where Mrs. Thompson kept room and board for strangers.
He walked into the house and for a moment started to go up the stairs to his room. He didn’t feel like a drink, and he didn’t really want to just sit and stare out a window. Instead, he went into the dining room just off the kitchen, hoping, perhaps, that Mrs. Thompson would have some coffee left over. He sat down on one of the chairs at the table and lit a cigarillo, thinking about the young man he had just killed.
He had no feelings of guilt about it because it was his job. The three had deliberately come to town to provoke him enough to see if he could be scared or killed or run off. Now, two were on their way back to report that no such options were available to Jake Myers. He did feel sorry for the young gunman who was dumb enough or poor enough or needy enough or overly prideful enough to put himself up against a man he knew nothing about. He had come straight at Longarm like a man who was fixing to teach another man how to suck eggs, and that was an old dog that just wouldn’t hunt. You just didn’t go charging straight ahead into unknown situations, not unless you were awfully good. And nobody in this part of Texas working for a scrawny land and cattle baron was going to be paid enough to be that good. Only in the regard that Longarm had known that he was that much better than Cal Wilkins had he felt the slightest twinge of guilt.
At that instant, Mrs. Thompson came through the open door of the kitchen. She was carrying the coffeepot and two cups. She said, “I heard you come in. I thought maybe you’d like a cup of coffee.”
Longarm said, “I’d be much obliged, ma’am.”
“Do you want to drink in solitude? I was going to have a cup, but I can go back in the kitchen.”
“I only drink whiskey in solitude, Mrs. Thompson. I’d be grateful for the company.”
She poured them both a cup and then went back for cream and sugar. Longarm declined, but she took a little cream and two spoonfuls of sugar.
He said, “I hope the shooting didn’t frighten you.”
She shook her head as she stirred her coffee. “Oh, no. We’ve all heard plenty of shooting in this town. It’s nothing new.”
“The young man’s name was Cal Wilkins,” said Longarm. “He decided to try me. He got off three shots before I fired my first.”
Mrs. Thompson continued to stir her coffee. She said, “I suppose you’re luckier than most.”
“Yes. As a general rule, I don’t care to have anyone get off that first shot. I kind of like to reserve that for myself. Would you happen to know anything about this Cal Wilkins?”
She shrugged and smiled without humor. She said, “Cal Wilkins, Jeff Barton, Jack or James Myers, Archie or Oliver Barrett, Pete Dill, Whitey Smith.” She shrugged again. “The names are the only difference. They’re all the same. Men who will kill over patches of grass and ground and cattle. My husband came here trying to make this a prosperous place. He tried to make peace. He tried to bring the warring factions together. He tried to make it a settled community with a bank. A place with order. He got paid with their kind of thinking. His death was wasteful because it didn’t make sense. I didn’t need to know the gunman’s name. I really didn’t need to see his face.”
Longarm said helplessly, “I’m sorry, ma’am. I know that you think the law has come way too late, but for some folks it may not have. I’m sorry about your husband. There’s nothing I can do about that now. When it happened to him, and I don’t know when that was, I didn’t even know this place existed. Three days ago, I didn’t know anything about all this. If you need help, you’ve got to call out before the law can help you.”
She put her spoon down and looked him directly in the eye. She said, “I’m not blaming you, Marshal. I’m just talking about the way things were and are. I don’t think you’ve got a chance here. There’s too many of them.”
For the first time, Longarm noticed the blue of her eyes. He said, “Yes, ma’am. I knew coming down that there was going to be a bunch of them, but it’s not my job to count. That’s not what I’m supposed to do. The only counting I have to do is how many cartridges are in my weapon. That makes my job real simple. That’s all I’ve got to worry about.”
As she raised her cup, she looked him in the eye. She said, “You’re a very lucky man, Marshal. Not all of us are born fighters.”
Longarm said, “Ma’am, I wasn’t born a fighter. I’m a peace officer, a law officer. I don’t fight unless I have to, and then I make sure I get the best of it because that’s what the law is supposed to do.”
A grimace fluttered across her face. She said, “Would that the law was always on time and on the right side, there would be a lot less unhappy people in this world.”
There was nothing that he could reply to that, so he simply drank his coffee and smoked his cigarillo in silence. After a moment, she took her empty cup and disappeared back into the kitchen. He still didn’t know how her husband had been killed or how she came to own the two-story boardinghouse in the middle of town. He supposed either her husband had insurance or he had been able to leave her a little money. She had spoken about him trying to start a bank; perhaps he had been well-to-do. Longarm still didn’t know why such a gentle woman would want to stay in such a rough area, but then that was her business.
A little before eleven, he left the boardinghouse and headed for the Texas Bar & Grill. He knew that the Myers bunch wouldn’t be there, and he doubted that the Barretts would, but he was going to make sure that word got around that he was there, waiting on them.
Mr. McAllister gave him a dour expression as he entered through the swinging doors and walked up to the bar and ordered a whiskey. The portly bartender came over and poured it for him. He said, “Marshal, you’re going to have to pick up your drinking pace if you’re going to make up for the amount of business you’re costing me.”
Longarm downed half the shot before he spoke. He said, “Mr. McAllister, I ain’t under no obligation to make up for your loss of business. What I’m trying to do is make it possible for everybody to do business in this area, not just them who drinks whiskey.”
“The barber wants to know who’s supposed to pay for that mess that he cleaned up for you,” the barkeeper said.
Longarm shook his head. “I wouldn’t know about that,” he said. “That wasn’t my mess. That man drew down on me. All I did was defend myself. As far as I’m concerned, you could have left him in the street until the moon quit coming up. However, I will step over there and give him a chit that he can send in to Washington, D.C. It might be a time before he gets paid.”
McAllister gave him a look. “What would you reckon? A couple of years?”
