“Oh, uh, yes, ma’am,” he said. He took the paper over to her. “That’ll be two cents, ma’am,” he said.
“Pay him, would you, please, Mr. Dancer?”
The boy had been so mesmerized by the small woman that he hadn’t even noticed the other person at her table until the man dropped two pennies in his hand. That was when he saw that the man had a terribly scarred face. But it wasn’t the disfiguring scar that caused the boy to stare. It was the fact that the boy knew who he was, and that he was standing so close to a famous gunfighter.
“You’re…you’re Ethan Dancer, ain’t you?” the boy asked.
Dancer didn’t answer.
“You’re Ethan Dancer. I know you are, ’cause I’ve read about you in the penny dreadfuls. You’re a real famous gunfighter. What are you doin’ in Cheyenne? Are you going to kill somebody?”
“Yes.”
“You are? Who?” the boy asked excitedly.
“You if you don’t leave,” Dancer said with a growl.
The boy’s eyes grew large and he turned and ran from the café, followed by Dancer’s laughter.
“Ethan, shame on you,” the woman said, though she allowed a smile to play across her lips.
With the boy gone, the woman and her dining companion returned to their breakfast.
Although very small, Bailey McPherson was well-proportioned for her height, and at first glance one might have compared her to a Dresden doll. But upon closer examination there was something awry about her, like an imperfection in fine crystal. One could see a disquieting edge, a hardness to the set of her mouth, and a malevolent glint in her eyes.
Individually, Bailey and Dancer drew stares. Together, they were often the subject of intense scrutiny, what with her small stature and his disfigured countenance.
“He gives me the creeps just to look at him,” one of Bailey’s acquaintances had told her.
What that person didn’t realize was that it was exactly why she’d hired him. Because of her diminutive size, Bailey had the idea that she wasn’t always taken seriously. Having Ethan Dancer as her personal bodyguard did ensure a degree of respect.
Dancer continued eating his breakfast, while Bailey read the newspaper she’d bought from the boy.
NO LEADS ON MISSING WOMAN
The fate of Miss Pamela Dorchester, daughter of a prominent Green River rancher, is still unknown. The porter on the Chicago Limited reported making her bed for her at approximately ten o’clock on the night of the 7th Instant, and then provided her with a ladder to enable her to go to bed. The next morning, when all the other berths were made and hers was still closed, he looked inside and discovered she was missing. A subsequent search of the train was conducted, but to no avail.
“We’ve done all we can do,” Mr. Perkins, the local ticket agent, told this newspaper. “All the stations along the line have been notified and we are asking that anyone who has any information on Miss Dorchester’s whereabouts to please contact my office.”
“They are carrying a story in the paper about the disappearance of Pamela Dorchester,” Bailey said. “That should certainly get her father’s attention.”
“Yes,” Dancer answered as he spread jam on his biscuit.
“Wait here. I’m going to check and see if the train is on time,” Bailey said, setting her newspaper aside.
“Are you going to eat your biscuit?” Dancer asked.
“No, you can have it.”
Leaving the café, Bailey saw the sheriff standing in the waiting room, just beyond the door of the café.
“Good morning, Sheriff,” Bailey said.
“Ma’am,” the sheriff said, touching the brim of his hat. He nodded toward the dining room. “Would that be Ethan Dancer you’re sittin’ with?”
“It would be. Is there a problem?”
The sheriff pulled out a telegram. “I just got a telegram here, sayin’ that he shot and killed two men back in Bitter Creek.”
“When was that supposed to have happened?”
“According to what they say in the telegram, it happened two days ago.”
Bailey shook her head. “No, that’s impossible. We were on the train two days ago.”
“Did that train stop for repairs in Bitter Creek?”
“Oh,” Bailey gasped, putting her hand to her lips. “Oh, yes. Yes, it did, but he couldn’t have—”
“Did he get off the train?”
“Yes, but only for a little while. He couldn’t have been gone more than half an hour.”
“That’s all the time it took, ma’am. And it happened while the train was stopped for repairs.”
“Oh, my. What happened?”
“Accordin’ to the telegram, the two men drew on him. They’re sayin’ it was a fair fight.”
“It was a fair fight?”
“That’s what they’re saying.”
“I see. Do you intend to arrest him?”
“That is my intention, yes, ma’am,” the sheriff answered.
“Why?”
“I told you, ma’am, he killed two men yesterday.”
“But you also said the other men drew first, did you not?”
The sheriff nodded. “That’s what the witnesses are all sayin’.”
“If that is the case, wouldn’t it be classified as justifiable homicide?”
“Justifiable homicide?”
“Self-defense,” Bailey explained.
“Yes, ma’am, I reckon a body could call it self-defense. But that’s not for me to decide. It is up to a judge and prosecutor to decide whether or not they want to charge him and bring him to trial.”
“You and I both know that when they hear the witnesses’ testimony, they are going to rule it was self-defense,” Bailey said. “So, there’s really no need to arrest him, is there? Couldn’t you just parole him to my care? I promise to be responsible for him.”
The sheriff chuckled. “You promise to be responsible for him?” he asked. “Excuse me, ma’am, but you must know how strange it sounds that you, a…woman”—though he didn’t say small woman, he implied it by the break in his words—“could be responsible for Ethan Dancer?”
“Sheriff, you have to understand that Mr. Dancer does what I tell him to do. Exactly what I tell him to do,” she added pointedly.
The sheriff stroked his jaw for a moment. He obviously didn’t want to face Dancer. Finally, he nodded.
“What is your name?”
“My name is Bailey McPherson. I’m sure that even the most rudimentary check as to who I am would satisfy you that I can do what I say.”
“And you want me to parole him to you?”
Bailey smiled up at him. “I do.”
“You’ll make certain he is present for the trial?”
“If a trial is necessary, I will make certain that he is present,” Bailey promised. “But for now, I have business that I must attend to in Green River. And I shall require Mr. Dancer to accompany me.”
“If you don’t mind my askin’, what would he be accompanyin’ you for?”
“If you must know, he is my bodyguard. I frequently carry large sums of money, and I feel safe when he is with me.”
“Yes, ma’am, well, I reckon I can see that all right. Is there a way to get hold of you, Miss McPherson? I mean, if I need you for anything.”
“Yes. You can always send a telegram to Bailey McPherson Enterprises, Green River. The telegrapher will get the message to me.”
“All right, I’ll parole him to you,” the sheriff said, clearly pleased that he would not have to attempt to arrest Dancer.
“You’ve made a good decision, Sheriff,” Bailey said.
Leaving him, Bailey walked up to the ticket counter to check on the train. She could barely see over the counter.
“Excuse me,” she said.
The ticket clerk turned around. For a moment he was confused as to where the voice had come from.
“I’m down here,” Bailey said.