continued to respond, as if waiting for signals that could no longer be sent.
For a long moment, no one spoke. They just stared through the drifting gun smoke in shocked amazement at the body that lay on the floor.
“Looks like I’ll be needing another beer,” Matt said as he put his pistol back in his holster.
Chapter Twenty
Quickly, the bartender drew another beer and handed to Matt.
“SinceI spilled the other one, I guess I’d better pay for this one,” Matt said as he put a nickel on the bar.
“Mister, if I was you, I’d drink that beer just real fast, then ride on out of town,” the bartender said.
“Why?” Matt asked. “It was self-defense. Everyone in here saw it. I’m not concerned about the law. Besides, I’ve taken a job here. I’m going to be working at the newspaper, remember?”
“It ain’t the law you need to worry about,” Stan said. “It’s Nigel Denbigh.” He pointed toward the body. “Butrum worked for him.”
At that moment, a middle-aged, overweight man came into the saloon, wheezing from the effort of having moved so quickly. He had his gun in his hand, but when he saw Butrum sprawled out on the floor, he lowered his gun and just stared for a long moment in absolute shock at the body. The gun was still in Butrum’s hand.
The man, who was wearing a badge, looked up, the expression on his face still mirroring his shock.
“Who? Who did this?” he asked.
“I did,” Matt said.
“You’re under arrest.”
“It was self-defense,” Matt said.
The marshal shook his head. “Don’t be lyin’ to me, mister. Butrum was an evil little bastard, I’ll grant you that, and more’n likely he needed killin’. But you just can’t go around killin’ someone in cold blood and sayin’ it was self- defense.”
“The stranger is tellin’ the truth, Marshal Tipton,” the bartender said. “Butrum come in here with his gun blazin’. You can see, right here, where his bullet hit the bar. Jensen wasn’t doin’ nothin’ but standin’ here real peaceable like, drinkin’ his beer and talkin’ to us.”
“Are you tellin’ me that Butrum already had his gun in his hand, blazin’ away, you said, and this fella was just standin’ here, but somehow he drew his gun and kilt Butrum?”
“That’s exactly what I’m sayin’,” Paul said.
“And I’m backin’ him up, Tipton,” Stan said. “I seen ever’thing that happened.”
With a sigh, Marshal Tipton put his pistol back in his holster. “Mister, you want to tell me how it was that you could do that? Are you that damn good? Or are you just that damn lucky?”
“I guess it was just luck, Marshal,” Matt said self-deprecatingly.
“Well, I can tell you this for sure. Denbigh ain’t goin’ to like this,” the marshal said. “He ain’t goin’ to like it one little bit.”
“You didn’t say Lord Denbigh,” Matt said.
The marshal looked at Matt with an expression of confusion, and some fear. “Wait a minute! Are you workin’ for Denbigh?”
“No. I was just commenting,” Matt said. “I never heard of him until today, but from what I have heard, I don’t think I would like working for him very much. And I’ve heard he insists upon being called Lord Denbigh.”
“Yeah, well, the sumbitch can insist all he wants. I ain’t goin’ to be callin’ him Lord.”
“Ha,” Stan said. “You talk big, Marshal Tipton, but I haven’t seen you take down Denbigh’s tollgate.”
“The tollgate is out on Ellendale Road, at least two miles south of town. That means it ain’t in my jurisdiction, which means it ain’t my job and you know it,” Tipton said. He pulled a soiled handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. “There’s no way I can legally go outside of the town limits. But if he was to put one up here on Monroe, or Southworth, orFullerton, I’d stop him soon enough.”
“I’m sure you would, Marshal, I’m sure you would,” Paul said.
Tipton turned toward the bartender and pointed his finger. “And I ain’t a’ goin’ to be takin’ no sass from you neither,” he said.
“I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, Marshal,” Paul said. “Hell, you ain’t the only lawman in the county that gives Denbigh free rein. None of the other town marshals, nor the sheriff, nor even the U.S. marshals have done anything to stop him.”
“This here fella is the only one who has had the gumption to go against him, and he didn’t actually go against him, just Butrum,” Stan said.
“Yeah,” Tipton replied. “Let’s get back to this. What is your name, mister? The reason I ask is when Denbigh gets through with you, I don’t want to have to strap you to a board and stand you up in the middle of town tryin’ to figure out who you are, like we did with those two cowboys.”
“The name is Jensen. Matt Jensen.”
Normally, when Matt told someone his name he got some kind of response, but as he studied the marshal’s eyes for any glimmer of recognition, he saw no response of any kind. The marshal did not recognize the name, and for that Matt was relieved.
