CHAPTER 40
Butler had a meal fit for a king. Seems it paid to confide your secrets once in a while. His only worry now was whether he would be able to eat with M.J. later that evening at the Delmonico. For that reason he turned down Hank’s offer of pie and coffee.
“Listen,” Hank said, as Butler was leaving, “my gun’s in the trunk, but if you need some backup you let me know.”
“You’ll be a little rusty.”
Hank grinned.
“It ain’t somethin’ you lose, Butler,” he said. “Not when it comes naturally. I was a dead shot when I was fifteen. You just say the word and I’ll strap it on. I ain’t got many men I can call a friend, I don’t wanna lose one.”
Butler shook the man’s hand and said, “I’ll call on you if I need to, Hank and you do the same, hear?”
“I hear ya.”
“I don’t know many men who can cook a steak as good as you,” Butler added. “I don’t want to lose one.”
The time between meals went quietly for Butler. He returned to his hotel and had a long, hot bath and a haircut, so he’d look presentable when he picked M.J. up for their supper.
When she answered his knock at her front door, she did not look happy.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t find out anything about this man, Ryerson.”
“That’s all right,” he said. “I did.”
“What? How?”
“I’ll tell you once we’re seated at the Delmonico.”
He needed the extra time to think about what he could tell her. He didn’t want to give away Hank’s secret, but then decided that Hank really didn’t have to be anyone other than a plain old cook who had seen Kevin Ryerson before.
The Delmonico was busy, but they were able to get a table easily. M.J. was greeted by other diners; it seems that most townspeople knew her.
They stopped at one table and she said, “Hello, Mr. Mayor.”
“Miss Healy,” the new mayor said. He was in his forties, overweight, wearing a suit and checked vest, dining with his wife, who was middle-aged but handsome.
“Mayor and Mrs. Webster, allow me to introduce my friend Tyrone Butler.”
“Your…friend, dear?” Mrs. Webster asked, with a twinkle in her eyes.
“No, Ma’am,” M.J. said, “not that kind of friend. Well, enjoy your meal.”
“And you,” Mayor Webster said.
On the way to their table she said, “And that was our new Mayor, A. B. Webster.”
“Why do so many people in Dodge just use initials, and not their names?”
As they were seated she said, “You know, I guess I never noticed that, but you’re right.”
“Seems to me it would be a lot simpler just to have a mayor named Dog Kelley.”
“You’re right.”
“How did he get that name, anyway?” Butler asked. “Dog?”
“Racing dogs,” she said, “He used to own and race them and now that he’s not in office, maybe he’ll go back to it.”
“A form of gambling I haven’t discovered,” Butler said. “I guess I’ll stick to poker and an occasional horse race.
A cute, young waitress came over and greeted M.J. by name.”
“Holly, this is Mr. Butler.”
Butler noticed this time she left off the “my friend” part. Wouldn’t want people to continue to get the wrong idea.
They both ordered coffee. M.J. ordered an expensive steak dinner. Hank’s steak was still on Butler’s mind, if it wasn’t weighing heavily on his stomach. He ordered beef stew.
“So tell me,” she said, placing her chin in the palms of her hands, with her elbows on the table, “how did you hear about Ryerson—and what did you hear?”
“He’s a bounty hunter. A good one, but not a very well-known one—by choice.”
“And who told you this?”
“Hank did.”
“And how does he know?”
“He recognized him from a time when they were both in Montana,” Butler said.
“So he’s a bounty hunter, and he’s just passing through?” she asked. “And he decided to help you out of some trouble, even though there’s no money in it for him? Doesn’t sound like any bounty hunter I ever knew. They don’t usually do anything if there’s not a bounty in it.”
“I know,” Butler said. “Makes me even more curious.”
“Me too,” she said, “about whether or not he’s here on business, or is just passing through.”
“Ask him for an interview,” Butler said. “Maybe you’ll be the first to get one. I understand you’re very persuasive, that way.”
“You know,” she replied, “I might just do that.”
CHAPTER 41
Over dessert M.J. told Butler about her desire to work for a newspaper in a big city.
“San Francisco,” she said, “Chicago, New York. That’s where I see my career going.”
“And how are you going to get there?” he asked.
“There will be a story,” she said. “One story that will take me there, I know it.”
“What kind of story?”
“That I don’t know,” she said, “but I will know it when I see it.”
It seemed to Butler that the big stories in Dodge City had been ten years ago. Still, he hoped that it would happen for M.J. With her looks and her drive, he knew she’d go far if she made her way to the big city.
“When we did your interview—which ran today, by the way—you said you were from the East.”
He hadn’t said what city he was from, and he was hoping she wouldn’t ask now.
“Have you ever been to New York?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, “and Cleveland…and Chicago.”
“Where else?”
“Big cities?” he asked. “That’s it, I guess. I’m going to make my way to Denver and, eventually, I’ll get to San Francisco. I’m looking forward to gambling in Portsmouth Square.”
“It sounds so exciting.”
“I think it will be.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” he said, “Since the interview is already in print—you’ll have to give me a copy.”
“I will,” she promised. “What I want to ask you is, with all that’s happened here, with three men trying to kill you this morning…why would you not just leave Dodge City? Go directly from here to San Francisco?”
