thumb of his right hand. He was a man who used his gun a lot, probably even practiced with it.
Butler did the same, made sure his gun was fully loaded before he holstered his as well.
“Well, I think I owe you a drink, Mr. Ryerson, but we better get it before the law arrives.”
“Suits me.”
“Bartender!”
Al Updegraff peered up over the bar, saw that Butler was still alive and inwardly cursed.
“Yes, sir?”
“Whiskey for me and my friend.”
“We’re, uh, closed, Mister.”
“Well, open up,” Butler said. “We deserve a drink.”
“I can’t just open—”
“Do it, Al,” Jim Masterson said, coming down the stairs, “and pour me one, too.”
Updegraff looked at Masterson, then shrugged and said, “It’s your whiskey.”
“You’re damn right it is.”
Masterson reached the bar at the same time Butler and Ryerson did. Updegraff poured three whiskeys and they all picked them up.
“Jim Masterson,” Butler said, “meet Kevin Ryerson.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Jim said.
“Same here,” Ryerson commented.
The three men clinked glasses and downed their drinks. For Jim Masterson it was a harsh breakfast.
Fire burning in his stomach, Masterson said, “Now does somebody want to tell me what the hell is goin’ on here?”
CHAPTER 32
By the time City Marshal Fred Singer arrived, Masterson and Butler had moved the bodies to one part of the saloon. Masterson had also instructed Updegraff to get some help and bring in some new tables before it was time to open. To his surprise, Updegraff complied with his wishes. He figured the man just wanted to get out of there before more lead started flying.
When Singer arrived Butler and Ryerson were in front of the bar, and Masterson was behind it.
“What’s goin’ on, Jim?” he asked. “The Lady Gay startin’ to specialize in collectin’ bodies?”
“You tell me, Fred,” Masterson said. “These three men busted in here and tried to kill Butler.”
“Mr. Butler,” Singer said, “you again.”
“Not again, Marshal,” Butler corrected. “Last time I was just helping Jim, here. This time it was the other way around.”
“And who are you, sir?” Singer asked Ryerson.
“Just somebody who was passin’ by and stopped to help.”
“Passin’ by, or passin’ through?” Singer asked.
“Well, I rode through the night to get here this mornin’,” Ryerson said. “Figured to have some breakfast and get some sleep.”
“But you got yourself involved in a shooting.”
“Well,” Ryerson said, “like I said, I was passin’ by. If there’s no more trouble, I’d just as soon go and get some steak and eggs before I turn in.”
“And when you wake up?” Singer asked. “Will you be leavin’ us then?”
“Marshal,” Ryerson said, “I guess I’ll make that decision when I wake up. Gents.”
Butler and Masterson both nodded to Ryerson, who took his leave of the situation.
“He was just bein’ helpful, Fred,” Masterson said. “Don’t be so hard on him.”
“Don’t tell me how to do my job, Jim,” Singer said. “You’re not wearin’ a badge anymore.”
“No, you’re right,” Masterson said, “I’m not, you are. In fact, you’re wearin’ my badge, Fred.”
Singer firmed his jaw and said, “It’s mine now, Jim.”
“Well then, earn it,” Masterson said, harshly. “Get these bodies out of my place, and how about findin’ out who they were and why they wanted Butler dead?”
Singer got right up in Jim Masterson’s face. But Butler could see the man was not completely confident.
“I’ll do my job, Jim,” he said tightly. “Maybe if you’d paid more attention to doin’ yours and forgot about being a saloon owner you’d still be wearin’ a badge.” Singer turned and walked to the front door, then turned to face them again. “I’ll be back with some men to clean up this mess. Mr Butler?”
“Yeah?’
“You shoot one more person and I’m gonna have to ask you to leave Dodge.”
“Sheriff,” Butler said, “I’ll consider myself warned.”
After Singer left Butler was alone in the saloon with Jim Masterson, who poured two more drinks.
“I ain’t had this much whiskey for breakfast in years,” he said, after he’d downed it. “You wanna tell me what’s goin’ on?”
“Not sure I know,” Butler said.
“Who were those three?”
“Friends of those fellas who tried for you the other night?” Butler asked. “Maybe they’re mad at me for helping you?”
“Uh-huh,” Masterson said. “What else you got?”
“Friends of that fella I busted out of the poker game the other night? Got wrote up in the papers. Maybe he’s mad.”
“His father would have his balls if he pulled a stunt like this,” Masterson said. “Keep goin’.”
“You got something you want to say?” Butler asked.
“I’m thinkin’ maybe you carry some trouble around with you,” the ex-lawman said.
“Doesn’t everybody?”
“I’m thinkin’ the deadly kind, with you,” Masterson said. “You ain’t wanted anyplace, are you? Carryin’ a price on your head?”
It was a trick question, and he answered it the only way he thought he could.
“Not by the law.”
They stared at each other for a few moments and then before Jim Masterson could ask another question, the batwing doors admitted two more people.
“Look who I found out front.” Neal Brown said. Entering with him was M.J. Healy, pad in hand.
“Well, what happened here?” she asked, looking around. Her eyes came to light on the three bodies. Unaffected, she walked over to them and bent over to take a look.
“That‘s Red Sandland,” she said.
“Which one?” Masterson asked.
“The one with the red hair,” she said dryly, straightening up.
“You know the other two?”
“Cronies of his,” she said. “I don’t know their names.”
“How do you know his?” Brown asked.
“It’s my job to know people and things in this town,” she said, “and I do my job well.”
She got no argument from any of the men.
“So tell us about him,” Masterson asked. “Who was Red Sandland?”
“Fella who thought he was a hard man,” she said. “I guess he was wrong.”
“For hire?”
“Yep,” she said, “and it wouldn’t take much, either. Whatever somebody offered him, it’d be more than he had.”
