Butler's Wager

see faces in almost every window. Scared off the streets, folks were not too frightened to want to watch the action.

“That sonofabitch Singer,” Neal Brown said.

“Fred Singer?” Bat asked.

“He’s the new marshal,” Jim said. “He’s stayin’ away from this, probably on orders from the new mayor.”

“New mayor, new marshal,” Bat said. “A whole lot of things have changed.”

“And a whole lot have stayed the same,” Jim said.

The two brothers were standing shoulder to shoulder, Neal Brown to Jim’s right, Butler to Bat’s left.

“Think they’ll turn a run?” Bat asked.

“They’re probably getting’ paid a lot of money for this,” Jim said. “Enough so that your legend won’t intimidate them.”

“Well, hell,” Bat said, “what good is it, then?”

“Here they come,” Butler said.

Lead and gunsmoke filled the air, but only one was lethal.

The two groups of men advanced on each other, firing as they came. All were cool in the face of danger, but the Mastersons, Neal Brown, and Butler were more deadly accurate with their weapons.

Ruger’s men, supposedly experienced, fired quickly and wildly. As hot bits of lead flew around one tore through Butler coat, singing his side. The gambler fired coolly, putting one of Ruger’s men down. Bullets could be heard striking the sides of buildings and breaking glass. Some of the townspeople watching from their windows were forced to scatter. Later Butler would wonder about those wild shots, would come to the conclusion that faced with imminent death at the hands of men like the Masterson brothers and Neal Brown, even the most professional of men could panic.

Ruger’s men fell one by one, Butler, the Mastersons and Neal Brown continuing to waste little or no lead. Finally, Ruger himself was struck by several shots—they’d argue later over whose—and joined his men on the ground.

The gunfire stopped.

The smoke floated up and away, turning into tendrils as it drifted higher and higher.

“Where the hell is Peacock?” Neal Brown demanded.

Jim Masterson’s partner was nowhere to be found.

CHAPTER 57

On the day he was to leave town Butler stopped in at Hank’s cafe for breakfast.

Several days had passed since the shooting. Ruger and his men had been killed, Updegraff wounded, both he and Peacock…gone. No one knew where, or heard from them again. The mayor had tried to have Bat and Jim Masterson arrested, but since Singer had not witnessed any wrongdoing, he did not make any arrests.

Hank prepared a steak-and-egg breakfast for Butler and sat with him while he ate it.

“So you checked out of your hotel?” Hank asked.

Butler nodded.

“Time for me to move on.”

“I’ll bet the Mastersons were grateful for your help.”

“They probably would have done just as well without me.”

“Did they ever find out who sent that telegram to Bat Masterson in Tombstone?”

“No,” Butler said. Neal Brown had agreed to keep his mouth shut. It would go down in history as an anonymous telegram.

“So where are you headed?”

“West. The next place. I’ll probably make Tombstone, Denver, some other places along the way, and end up in San Francisco. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You going to stay here?”

“Probably.”

“Wait for someone else to recognize you?”

“Might not happen.”

“I hope it doesn’t.”

Next to Butler’s plate was the copy of the Dodge City Times containing the story of the shooting. “The Battle of the Plaza,” M. J. Healy had called it. Butler didn’t know where the plaza was, but it was as good a name as any for her big story. He’d told her everything he knew in return for one thing—she left his name out. As far as anyone who read the story knew, it was Bat and Jim Masterson along with Neal Brown.

“What are the Mastersons gonna do?” Hank asked.

“Bat’s already gone,” Butler said. “Jim’s going to sell, and he and Neal Brown will leave.”

“This town might actually end up bein’ borin’,” Hank said.

“That would be a switch.”

After breakfast Hank walked Butler to the door.

“So everybody’s satisfied,” the cook said. “The mayor will be happy once Jim Masterson leaves.”

“Dog Kelley will run his saloon, maybe run for office again next time.”

“I’d vote for him,” Hank said, “if I was a voter.”

“So you’ll be happy here?” Butler asked.

“For now.”

The two men shook hands and Butler started to leave.

“Wait!”

“What is it?”

“You kept that bounty hunter away from me, Butler,” Hank said. “I owe you for that.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Hank—”

“It’s Henry,” the man said, “Henry Plummer.”

“Henry…Plummer?”

Plummer waited to see if it would sink in.

“Didn’t I read something about…Montana?”

“Bannock,” Plummer said, “and Virginia City.”

“And you were supposed to have been hanged in…sixty…three?”

“Four,” Plummer said. “A lot of years ago.”

“Where have you been all this time?”

“Movin’,” Plummer said. “Job to job, name to name, until I got here.”

“Well,” Butler said, “everybody deserves a second chance, Henry. Your secret is safe with me.”

“I know it,” Plummer said. “Take care your own secrets don’t catch up with you.”

“They always do,” Butler said, “but I’ve learned to survive.”

“I’ve been doin’ that for years,” Henry Plummer said. “Take my advice, Butler…learn how to live.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE