The marshal’s office was in a two-story brick building. There were several desks for him and his deputies, and the cellblock was on the second floor. It was not typical of any lawman’s office Butler had seen in the past.
Singer hung his hat on a wooden peg on the wall and sat behind his desk. Butler sat in a chair just across from him.
“What’s this about, Marshal?”
“It’s about you, Mr. Butler,” Singer said, “and the possibility that you might be takin’ the wrong side.”
“Am I taking sides?”
“Obviously, you are.”
“Oh, I see,” Butler said. “Because I saw that someone was going to try to bushwhack Jim Masterson and Neal Brown, and I took a hand to stop it, that means I’m taking sides?”
“In this town, it does.”
“You mean this town that has two sides, the Dodge City Gang on one and the Reformers on the other?”
Singer frowned.
“You sound like you’ve been readin’ back issues of our newspaper,” he said.
“And does that put me on one side or the other?”
“Let’s not talk about sides,” Singer said. “Let’s just talk about what’s right for you.”
“And what would that be?”
“I’d say that would be to move on.”
“No room for another gambler in Dodge? Or will you be telling Ben Thompson to move on as well.”
“Ben will move on, eventually.”
“And so will I.”
Singer paused, then said, “Maybe I should just make this a suggestion.”
“All right.”
“I suggest you don’t use your gun again while you’re in Dodge,” the lawman said. “You’ve killed enough men here.”
“Is there a quota?” Butler asked.
“I don’t know what that means,” Singer admitted. “I just don’t want to have to take your gun and put you in a cell.”
“You won’t have to.”
“Good.”
“I won’t kill anyone who isn’t trying to kill me,” Butler said. “How is that?”
“Is that the best I’m gonna get out of you?”
“Best I can do, Marshal,” Butler said. “I’m sure not going to take a bullet because you don’t want me to kill another man. I’ll kill anyone I have to in order to stay alive.”
Butler stood up, stared down at the seated man.
“That I can promise you.”
“I can understand that,” Singer said. “That’s personal. Just don’t be takin’ on anyone else’s problem while you’re here.”
“Is that another suggestion?”
“Let’s make that a piece of advice.”
“I didn’t know giving out advice was part of your job, Marshal,” Butler said.
“It’s a new service offered by the marshal’s office,” Singer told him.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Butler turned to leave, stopped when he got to the door.
“These other desks.”
“Yes?”
“Have you hired your deputies yet for your new office?”
“Don’t worry,” Singer said. “I’ve got deputies.”
“Enough of them?”
“Enough to do the job,” Singer said. “Why? Are you thinkin’ of takin’ on a new profession?”
“Oh, no,” Butler said. “I’m very happy with the one I’ve got. I was just…curious.”
“Good day, Butler,” Singer said. “I hope we won’t have to talk again.”
“Oh, I hope that, too, Marshal,” Butler said. “I surely do.”
CHAPTER 38
Butler decided he needed a quiet place to think, maybe over a cup of coffee. He knew the perfect place— which, he realized, still didn’t have a proper name.
When he got there it was empty, as usual, though as he entered he smelled something cooking in the kitchen. Despite the fact he’d had a big breakfast, he suddenly became very hungry. Might have had something to do with the fact that he’d already downed whiskey and beer before lunch.
“Hank?” he called.
When there was no answer he decided to go ahead and stick his head into the kitchen. He saw Hank sitting on the trunk that held his gun belt, and who knew what other remnants of a past life.
“Hey, Hank.”
The man started, looked up at him without really seeing him for a moment, then seemed to come to.
“Oh, hey, Butler.”
“What’s wrong?” Butler asked, coming into the kitchen. “You don’t look so good.”
“I, uh, I had a customer this mornin’.”
“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” Butler asked. “I mean, kinda good.”
“You know,” Hank went on, “I thought having a small cafe I’d be able to cook, feed some people, and nobody would recognize me. It worked pretty good for a while.”
“And?”
“This mornin’ a man came in, sat down and had a meal.”
“And he recognized you?”
“No,” Hank said, “that’s just it. He didn’t recognize me. I recognized him.”
“Oh,” Butler said. “Well, was it someone you think might recognize you later on and come back?”
“I’m not sure,” Hank said. “I mean he might come back, and if he does he might want to try me.”
“And then you’d either have to put your gun on again or let him kill you.”
“Right.”
“Well, what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” Hank said. “I been sittin’ here thinkin’ about it.”
“Is this somebody I’d recognize if you told me his name?” Butler asked.
“I ain’t sure,” Hank said. “You ever hear of a man named Kevin Ryerson?”
“You saw what?” Peacock asked.
“I saw the marshal taking Butler into his office.”
“So?”
Updegraff stared at his brother-in-law, who was seated at his desk in the back office of the Lady Gay. There was a second desk in the room that belonged to Jim Masterson but—up to now—had rarely been used.
“So I thought it would be important.”
Peacock sat back in his chair.
“Al,” he said, “I’ll tell you what’s important and what’s not. What the hell happened this mornin’?”
“That Gambler came over lookin’ for an early game and Sandland and his partners made a try for him.”
“They tried to kill him?”
“Well…yeah.”
