The Six Gun Solution

Prologue

It was said that the town of Tombstone in the Arizona Territory was hell on Earth and Scott Neilson believed it. It was certainly hot enough. He would have welcomed air conditioning, but such conveniences did not exist in 1881. He would have felt more comfortable in a pair of khaki slacks, boat shoes and a polo shirt. but such attire would have made him a decided oddity in the Oriental Saloon.

All around him. men were dressed in high-heeled boots and jeans and long-sleeved, loose cotton shirts in solid colors and prints. Some wore leather or cloth vests. Some even wore overcoats or trail dusters. Most wore kerchiefs and high crowned Stetsons, while others wore black bowlers. The men in bowlers were more elegantly dressed. in long, black frock coats and pinstripe, stovepipe trousers, white shirts and silk cravats with stickpins, silk vests with gold watch chains dangling from them. Many of them also carried walking sticks. And beneath that, they wore union suits. They had to be sweating like pigs, thought Neilson. He knew he was. None of them openly wore guns.. though Neilson knew there were bound to be some Remington derringers and the occasional six-gun concealed here and there

The law in Tombstone was clear on the subject of firearms. Only officers of the law or men with special permits issued by those officers were allowed to carry guns. On entering Tombstone, one was supposed to check his guns at one of the corrals or leave them in a hotel. The practice of going armed on the streets of Tombstone was definitely frowned on and could result in arrest and a fine of twenty-five dollars. Nevertheless, many people disregarded the law and wore concealed weapons beneath their coats, often tucked into their belts or waistbands. Tombstone, it was said, had a man for breakfast every morning, which was a wry way of saying that there was at least one killing every night.

The town did not exist when prospector Ed Schieffelin arrived in 1877, looking to make a strike. Thirty years old and a seasoned miner, Schieffelin was a wild-looking character with long, dark red hair and a matted beard, his clothing patched with animal skin. The country he had come to prospect was desolate and ruled by the Apaches. After he arrived at the Army post at Camp Huachuca, he did some prospecting in the area and then accompanied an Army detachment as a scout through the Sonoita Valley and the Patagonia Mountains, near the Mexican border, then back along the San Pedro River. Upon returning, he announced his intention to go back and do some prospecting in the area. He had taken a fancy to the hills he saw along the San Pedro.

— All you’ll find out there is your tombstone,” he was told. “The Apaches will see to that.”

Nevertheless, Schieffelin went and made a silver strike that was the richest in the territory. Remembering the warning he’d been given, he showed his sense of humor by naming his claims Tombstone and Graveyard. News of the strike soon had settlers flocking to the area and the town that grew up on Goose Hats also came to bear the name of Tombstone, as did the hills around it. It soon became the largest mining boomtown in the country, rivaled only by Colorado’s Leadville, nestled in a Rocky Mountain valley at an elevation of ten thousand feet. At least it was cool up there, Neilson thought, wistfully.

He had arrived in Tombstone early that afternoon and checked into the Grand Hotel. He had come in by stage from Benson, which was as far as the Southern Pacific railroad went. However, he had not arrived in Benson on the train. He had used a considerably more advanced form of transportation and he had come a long, long way. Over eight hundred years, in fact. He had made the trip in the blink of an eye, using his warp disc, which he wore camouflaged as a heavy silver Indian bracelet on his left wrist. The large, blue-green turquoise stone was actually a cleverly hinged cover, hiding the chronocircuitry controls.

Sergeant Scott Neilson was a temporal agent, a soldier in the First Division of the United States Army Temporal Corps, an elite commando unit tasked to adjust temporal disruptions. With the advent of the Temporal Crisis, the First Division had been merged with the Temporal Intelligence Agency under the directorship of Brigadier General Moses Forrester, commander of the First Division. Neilson had come to Tombstone to investigate a situation involving Observer Outpost G-6898. The three Temporal Observers assigned to this sector had failed to make their last two scheduled reports.

Given the hazardous nature of their duty, any of a number of things could have happened to them. The Arizona Territory could be highly dangerous. If something had happened to them as a result of the normal dangers of this time sector, Neilson’s job was to ascertain precisely what it was and arrange for their replacement. But if something had happened to them that was not a result of the normal hazards of this period, it could mean serious trouble. It could mean an infiltration by soldiers of the Special Operations Group, the undercover commando strike force from the parallel universe. And Tombstone could become another battlefield in the Time Wars.

Neilson had been selected for this assignment for a number of reasons. One was that he had already proven himself on a significant temporal adjustment mission in 19th-century London, when the insane, crosstime terrorist named Nikolai Drakov had brought about a temporal disruption by using his genetic engineering skills to release a plague of vampires and werewolves upon the unsuspecting city. That mission had been one of the most complex and dangerous assignments the T.I.A. had ever faced and Drakov was their most dangerous antagonist. Half of the adjustment team in that assignment had been killed. Neilson had been one of the survivors, which had netted him both a promotion and a decoration. Another reason he was chosen was that his file showed him to be a student of the frontier era, as well as a collector of antique firearms and an expert in their use.

He had grown up in Tucson, Arizona, though the Tucson of the 27th century was a far cry from the town of Tombstone in the 1800. In his own time, Tucson was a sprawling, multi leveled metropolis with skyscrapers over a hundred stories tall. Yet even so, many of its residents still clung fondly to the tradition of its Wild West beginnings and even in the 27th century, some of them still wore western boots and Stetsons. Neilson’s father had been a university history professor whose hobby was studying the Old West. Over the years, at considerable expense and time involving extensive computer searches of collector lists and estate auctions, he had accumulated a collection of antique western firearms that was worth a fortune. It included old black powder pistols such as Patterson. Walker and Navy Colts, Remingtons and Colt Single Action Armys, Winchester carbines and shotguns and Sharps buffalo rifles. Most of these weapons were in poor condition and would have been dangerous to fire. Shooting them would also have diminished their collector value, However, Scott’s father had also obtained a number of late-20th-century reproductions and he had a number of them duplicated by skilled Japanese artisans so that they were identical to the authentic western guns down to the last detail. And those could be safely fired.

Ammunition for them was, of course, no longer available and had to be made from scratch. It had been necessary to make the brass cases and melt the lead to be poured into antique bullet molds. Lead projectile weapons had not been in general use for several hundred years and the smokeless powder for them that had been used in the 20th and 2Ist centuries was no longer commercially available. It had been necessary to duplicate the old black powder of the frontier era, but this was more easily accomplished and had appealed to Scott’s purist father. The most difficult thing about the process had been manufacturing the primers, but Scott’s father had been determined to pursue authenticity at all costs.

The result was that, as a child! Scott had learned to shoot just like the gunfighters of the Old West had and, since the weapons were hopelessly outdated reproductions, they had not required special permits to own His natural hand-eye coordination was excellent to begin with and by the time he was in his late teens. Scott had become an astonishingly proficient marksman. He had picked up an interest in the Old West from his father at a very early age and, in addition to becoming an expert in its history, incessant practice in trick shooting had given him an almost supernatural level of skill. His fast draw had been clocked at 25/100 of a second and he had mastered the technique of “point shooting-(firing from the hip without using the sights) to such a degree that he could split cards edgeways at ten paces. It had pleased his father, and Scott had gotten a great deal of enjoyment out of it. However, he had always believed it was a completely useless skill… until he enlisted in the Temporal Corps.

Now, at the age of twenty-five. Neilson’s skill had already saved his life and the lives of fellow agents on several occasions during missions to the past. Life as a temporal agent was hazardous in the extreme and the mortality rate was very high. but for Neilson, as for most other temporal agents, the adventure was well worth the risk. It was a chance to literally see history in the making. And, at the same time, to preserve it from disruption. Added to that, one of Neilson’s great joys on becoming a temporal agent was the opportunity to augment his collection.

It was, of course, illegal to bring anything back from the past. but General Forrester had a tendency to wink at the practice and look the other way. Forrester, himself, possessed perhaps the most priceless collection of artifacts in the entire world, many of them presented to him by the people under his command as they returned from missions to the past. It was considered a singular honor to obtain something worthy of being included in the Old Man’s collection, which he kept housed in a room behind a hidden panel in his quarters at TAC-HQ. Among his prized collection were the sword of El Cid, a. 45 Colt semiautomatic that had once belonged to General Patton, the mask of Zorro, the helm of Genghis Khan, and the original manuscript of 20.000 Leagues Under the Sea-the actual original, not the one which the author had painstakingly copied by hand and submitted to the publisher. This one, unknown to history, had been specially inscribed by the author himself-“To my very dear friend, Moses Forrester. who allowed me to glimpse the wonders of the future. With undying gratitude. Jules Verne.”

Scott Neilson’s own collection was nothing compared to that. He had inherited the collection of his father, which he kept stored in a vault, yet he delighted in adding to it at a cost to him that was a mere fraction of what his father had paid for the pieces he acquired. And the weapons Scott obtained in Minus Time were in spanking new condition.

The first thing he had done on his arrival in Benson was to outfit himself with a brand-new Colt Single Action Army in. 45 caliber, nickel-plated, with a four-and-three-quarter-inch barrel and gutta-percha grips. He paid a total of thirty dollars. In his own time, even in condition that was less than pristine, the pistol would be worth several thousand times that sum, even after it had been fired. Unfired, it would have been nearly priceless. However, on this assignment, Neilson knew that he could easily find himself in a situation where he would have to fire the piece, so he had purchased several boxes of cartridges and gone outside the town limits, to fire his new weapon and see how close the bullets struck to point of aim. The pistol’s sights were fixed and not adjustable, meaning that there was only a front sight blade on the end of the barrel and a groove along the top, but it shot close enough to point of aim to satisfy him. Within twenty-five rounds, he was capable of hip-shooting it with unerring accuracy.

He had also purchased a Winchester carbine and a floral-carved holster for his Colt, made by the Lawrence Company, along with a money belt that was looped for cartridges. Other supplies, such as a horse and saddle, he could either purchase or rent in Tombstone. He had arrived already suitably attired for the time period in black, pinstripe trousers; high-heeled boots: a dark green calico shirt, a black cloth vest with a silk back; a black frock coat and a black, flat- crowned Stetson. His light blond hair was long, down to his shoulders, and he was clean-shaven, largely because he’d never been able to grow a decent beard or moustache. With the antiagathic drugs used in the 27th century, he would retain his youthful appearance long past the normal human lifespan and in this time period, at the age of twenty-five, he looked no more than seventeen.

It was common practice for temporal agents to go unshaven and not to get their hair cut unless it was demanded by a mission, in case long hair or a beard proved a requirement for an assignment in the past. If necessary, wigs could be woven into their own hair, and beards cosmetically applied in such a manner that they could only be removed with special solvents. However, such procedures were uncomfortable and. if possible, agents liked to rely on their own hair. This unofficially sanctioned practice was initially frowned upon by many senior officers in the regular Corps. Shaggy hair and stubble looked decidedly unmilitary in the 27th century, but Forester had made it clear that any officer harassing the people under his command would have to contend with him, personally. That quickly brought an end to questions regarding hirsute temporal agents.

Before he left the 27th century, Neilson had gone in for mission programming, which entailed a computer download via the biochip implanted in his cerebral cortex. The program data was designed to give him all the knowledge he would need to function in this time sector, but for Neilson, most of it was redundant. This time sector, in particular, had long held a fascination for him. One of the most famous incidents in the history of the frontier would soon occur right here in Tombstone. And events which would lead up to it had already begun by the time Neilson arrived.

His assignment would probably be brief. He figured it would take a day or two, perhaps a week, at most, if he could not immediately locate the Observers or ascertain what happened to them. At any rate, he would no longer be in Tombstone by the time October 26th rolled around, which was a bitter disappointment to him. He would not have the opportunity to witness the gunfight at the O.K. Corral. However, while he was in Tombstone, there was a good chance that he would see some of the participants and the thought filled him with an almost childish excitement.

He had a job to do and he could not afford to waste any time in doing it, but he fervently hoped that he’d be able to go back to the 27th century and tell his friends that he shook hands with Wyatt Earp.

The Oriental Saloon was a place that Wyatt harp was known to frequent. He had a financial interest in the saloon and did a lot of gambling here. As Neilson walked in through the doors, he could barely restrain a gleeful grin. It was all just as he’d imagined it would be. A raucous place, with a high ceiling and an ornate, mirrored bar valued at over one hundred thousand dollars. There were, of course, no stools in front of the bar. One stood. There were tables to sit down at and, at many of these, men were playing cards. The room was filled with smoke and the smells of sweat and kerosene. An upright piano was being played in on corner. He looked around the room and received not a few curious glances in return. He walked over to the bar.

The bartender, in a white shirt, vest, and bow tie, with short, neatly combed dark hair. a handlebar moustache and large, striking eyes, came over and wiped down the bar in front of him.

“Howdy, stranger.” he said. “What’ll it be?”

Neilson immediately recognized him from old photographs he’d seen in countless books on western history. It was none other than Buckskin Frank Leslie, the famous scout and buffalo hunter, a man who often entertained himself by shooting flies off the ceiling and the occasional cigar out of someone’s mouth. A good friend of Wyatt Earp’s.

“Whiskey.” Neilson said.

“Comin, right up.” Leslie replied, setting a glass in front of him. “New in town?” he asked, as he poured.

“Yep.” said Neilson, paying for his drink.

Leslie was sizing him up. “Where you hail from, son?”

“Montana.” he replied, taking a drink. He knew that a lot of these characters had drifted all over the west, from Dodge City to San Francisco, but the Montana Territory was still fairly Wild and sparsely populated. There wasn’t much happening in Montana yet except for cattle ranching and farming in the western part of the territory, along the Bitterroot. And Indian trouble. Especially Indian trouble.

“Is that right?” said Leslie, with some surprise. “Montana Territory, eh? Where ole George Custer met his Maker?”

“Yep.”

“Ever meet ’im?”

“Nope. Heard all about him. though.”

He was one hell of a man.” said Leslie.

One hell of a stupid man, if you ask me.” said Neilson.

Leslie raised his eyebrows. “How old are you, son”

“Old enough.” said Neilson.

Leslie grinned as he wiped out a glass, amused by the arrogance of youth. “What brings you to Tombstone?”

Neilson shrugged. “Heard some bends of mine might be here. prospectin’.”

“That right? What are their names? Could be I know ’em.”

“Ben Summers, Josh Billings and Joe McEnery.”

Leslie’s grin faded. “Hell. I know ’em, all right Or knew ’em. I should say I’m right sorry to tell you, son, they’re dead All three of ’em.”

Neilson put down his glass and stared at him. It was what he’d feared. Only how did they die?

Before he could ask Leslie, shouting broke out behind him and he heard a chair crash to the floor.

“ You goddamn. cheatin’ tinhorn, son of a bitch!”

Neilson turned around. Out of the corner of his eye. he saw Leslie’s hand go down below the bar.

“Step aside, son.” Leslie said, softly, his eyes on the table where the altercation was taking place.

There were five men scaled at the table. One of them, a cowboy, had jumped up. sending his chair crashing to the floor. He had pulled a six-gun from beneath his coat and cocked it. The others were still sitting at the table, staring at him nervously. All except one man, who sat very still with his hands flat on the table.

He had his back to Neilson, but he was dressed like a gambler, in a dark, dandy’s suit. The cowboy with his gun out was standing at a right angle to Neilson, his left side toward him, about a dozen feet away. Neilson quietly stepped aside, knowing that Leslie had a gun beneath the bar. The entire room became suddenly, completely silent,

“Come on now, take it easy. Slim.” said one of the other men at the table.

That damn deck’s marked!” the cowboy named Slim furiously accused the man with his back to Neilson.

“I can assure you, sir, that it is not.” the gambler replied, in a calm and steady voice. “You are welcome to examine it. Any man here is welcome to examine it. I won that hand fair and square.”

“You lyin’ bastard, you did not! You pulled some cheap, tinhorn trick!”

Men were quickly edging away from the vicinity of the table. Leslie waited until his field of fire was clear, then pulled a sawed-off shotgun from beneath the bar.

“Put up that pistol, friend, right now.” said Leslie.

Neilson suddenly heard the ominous sound of a revolver being cocked.

“I don’t believe he will, barkeep.” another cowboy at the far end of the bar said. He had a gun aimed right at Leslie. “Now you put down that scattergun. Just rest it on the bar there, nice and easy, and step away.”

Leslie hesitated for a second. “You don’t want to do this, friend.”

“You shut your damn mouth and do as I said!”

Leslie complied.

Slim turned toward the bar, moving so that he could clearly see both the gambler and Leslie. “You tell him. Jack! We’ll show these cheatin’ sons of bitches! That pot is mine by rights!”

Nobody moved.

“You, boy.” said the man named Jack, talking to Neilson. He came around the end of the bar slowly. He aimed his gun at Neilson.

“Leave him out of this.” said Leslie.

“I said, shut your damn mouth! Boy, take that scattergun and slide it down the bar to me, real careful like.”

“Everybody just stay right where you are.” said Slim, “and keep your hands where I can see ’em.”

“Be smart, cowboy.” said the gambler, sitting perfectly still. You shoot anyone in here and you’ll never make it out of town.”

“Yeah? Well, you won’t be around to find out, one way or the other.

Neilson hadn’t moved. The situation was getting ugly and he didn’t want to chance being shot by a stray bullet. His mission was too important. Not to mention his life. If he slid that shotgun down the bar, Jack would have a better weapon with which to cover their escape after Slim had shot the gambler. And God only knew who else.

“ You, boy!” shouted Jack. “You tired of livin’? I said, slide that scatter gun down here!”

“Leave him alone.” said Leslie. “He’s just a kid.”

“You opened your damn mouth once too often!” Jack responded, moving his gun to fire at Leslie. And in that moment, Neilson moved.

His hand snaked down inside his coat as he drew and cocked the pistol in one smooth motion and fired at Jack, hitting him in the chest. Without pausing, he recocked the Colt as it rolled with the recoil, brought his arm around and fired at Slim, dropping him before Jack even hit the floor. It happened so fast that no one had a chance to react.

There was a moment’s stunned silence, then somebody exclaimed. “Jesus. Mary and Joseph! Did you see that?”

By God. I ain’t never seen anyone that fast!” The saloon erupted into activity as Neilson stood there. Still holding his smoking gun. Great, he thought. Now what do I do?

“Right through the heart!” said someone, bending over Slim. “Dead center!”

“I’ll be hog-tied!” said someone else. examining Jack’s body. “This one, too!”

“Hold it right there!” said a steely voice, cutting through the commotion. “Put down that pistol, kid, or I’ll shoot you where you stand!”

Fuck, thought Neilson, unable to see the speaker behind him. Whoever he was, he had the drop on him. He released his grip on the Colt, allowing it to dangle from his index finger in the trigger guard, then slowly brought it down on the bar and raised his hands.

“It’s all right. Virgil.” Leslie said. “The kid’s okay. He just stopped some killin’.”

“Appears to me like he just did some killin’.” said the tall, strapping man with the dark, reddish blond hair and bushy moustache who came around from behind Neilson. He was dressed in a dark suit, with a badge pinned to his vest. Virgil, thought Neilson. He recognized him from photographs he’d seen. It was Virgil Earp, eldest of the three “fighting Earp” brothers.

“It was killin’ that needed to be done,” Leslie replied. “The kid did the right thing.”

“I’ll say, he did.” said the gambler, getting up from the table “The kid just saved my bacon.”

“Is that so?” said Virgil. “What happened?”

Neilson stared as the good-looking gambler with the neatly trimmed black moustache came toward him. “Cowboy over there called me a cheat and threw down on me. The other one got the drop on Frank. And me without my guns.”

Those boys meant business, Virgil.” Leslie added. “I would have been shot dead, if it wasn’t for this here Montana kid.”

“I owe you a debt of gratith. cle,” the gambler said. “I’d like to shake your hand and stand you to a drink. The name’s Bat Masterson.”

Feeling rather numb. Neilson shook his hand.

“What’s your name, Montana kid?” asked Virgil.

“Neilson.” Scott replied instinctively, not thinking to give an alias. “Scott Neilson.”

“I like Montana Kid.” said Masterson, with an easy, charming smile. “Drinks all around, Frank. And a bottle for me and the Kid, here. Virgil, you’ll join us, won’t you?”

Virgil Earp looked Neilson over. “Well, if Frank and Bat vouch it was a necessary shooting, then I guess that’s okay with me. But I’ll need to take your gun. Kid, just the same. Those boys were part of Clanton’s bunch. Mean customers. You’re lucky you came out of it okay.”

“Hell, luck had nothin’ to do with it,” said Leslie, pouring the drinks “You should’ve seen it. Virgil. The Kid’s greased lightnin’ with a gun.”

“You don’t say.” said Virgil.

“Shot ’em both right through the heart, dead center!” said one of the other men around them. “Fastest draw lever seen in all my born days! If you’d a blinked your eye, you would’ve missed it!”

The others in the bar quickly agreed with this assessment.

“Sounds right impressive,” Virgil said.

“Impressive doesn’t do it justice,” responded Leslie.

“Is he really that fast, Frank?” Virgil said, with some surprise, apparently expecting. exaggeration from the others, but not Win Frank Leslie.

“I wouldn’t have a prayer against him, that’s for damn sure.” Leslie said. “And here I thought he was some green kid, fresh off the wagon. Shoot! I’ll bet he could beat Wyatt.”

“Faster than Wyatt?” said Virgil, raising his eyebrows.

“God’s my witness.” Leslie replied. “You put him up against Wild Bill. I’d give you even money and it would be a coin toss.”

“Hell, Frank, I never heard of anyone as fast as Hickok.” Virgil said.

“You’re lookin’ right at him.” Leslie replied, flatly.

“Was he really that fast, Bat’?” Virgil asked.

“Well, to tell you the truth, I didn’t see it.” Masterson replied. “but I heard both shots come so close together. I would have sworn they had been fired from different guns.”

Virgil looked at Neilson with new respect. ‘Where did you learn to shoot like that, Kid?”

Neilson was still slightly overwhelmed. His hesitance and confusion were taken as modest embarrassment. He simply shrugged and said, “Practice.”

The bodies were still lying on the floor. No one made a move to do anything about them. The door swung open and two more men came in. both with pistols drawn. One man was tall and slim, with dark blond hair and blue eyes. He had a flowing handlebar moustache that curled up at the ends and, like Virgil, he was dressed in a black suit. He also wore a badge. The family resemblance was strong and unmistakable. The other man was pale, thin and slightly built, perhaps a hundred and twenty pounds, with sandy hair, sharp features, a moustache and intense. slate-gray, spectral-looking eyes.

“Heard there was some shootin’, Virgil.” And right fancy shooting, from what I hear,” Virgil replied. “It appears that this young gentleman has saved the lives of Frank and Bat. What’s more, they claim he could be even faster than you are. Come on over and say hello to the Montana Kid, just arrived in town. Kid, meet my brother, Wyatt. And the gent with him is Doc Holliday.”

The two men put away their pistols and Scott was speechless as he shook their hands.

“I’m much obliged to you for coming to the aid of my good friends.” said Wyatt.

“Just arrived in town, eh?” Holliday said. He coughed and glanced at the bodies. “Kid, I’ll grant you one thing. You sure do make one hell of an entrance.”

They took a bottle and moved to a table.

Wyatt glanced down at the corpses. “Jack Demming and Slim Carter” he said, with a grunt. “Well, that’s two less rustlers we need to be concerned with. But I’d watch my back from now on if I were you, Kid. The Clanton bunch won’t take too kindly to the service you just performed for this community. You plannin’ on stayin’ in town?”

He was askin’ after some friends of his,” said Frank Leslie. “Summers, Billings and McEnery.”

Wyatt frowned. “You told him?”

“I started to,” said Frank, “and then things got a little hot around here.

“He told me they were dead,” said Scott. “What happened to them?”

“Kin of yours?” asked Wyatt.

“No, just good friends. We, all grew up together.”

“It’s too bad about what happened.” Wyatt said, sympathetically. They were good men, thought highly of around here.

They were murdered out at their claim.”

“Funny thing, though,” Doc said. “I never saw bullet wounds that looked quite like that before. No blood to speak of. Had to be small caliber, one of those little Colt New Line pocket pistols. Whoever shot ’em got up real close. You could see the burn marks on the clothing and even on the wounds.”

“We thought at first it might’ve been the rustlers,” Virgil said. “They’re not above shootin’ down a man that’s got a roll. But I don’t know of any rustlers armed with pocket pistols. They would have used their rifles or their. 45s. A pocket pistol is a gambler’s weapon. Not much use ‘cept at close range. Only there was no sign of them playing cards out there. We thought it could have been some claim jumpers, but then nobody’s been workin’ their claim. It’s a riddle, all right. We get a lot of strangers comin’ through town and, sad to say, those kind of things tend to happen around here. Unless somebody talks, we may never know who killed ’em.’

Scott was thinking about what Doc had said. He’d never seen bullet wounds like that before. Small wounds. Burn marks. No blood to speak of. To Doc and the others, it may have looked like the sort of wounds a small-caliber pocket pistol like the Colt New Line could inflict. To Scott, it sounded ominously like a laser.

“They were decent men,” said Wyatt. “Never gave anybody any trouble. We gave ’em a proper Christian burial.”

“What about their personal effects?” asked Scott.

“Sold ’em off.” said Frank. “There really wasn’t very much. Their rig and horses. saddles. Winchesters and six-guns… most everything got cleaned out by the killers. Don’t think those boys were pullin’ much out of that claim, anyhow. unless they had it stashed. They were right decent enough fellows, but they don’t seem to have worked too hard.”

“Were there any bracelets’?” Scott asked. “Indian bracelets, like the one I’ve got?” He held up his arm and pulled back his sleeve to show them. “They’re not really worth much, but we all had ’em. They’d have sentimental value to me.”

“Come to think of it. I do recall those bracelets.” Leslie said. “I tried to buy one off ’em once, but none of ’em would sell. They said the same thing, that the bracelets had sentimental value. They all got ’em together somewhere.”

“I don’t recall any Indian bracelets among their personal effects.” Virgil said. “Do you. Wyatt?”

“Nope. I don’t believe I do. The killers must’ve stolen ’em, along with any money they had. They have any kin?”

“Yeah,” said Scott. “I’ll have to write to ’em. I’d like to take a look at where it happened, if that’s all right with you.

“Sure thing,” said Virgil. “But I wouldn’t plan on goin’ out there tonight. I’d wait till morning if I was you.”

“I’ll rent a rig and run you out tomorrow: said Masterson.

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

“It’s the least I can do, after you saved my life.”

“What are your plans. Kid” asked Wyatt.

“I don’t know,” said Scott “I’d like to find out what happened to my friends, if I can. Ask around, see what I can learn.”

“We’ve already done that,” Virgil said. “You’re welcome to ask around, so long as all you do is ask. I don’t want any more gunplay in this town. Kid. We’ve got plenty enough as it is.”

“I don’t want any trouble,” Scott replied.

“The way you handle a gun, it’s liable to find you just the same,” said Leslie.

“What did you do up in the Montana ‘Territory, Kid?” asked Virgil.

“My folks were farmers in the Bitterroot.” said Neilson.

“You don’t have the look of a farmer,” Virgil replied.

“It didn’t suit me, so I left.”

“You wear your hair like a plainsman,” said Wyatt. “Do much buffalo hunting?”

Scott knew that Wyatt Earp had been a buffalo hunter in his youth, along with Bat Masterson In fact, much of Masterson’s early reputation stemmed from a harrowing Indian attack known as the Battle of Adobe Walls, where a handful of buffalo hunters had stood off about two hundred Indians with their six-guns and Sharps rifles. His fame from that encounter had led to his becoming a lawman in Dodge.

“I hunted some.” he answered.

“How do you skin a buffalo?” asked Wyatt, softly.

Scott knew what this was all about and he had to handle it just right. Fortunately, he know the answer, but he made a long pause before giving it, staring Wyatt Earp right in the eyes. Wyatt met his gaze steadily.

“You cut up the insides of the legs and down the belly, then around the head,” said Scott. “Then you tie a rope up to the hide and hitch it on a horse. It peels right back. Only that’s work for skinners, not for hunters.”

Masterson nodded.

“So he hunted buffalo.” said Holliday. “Still doesn’t mean he’s not a gunfighter. ‘Specially if he’s as fast as Frank says.”

“Practice your fast draw on the farm, did you?” Wyatt asked, softly. Virgil simply looked on quietly, watching him carefully.

“Like I said. Marshal,” Scott replied, in a steady voice. “I don’t want any trouble. I didn’t start what happened here tonight.”

“Nobody’s sayin’ that you did. Kid,” Masterson said. quickly. “But like Wyatt said, you wear your hair like a plainsman. Only you dress like a gunfighter. And you damn well shoot like one.”

“I hear tell you’re a fair hand with a gun yourself,” said Scott.

“It’s been said.” Masterson replied. “A man’s reputation gets around. Only you see, none of us have ever heard of you before. Someone shoots the way you do. you’d think there’d be some talk. The reason for all the questions is that Wyatt here tends to be the careful type. Virgil. too. It’s their job to keep the law in Tombstone and, as you’ve seen, it can be quite a job.

“Like I said, I don’t want any trouble,” Neilson replied. And you’ve got my gun.”

“We’ve got stores in town that sell ’em,” Wyatt said. “there’s no law keeps you from buyin’ another one. Just don’t let me catch you wearin’ it in town.”

“What about Mr. Holliday’?” asked Scott. “I don’t see a badge on him.”

“Doc’s got special permission.” Wyatt said.

“I see.” said Scott. “So the idea here is the law-abiding citizen is disarmed, but the outlaw carries a gun, is that it? You’d think it should be the other way around

“The outlaw is not permitted to carry a gun. either,” Wyatt said.

“Yeah, but if he’s an outlaw, he’ll do it anyway, won’t he’?”

“Only if I don’t catch him at it,” Wyatt replied, severely.

“Tell me something, Marshal,” Scott said. “do you generally catch him before or after he shoots somebody?”

“Before, if I can manage it,” said Wyatt. giving Scott a hard stare.

“And if you can’t manage it. I guess that’s hard luck for the fellow he just shot.” They were pushing him a bit to see how he would handle it. If he didn’t push back slightly, they’d be suspicious, but he had to be careful not to push back too hard

“If you don’t care for the law in Tombstone. Kid, you’re free to move on,” said Virgil, in a neutral tone.

“Oh, now that I’ve been informed of the law. Mr. Earp, I’ll abide by it,” said Scott. “But I guess it’s a lucky thing for your two friends that I wasn’t informed of it before.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “Meet you right here in the morning, Mr. Masterson?”

“Right here’s fine with me. About eight o’clock suit you’.”

“Eight o’clock suits me fine.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Gentlemen…”

They watched him as he left.

“He asked a bunch of questions,” Wyatt said, “but he didn’t answer many. The Montana Kid, eh? I’ve never heard of him before.”

“Oh, well, that was just a little joke of mine,” said Masterson, with a smile. “Frank called him ‘this here Montana kid’ and I just sort of stuck it on him. His real name’s Scott Nelson.”

“Neilson. I think he said,” said Virgil.

“Nelson, Neilson, I never heard of either one of ’em, “said Wyatt. “But that kid’s a gunfighter, that’s for certain. Jack and Slim were sure as hell no greenhorns when it came to shootin’. And he got ’em both right through the heart.”

“The Kid also saved my life.” said Masterson_ “And Frank’s. He could have simply stood there and stayed well out of it. He didn’t have to chance it.”

“Only he did chance it,” Wyatt said. “And the result was that he killed two men in a fair fight. By tomorrow, everyone in Tombstone will be talkin’ about the Montana Kid. And by next week, they’ll be sayin’ that he killed three men. And then four. And then half a dozen. Before long, we’ll have a man in town who’s got himself a reputation as a killer.”

“Isn’t that how you got yours, Wyatt?” Masterson said, with’ a smile.

“Maybe, only I’m wearing a badge.

“Perhaps you should pin one on the Kid,” said Masterson.

“A shootist like that would be handy to have on your side. Especially since Ike Clanton’s already got Sheriff Johnny Behan on his.”

“I don’t need any help against the likes of Ike Clanton,” Wyatt said, drawing on his cigar. Unlike the others. he didn’t drink.

“Maybe not now.” Masterson replied, “but Johnny Behan’s had it in for you ever since you took his girl. He’s close to Clanton and so are his deputies. You’ve got a lot of badges in this town, only not all of them seem to be on the same side. That could develop into a sticky situation.”

“You sayin’ the Kid could side with Clanton and his bunch?”

“Oh. I doubt that very much,” Masterson replied. “Not after he dropped two of them.”

Wyatt grunted. “I can’t say I think much of the men you choose to gamble with, Bat

Masterson shrugged slightly. “I didn’t know them you know I haven’t been in Tombstone that long. Wyatt. I had no idea they were part of Clanton’s bunch. And their money was as good as anybody else’s.”

“You take much of it?”

Masterson smiled and, with a deft motion, produced a card from up his sleeve. It was an ace of spades. “What do you think?”