“Never saw him before. That one?”
Jim Masterson used his foot to turn the body over so he could see his face. He had to look at the right side of his face because the bullet had taken most of the left side with it.
“Don’t know ’im,” he said. “Put up your gun, Neal. It’s all over. Dog, you can get up.”
He turned and looked at Butler, approached him. The men around Butler cleared away, fearing another exchange of bullets.
“You helped me out, friend,” Masterson said. “I’m obliged.”
“He was taking a bead on your back, Marshal.”
“You know who I am?”
“You were pointed out to me,” Butler admitted.
“Name’s Jim Masterson,” he said, putting out his hand, “and it’s ex-marshal.”
“Butler’s my name.” The two men shook hands.
“You wanna join us at our table, wait for the law to show up?” Masterson asked. “I own this place. Drinks ’er on the house.”
Butler smiled and said, “Don’t think I’ve had a better offer since I came to town.”
“And when was that?” Masterson asked.
“Just about an hour ago.”
“You don’t believe in wastin’ any time, do you?” Jim Masterson asked.
CHAPTER 9
One of the saloon girls brought over four fresh beers while the activity around them got back to normal— except for the two dead bodies. They managed to lift the one off the roulette wheel so they could continue playing, though everyone was careful not to step on him. The same went for the second one by the bar. They just worked around them.
“So you have no idea who those men were?” Butler asked.
“No,” Masterson said.
“But we got an idea who sent them,” Brown said.
“Neal,” Jim Masterson said, warningly.
“Why shouldn’t he know?” Brown asked. “He stuck his neck out for us, didn’t he?”
“Well, first,” Masterson said, “I’d like to know how, and why?”
“I just rode into town a little while ago from Wichita,” Butler said. “Put my horse up at the livery, got a room at the Dodge House, had a drink at the Alhambra and was on my way to the Delmonico for a steak.”
“So what made you stop in here?” Masterson asked.
“Saw those two loitering around outside, peering in the window,” Butler said. “Saw them check their loads before they came in. I figured they were after somebody. When I came in I noticed them casing the three of you. I just decided to keep an eye on them.”
“I feel like a fool,” Brown said. “I didn’t see them.”
“Don’t feel bad,” Masterson told him. “I only saw the one by the roulette wheel.”
“I wondered about that,” Butler said. “You moved pretty fast when he drew.”
“I had one eye on him,” Masterson said, “but you saved my bacon with the other one. I’m much obliged.”
Butler looked at Brown.
“You said you thought you knew who sent them. Somebody after you because you pack stars?”
“We did pack stars,” Brown said, “but not no more—and no, that wouldn’t be the reason.”
“This ain’t the place to talk about it,” Masterson said.
“Where is the place to talk it over?” Brown asked.
“My place,” Kelley said.
“Dog owns the Alhambra,” Masterson said.
“Friendly bartender over there,” Butler said to Kelley.
“Which one?”
“Matt Logan.”
“Yeah, Matt’s a good man.”
“Why don’t we go over there?’ Brown asked. “Just in case somebody in here is getting’ ideas.”
“I hate bein’ run out of my own place,” Masterson said.
“You ain’t bein’ run out,” Kelley said. “You already agreed to come to my place for a drink.”
“You got a point there, Dog,” Masterson said, “but we’ve got to wait for the law to show up.”
“I wonder who it’ll be when they do show up?” Brown asked.
As if on cue the batwing doors swung inward and a man wearing a marshal’s badge entered.
“I’ll be a sonofabitch,” Brown said, when he saw the man.
“Fred Singer,” Kelley said, “that traitor.”
“Traitor?” Butler asked.
“He just got fired, like we did,” Brown said. “He was undersheriff.”
“And now it looks like he’s the new city marshal,” Jim Masterson said.
Butler hunched his shoulders. Apparently he had walked right into the middle of a personal beef, but he liked being in Masterson and Brown’s company, even if it meant ducking some flying lead.
Marshal Singer came over to the table.
“Jim.”
“Hello, Fred,” Masterson said. “I like your new badge.”
Singer looked down at his chest for a moment. To Butler he looked to be in his late thirties, a tall, rangy man.
“I’m sorry, Jim,” Singer said. “Somebody had to take the job.”
“How does George feel about this, Fred?” Kelley asked. “Or does he even know yet.”
“George don’t know yet, but I was his deputy a long time. He’ll be happy for me.”
“Yeah, right,” Brown said.
“Jim, I got a job to do,” Singer said.
“Then get to it, Marshal,” Masterson said, “’cause we got someplace to go.”
“Who’s this fella?” Singer asked. “And what the hell happened here?”
“A couple of waddies threw down on us, Marshal,” Masterson said. “This fella helped us out. As you can see, they got the worst of it.”
Singer looked around at the two bodies and the folks stepping around and over them.
“As for who he is, why don’t you ask him yourself?” Masterson finished.
Singer looked at Butler and said, “How about it, Mister? Who are you and what’s your business here?”
“My name is Butler, Marshal,” Butler responded, “and my business is poker.”
CHAPTER 10
Butler calmly told the marshal what he had told the others at the table. When it came to the action, all three men supported his story.
“And anybody else in here will tell you the same, Fred,” Jim Masterson finished.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Jim,” Singer said, “but this is your place.”
