The woman took the money without comment. Never once, during Matt’s entire time here, had the expression on her face changed. The old woman looked as if just staying alive had become a tiring effort.
Matt rode on into town, looking it over as he entered. The town consisted of the usual stores and businesses: a general store, an apothecary, a leather-goods store, a gun shop, a dress shop. All the buildings were of ripsawed, sun-dried lumber, most with false fronts, thus aspiring to more substance than they actually possessed.
Matt rode slowly on up the street, the fall of Spirit’s well-shod hooves making enough noise to generate an echo that rolled back from the false fronts of the various stores and establishments. Except for Matt, the street was empty. Several of the townspeople inside the buildings heard the sound of a solitary rider, but few ventured to look outside and see who it might be.
Matt stopped in front of the Pair O Dice saloon, the name illustrated by a pair of dice showing the number seven.
Millie’s Dress Emporium was directly across the street from the Pair O Dice, and Mrs. Emma Dawkins was there being fitted for a new dress. Her son, Timmy, was sitting on the floor by the front window.
“Mama, there’s a man riding into town,” Timmy said. “A stranger.”
“Don’t stare at him, dear,” Mrs. Dawkins said. “Strangers are none of our concern.” Then, to Millie, Emma continued with her ongoing conversation. “My sister is getting married back in St. Louis and I simply must look my best.”
“My dear, you will be the envy of everyone at the wedding,” Millie promised as she pinned up the hem of the skirt.
Young Timmy Dawkins continued to stare at the rider who had just come into town, and saw him dismount in front of the saloon. He had never seen the man before, and wondered where he came from and why he was in Purgatory.
“He’s going into the saloon,” Timmy said.
“Who is going into the saloon, dear?” Emma asked.
“The stranger.”
“I told you not to stare at strangers.”
Matt hung his wet hat on the saddle horn so that the sun would dry it. He then patted himself down, raising a cloud of dust as he did so. Just as he started toward the front porch and the promise of a late morning breakfast, a man stepped out of the saloon. He was a tall man, dressed in black. He had a star on his chest, and he wore his pistol hanging low to his right side.
“That’ll be five dollars,” the lawman said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Five dollars,” the lawman repeated.
“I don’t understand. Five dollars for what?”
“For a visitors tax,” the lawman explained. “We charge everyone who visits our town five dollars.”
“Oh, well, I can take care of that,” Matt said. He turned to go back to his horse. “I just won’t visit your town.”
“You already have.”
“Mister, I just rode into town,” Matt said. “I didn’t know anything about your five-dollar tax.”
“You don’t have five dollars? Maybe I should lock you up for vagrancy.”
“It’s not the money, it’s the principle of the thing,” Matt said. “Whoever heard of a town charging five dollars just to visit? Why, if you were going to do such a thing, the least you could do is post a sign just outside of town so people could be warned.”
“Tell that to the city council. But first, give me the five dollars.”
“I told you, I’m not going to visit your town. I’ll just ride on.”
“And I told you, you’ve already visited the town. Now you’ll either give me the five dollars, or I’ll shoot you down in the street and take it off your dead body.”
“What?” Matt said, his voice rising in surprise over the lawman’s statement.
“You heard me.”
“Mister, you need to let this drop. I told you, I’m going to—”
Suddenly, Matt saw the lawman’s hand going for his pistol.
“No!” Matt shouted, going for his own pistol at the same time.
Matt was fast, very fast. He not only had his gun out, but he fired it, just as the lawman was clearing leather.
The bullet hit the lawman in the chest and, with a surprised expression on his face, the lawman dropped his gun, then slapped his hand over the wound. Ironically, when he dropped his gun, it slipped back into his holster. He turned around and walked back into the saloon through the batwing doors.
“What was it, Moe?” Marshal Cummins asked. “What was that shot about?”
Moe looked at Cummins with a peculiar expression on his face, then fell to the floor. At that moment, Matt stepped inside as well, still holding the smoking gun.
“Moe!” someone shouted.
“My God! He’s dead!”
