"There'll be a hundred more by week's end," Frank opined. "We're going to have our hands full."
The sign on the side of the gaily painted wagon read:
DR. RUFUS J. MARTIN
DENTIST EXTRAORDINAIRE
"What the hell does 'extraordinaire' mean?" Jerry asked.
"Extra special, I suppose, would be one definition."
"What's so special about gettin' a tooth pulled?"
Frank did not reply to the question. His gaze was on a man riding slowly up the street. His duster was caked with trail dirt, and his horse plodded wearily. Rider and horse had come a long way.
Jerry had followed Frank's eyes. "You know that man, Frank?"
"Yes. That's Robert Mallory. Big Bob. From out of the Cherokee Strip."
"I've heard of him. He's a bad one, isn't he?"
"One of the worst. He's an ambusher, a paid assassin. He's probably got three dozen kills on his tally sheet ... at least. From California to Missouri. Most of them back-shot. He rides into an area, someone is found dead, he rides out."
"He's never been charged?"
"No proof that he ever did anything. Dead men don't talk, Jerry."
"But I've heard he's a gunfighter."
"He is. He's quick as a snake if you push him. Big Bob is no coward. Believe that. But he'd rather shoot his victim in the back."
"Frank, no one just rides into this town by accident. It's too far off the path."
"I know."
"You think he's after Mrs. Browning?"
"Only God, Big Bob, and the man who is paying him knows the answer to that. But you can bet your best pair of boots he's after somebody."
"Let's see where he lands for the night."
"The best hotel in town -- that's where. Bob goes first-class all the way. That's his style."
"Frank ... he might be after you."
"That thought crossed my mind."
"You two know each other?"
"Oh, yes. For many years. And he dislikes me as much as I do him."
"Why?"
"The dislike?"
"Yes."
"We're opposites, Jerry. He'll kill anyone for money. Man, woman, or child. And has. He doesn't have a conscience. There isn't the thinnest thread of morality in the man. And he doesn't just kill with a bullet. He'll throw a victim down a deep well and stand and listen to them scream for help until they drown. He'll set fire to a house and burn his victims to death. He'll do anything for money."
"Sounds like a real charmin' fellow."
"Oh, he is. He swore to someday kill me. Swore that years ago."
"Why?"
"I whipped him in a fight. With my fists. Beat him bloody after he set a little dog on fire one night up in Wyoming. He still carries the scars of that fight on his face, and will until the day he dies. And I hope I'm the person responsible for putting him in the grave."
"Why did he do that? That's sick, Frank. Decent people wouldn't even think of doing that."
"Because he wanted to do it -- that's why. He's filth, and that's all he'll ever be. Besides, I like dogs. If I ever settle down somewhere I'll have a dozen mutts."
"I've had a couple of dogs over the years. Last one died about five years ago. You know, it's funny, but I still miss that silly animal."
"I know the feeling. What was his name?"
Jerry laughed. "Digger. That was the durnedest dog for diggin' holes I ever did see." Jerry was silent for a moment. "Let's take a walk over to the hotel and see what name Mallory registers under," he suggested.
"His own. He always does. He's an arrogant bastard. He knows there are no dodgers out on him. He likes to throw his name up into the face of the law."
"If he isn't after you, Frank, I'm surprised he came here, knowing you're the marshal."
"I doubt if he knows."
A man came running up. "Trouble about to happen at the Red Horse, Marshal," he panted. "Gun trouble."
"Go home," Frank told him. "We'll handle it."
"I'm gone. I don't like to be around no shootin'."
The man hurried away.
"Let's go earn our pay, Jerry," Frank said.
No sooner had the words left his mouth than a single shot rang out from the direction of the Red Horse Saloon.
"Damn!" Jerry said, and both men took off running.
--------
*Twelve*
Frank and Jerry pushed open the batwings and stepped into the smoke-filled saloon. A man lay dead on the dirty floor. Another man stood at the end of the bar, a pistol in his hand. Frank noted that the six-gun was not cocked. The crowded saloon was silent. The piano player had stopped his playing, and the soiled doves were standing or sitting quietly.
"Put the gun down, mister," Frank ordered.
"You go to hell, Morgan!" the man told him.
"All in due time. Right now, though, I'm ordering you to put that gun away."
"And if I don't?" The man threw the taunting challenge at Frank.
"I'll kill you," Frank said softly.
"Your gun's in leather. I'm holdin' mine in my hand, Morgan."
"You'll still die. Don't be a fool, man. If I don't get you, my deputy will."
Jerry had moved about fifteen feet to Frank's right.
"What caused all this?" Frank asked the shooter.
"He called me a liar, and then threatened to kill me. I don't see I had no choice."
"He's right, Marshal," a customer said. "I heard and seen it all."
"All right," Frank replied. "If it was self-defense, you've got no problem. Why are you looking for trouble with me?"
"'Cause you ain't takin' me to jail -- that's why."
"I didn't say anything about jail, partner. I just asked you to put your gun away."
"You ain't gonna try to haul me off to jail?"
"No. Not if you shot in self-defense. Now put that pistol back in your holster."
"All right, Marshal," the shooter said. "I'm doin' it real easy like."
The man slipped his pistol back into leather and leaned against the bar. Frank walked over to the dead man on the floor and knelt down. The dead man's gun was about a foot from the body, and it was cocked. Obviously he had cleared leather when he was hit. Frank stood up. "I need some names."
"My name's Ed Clancy," the shooter said. "I don't know the name of the guy who was trouble-huntin'."
"Anybody know who he is?" Frank asked. "Or where he's from?"
No one did.
"Get the undertaker. Jerry," Frank said.
Jerry left the saloon, and Frank walked over to the shooter by the bar. "Where are you from, Ed?"
"Colorado. I come down here to look for gold."
"Gold?"
"Yeah. But there ain't none. Not enough of it to mess with, anyways."
The bartender was standing close by, and Frank ordered coffee. "You have a permanent address, Ed?"
"Not no more. You want me to stick around town for a day or so?"
"If you don't mind."
"I'll stay. I don't mind. Reason I got my back up was I figured you was gonna kill me, Morgan. I'm sorry I crowded you."
"That's all right, Ed. I understand. Where are you staying in town?"
"Over at Mrs. Miller's boardin' house."