'He is. He's quick as a snake if you push him. Big Bob is no coward. Believe that. But he'd rather shoot his victim in the back.'
'Frank, no one just rides into this town by accident. It's too far off the path.'
'I know.'
'You think he's after Mrs. Browning?'
'Only God, Big Bob, and the man who is paying him knows the answer to that. But you can bet your best pair of boots he's after somebody.'
'Let's see where he lands for the night.'
'The best hotel in town -- that's where. Bob goes first-class all the way. That's his style.'
'Frank ... he might be after you.'
'That thought crossed my mind.'
'You two know each other?'
'Oh, yes. For many years. And he dislikes me as much as I do him.'
'Why?'
'The dislike?'
'Yes.'
'We're opposites, Jerry. He'll kill anyone for money. Man, woman, or child. And has. He doesn't have a conscience. There isn't the thinnest thread of morality in the man. And he doesn't just kill with a bullet. He'll throw a victim down a deep well and stand and listen to them scream for help until they drown. He'll set fire to a house and burn his victims to death. He'll do anything for money.'
'Sounds like a real charmin' fellow.'
'Oh, he is. He swore to someday kill me. Swore that years ago.'
'Why?'
'I whipped him in a fight. With my fists. Beat him bloody after he set a little dog on fire one night up in Wyoming. He still carries the scars of that fight on his face, and will until the day he dies. And I hope I'm the person responsible for putting him in the grave.'
'Why did he do that? That's sick, Frank. Decent people wouldn't even think of doing that.'
'Because he wanted to do it -- that's why. He's filth, and that's all he'll ever be. Besides, I like dogs. If I ever settle down somewhere I'll have a dozen mutts.'
'I've had a couple of dogs over the years. Last one died about five years ago. You know, it's funny, but I still miss that silly animal.'
'I know the feeling. What was his name?'
Jerry laughed. 'Digger. That was the durnedest dog for diggin' holes I ever did see.' Jerry was silent for a moment. 'Let's take a walk over to the hotel and see what name Mallory registers under,' he suggested.
'His own. He always does. He's an arrogant bastard. He knows there are no dodgers out on him. He likes to throw his name up into the face of the law.'
'If he isn't after you, Frank, I'm surprised he came here, knowing you're the marshal.'
'I doubt if he knows.'
A man came running up. 'Trouble about to happen at the Red Horse, Marshal,' he panted. 'Gun trouble.'
'Go home,' Frank told him. 'We'll handle it.'
'I'm gone. I don't like to be around no shootin'.'
The man hurried away.
'Let's go earn our pay, Jerry,' Frank said.
No sooner had the words left his mouth than a single shot rang out from the direction of the Red Horse Saloon.
'Damn!' Jerry said, and both men took off running.
--------
*Twelve*
Frank and Jerry pushed open the batwings and stepped into the smoke-filled saloon. A man lay dead on the dirty floor. Another man stood at the end of the bar, a pistol in his hand. Frank noted that the six-gun was not cocked. The crowded saloon was silent. The piano player had stopped his playing, and the soiled doves were standing or sitting quietly.
'Put the gun down, mister,' Frank ordered.
'You go to hell, Morgan!' the man told him.
'All in due time. Right now, though, I'm ordering you to put that gun away.'
'And if I don't?' The man threw the taunting challenge at Frank.
'I'll kill you,' Frank said softly.
