. Reed pulled on the bell cord, and Prouty, who was eating a piece of fried chicken, answered the door.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“I want to call Mr. Teasdale.”
“It’ll cost you a nickel,” Prouty said.
Reed gave him a nickel, and Prouty pointed to a telephone mounted on the wall. “Go over there and pick it up,” he said. Prouty connected the line, then turned a crank.
Teasdale was eating his dinner when the telephone rang, and when Margaret started to answer it, Teasdale held up his hand.
“I’ll get it,” he said. “I’m expecting a call.” He hurried over to the phone.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Teasdale, I thought you might like to know that this fella Matt Jensen that ever’one has been talkin’ about got into town today.”
“How do you know?” Teasdale asked.
“How do I know is because almost the first thing he done after he got here was he got into a gunfight with Kyle Houston.”
Teasdale smiled. “Houston kill him, did he? Well, I guess that ...”
“No sir,” Reed said, interrupting him.
“What do you mean, no sir? I thought you said the first thing he did after coming to town was to get into a gunfight with Houston.”
“Yes, sir, that’s what he done, all right. Only he didn’t get killed, he was the one that done the killin’. It’s Kyle Houston who is dead.”
Teasdale hung up with saying another word.
After he’d made his purchases, Matt returned to The Lion and The Crown Saloon. The bartender waved him over.
“It’s Room Four, Mr. Jensen,” Moore said, handing Matt a key. “Second room on your left.”
Matt climbed the stairs then opened the door to the room. There was a zinc bathtub in the room, filled with water. The little wisps of steam that were rising from the water indicated that the water was warm. Matt slipped down into the tub, where he soaked for nearly an hour. Then, with his skin red from the hot water and soapy scrub, he dried off and walked over to lie down on the bed. Still naked from his bath, he crawled between the stiff, clean sheets, and was asleep within moments.
The room was dark when he woke up. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. Then he remembered that he had taken a room over the saloon. At that same moment, he realized that he was awake because something had awakened him, though he didn’t know what it was.
The doorknob rattled quietly, and all confusion and hesitancy were gone. Matt was out of bed, on his feet instantly. Pulling his pistol from the holster that hung on the head of the bed, he moved as quietly as a stalking cat to the wall next to the door. He cocked his pistol, pulling back the hammer as slowly and quietly as he could to silence the engaging sear. With the pistol cocked and loaded, he held it at the ready.
