“Take care of him, Prufrock,” Matt said.
“Well, I—uh, would be glad to,” the undertaker replied. “Is the city going to pay for it?”
Matt handed the undertaker a fifty-dollar bill. “No,” he said. “I’m paying for it. The city will be paying for the others.”
“What others?” the undertaker asked, clearly not understanding what Matt was talking about.
“Marshal Cummins and his deputies,” Matt said flatly.
“Wait,” Kyle said. “Prufrock, my name is Ben Kyle. I’m a United States marshal. I’m going to ask you just one time and if you know what is good for you, you will tell the truth. Have you ever heard of a man named Jerome? Cornelius Jerome?”
Prufrock didn’t answer.
“You have five seconds to answer,” Kyle said. “Or when we have finished with Cummins and his crowd, we will be coming back for you.”
“He’s buried out here in Boot Hill,” Prufrock said quickly. “Under the name Bill Smith.”
“If you knew his name, why did you bury him as Bill Smith?”
“It was what Marshal Cummins ordered,” Prufrock said. “He killed him.”
“Cummins killed Jerome? Why?”
“He didn’t mean to kill him. He was tryin’ to shoot his hat off his head. It was an accident,” Prufrock said.
“An accident?”
“Yes.”
“This is what I want you to do, Prufrock. I want you to write that out for me and sign it,” Kyle said.
“I can’t do that,” Prufrock said. “Cummins would—”
“Don’t worry about Cummins. He’ll be dead,” Kyle said in a flat, matter-of-fact voice.
Leaving the startled undertaker with Dempster’s body, Matt and Kyle rode slowly down to the far end of the street, then tied their horses off at the hitching post in front of the Pair O Dice Saloon. When they dismounted, Kyle drew his pistol, pointed it into the air, and pulled the trigger. The gunshot echoed through the quiet streets for a long time. Then it was silent.
The gunshot attracted several of the townspeople and they looked toward the saloon, at the two men who were standing in front, one with a smoking gun.
A curtain fluttered in one of the false fronts.
A cat yowled somewhere down the street.
A fly buzzed past Matt’s ear, did a few circles, then flew away.
A face appeared over the top of the batwing doors, then looked out at Matt and Kyle.
“Are you one of Cummins’s deputies?” Kyle asked.
The man shook his head no.
“Then get the hell out of the saloon.”
“Why should I do that?”
“Get out or get killed,” Kyle said.
Without another word, without even looking back into the saloon, the man left and walked hurriedly on down the street.
“Hear me!” Kyle shouted.
The two words echoed back down the street. “Hear me—hear me—hear me.”
“Anyone in the saloon who isn’t with Marshal Cummins, come out of there now!” Kyle called.
From inside the saloon, Matt could hear the sounds of chairs and tables being scooted across the floor as people hustled to leave. A few seconds later, almost a dozen men came through the front door, then hastened to get out of the way, though they didn’t go so far as to not be able to see the show they were certain was about to take place.
Kyle looked over at Matt.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
Matt didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped up onto the porch, then pushed through the batwing doors and went inside, backing up against the wall as he did so. At the bar, a glass of beer in front of him, his lips dripping with moisture, stood Cletus Odom. Also at the bar, but separated by the length of the bar from Odom, stood Marshal Cummins.
Matt’s lips twisted into an evil smile. Part of him wanted to kill both men this very instant, while part of him wanted to delay the pleasure. He could imagine the fear Dempster had shown when about to be hanged, and he wanted these two men to know that same terror.
“Cummins,” Kyle said. His words were cold, flat, menacing. “As a United States marshal, and acting upon the authority of Governor Fremont, I am here to inform you that your office of city marshal, and the offices of all deputies under you, have been vacated. You no longer have any legal standing. In addition, I am placing all of you under arrest.”
