He stopped six feet away and stared, eyes squinted until they were little more than slits. He nodded at the guns.
“You’re handy with them things.”
“Only when I have to be,” Burns answered.
“How come that Kagel knew you?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Steve replied.
“He called you by name,” the sheriff growled. “You must have met him somewhere.”
Burns shook his head. “He had my name, all right. But I don’t recognize his handle. Maybe it’s a new one.”
“Maybe if we rolled him over,” suggested a voice and Burns’ eyes flicked toward the man who’d spoken. Squat, square of shoulders, smooth. Pearl stickpin gleaming in the black cravat that bunched above the ornate vest.
Slowly Steve holstered his guns. “Let’s take a look,” he said. “I’ll tell you if I know him.”
It was the last thing that he wanted to do, he admitted to himself. But it was a thing he had to do. One suspicious move and the burly sheriff would be making trouble.
They moved across the floor to stand above the dead man. Callously, the sheriff turned the body over with his toe and it flopped grotesquely on its back, arms flung out, limp head lolling.
Burns’ face felt stiff, as if a mask had enclosed his flesh. He couldn’t show the slightest flicker of expression, he knew, for the sheriff would be watching with those squinted eyes.
Slowly he shook his head. “Never saw him before,” he said. “Can’t imagine who he is.”
And that, he told himself, was the damnest lie he had ever told. For there was no doubt about the dead man on the floor. His name wasn’t Kagel, of course, and he looked some older than the day that he had left Devil’s Gulch, swearing vengeance on the man who drove him out.
“I think I’ll get that drink,” said Burns.
“Just a minute,” the sheriff called.
Burns stood silent, while the star-man squinted at him.
“Figuring on staying for a while?” the sheriff asked.
“Hadn’t thought about it, sheriff.”
“Take my advice,” the lawman told him. “Have a drink and get some grub. Have a sleep if you really need it. But then you better slope.”
Burns reached into a vest pocket, hauled out a sack of tobacco. His fingers shook a little as he thumbed the book of leaves.
“Ordering me out?” he said.
“I’m giving you some time.”
“I think I’ll stay a while,” Burns told him calmly.
The sheriff’s face flushed and his fingers twitched impatiently toward his guns, but his thumbs stayed anchored on the belt.
Burns spilled tobacco into the paper. “You see,” he said, “this is the first place I was ever ordered out of. If I let it happen to me, folks might get the idea I was just a saddle tramp.”
“I told you to vamoose,” the sheriff rumbled. “We got our bellies plumb full of slickers that come in with their guns tied down.”
Burns lifted the cigarette to his mouth, licked the flap, twirled it shut. His lips scarcely moved as he spoke. “Sheriff, the only way I ever argue is with my guns. Maybe you would like to…”
“Hold it,” warned the man with the fancy vest. He addressed the sheriff. “Look, Egan, he didn’t pick the fight, Kagel called him. Must have been out of his head or something. Burns here says he never saw the man before.”
“That’s what he says,” declared the sheriff, “but it sounds damn funny to me.”
“He had to defend himself,” argued the other. “Kagel had the first shot. He already had his guns half out when he yelled at Burns. Under those circumstances, I don’t see why Burns can’t stick around long as he’s a mind to.”
The sheriff started to speak, stammered. “All right,” he finally said. “All right, I guess that he can stay.”
He swung on Burns like a raging grizzly. “Only don’t go flourishing them guns. This here county is cleaning up and we don’t stand for off-hand shooting.”
Burns grinned sourly. “Just tell the boys not to prod me none.”
Brusquely the sheriff turned on his heel and headed for the door. Steve stood, looking after him. Funny, he told himself. Damn funny. That big bear of a sheriff folding up to fancy vest.
Fingers tapped him on the elbow and he turned around.
“Name is Carson,” said the man with the fancy vest, holding out his hand. “Joe Carson. Own this place.”
Burns put out his hand and shook. Carson’s hand was flabby and his handclasp matched it.
“Don’t mind the sheriff,” said Carson. “It’s near election time and he is on the prod. Always is, come election time. Looking for things that will help the votes.”
“Like rounding up the cow thieves?”
“Something like that,” Carson agreed. “Probably had those rustlers staked out for months ahead and hauled them in when it would do some good.”
Burns moved to the bar, Carson at his elbow.
“Good shooting,” the bartender told him. “Seen lots of it in my day. But nothing quite like that.”
“Thanks,” said Burns. “Slow, though. He got in the first one.”
“And smashed up the backbar,” declared the bartender, bitterly. “Damn it all, I do hate messy shooting. Neat and clean, I says. That’s the way to do it.”
“Go ahead, drink up,” invited Carson. “The bottle’s on the house.”
Burns poured a drink and downed it.
“Maybe you’re looking for a job,” asked Carson. “If you are, I’d like to talk to you.”
Burns hesitated. “Well, not a job exactly. I’m looking for a man.”
“Not Kagel?” asked Carson.
Burns shook his head. “A friend. Name of Custer—Bob Custer. Used to live around here.”
“You won’t find him, mister,” the bartender told Burns. “He up and pulled his freight a month or two ago.”
“One of the ranchers that were driven out?”
The bartender nodded.
Burns downed a second drink of whiskey. “Doesn’t sound like Bob,” he protested. “All hell couldn’t scare him out.”
“None of them had a thing to stay for,” Carson said. “Their cattle were gone and some of their places burned. They tried banding together, but it didn’t do no good. Didn’t have the men to protect themselves. When they were one place, the gang would strike at another. Only outfit that survived was Newman’s Lazy K. Newman had men enough to fight off the wild bunch.”
Burns shook his head, bewildered. “Funny that a bunch of cow thieves would go in for burning and killings. Mostly they’re just interested in cows.”
“Ranchers picked off a few of them,” said Carson. “Got their dander up. For a while…”
The batwings flapped and a voice drawled. “Just take it easy, gents. Keep on doing what you’re doing.”
Burns stiffened and the whiskey in the glass he held slopped onto the bar. In the mirror, he saw Carson’s face go white. The bartender stood frozen with a rag in one hand and a wet glass in the other.
“We’re holding up the bank,” the man in the doorway said, “and we don’t want any trouble.”
From down the street came the sound of a single shot.
“Somebody,” said the man in the doorway, “thought that we were fooling.”
“Apparently you aren’t,” Burns told him.
“If you think we are,” replied the voice, “just turn around and try me.”
Burns spun on his heels, knees folding beneath him so that he slid toward the floor, hands going for his guns. A bullet chunked in the wood above his head and the sound of the bandit’s coughing gun crashed through the stillness of the bar.