The Six Gun Solution

1

“The Montana Kid, you say?”

The man who was speaking was a striking individual. He was wearing an elegant dark suit with a red brocade vest and an expensive watch and chain. He had a large diamond on his finger, as well as in his stickpin. But it was not his attire that was the most striking thing about him. It was his size and his appearance. He was a large, powerfully built man, incredibly muscular, with arms and a chest that strained the fabric of his clothes. People stared at him with awe when he walked down the street. His thick hair was jet black and curly, giving him a romantic, Byronic aspect, and his handsome features were marred by a knife scar that ran down the side of his face from below his left eye to the corner of his mouth. His voice was deep and resonant and his mouth was cruel, but his eyes were his most striking feature. They were a bright, lambent green, with a gaze so intense it was unsettling.

The pretty young saloon girl standing before him had a hard time meeting his gaze. Not just because of the force of his personality, but because he was her creator.

“It was what the others called him,” she said. “I don’t know what his real name is. If he gave it, I didn’t hear.”

“And you say his speed with a gun was almost superhuman?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it.” she replied. “I’ve seen Wyatt Earp’s draw and even he isn’t that fast. He fired off two shots in a fraction of a second, without even aiming, and he hit both men in the heart.”

“Interesting.” said Nikolai Drakov, with a smile.

“You think he’s one of them? The agents from the future?”

“There was a young man whose path I once crossed in London.” Drakov said. “He was part of the support team working with Delaney, Cross and Steiger. And he was unusually skillful with lead projectile firearms.”

“What was his name?” the girl asked. “What did he look like?”

“We never actually met face to face,” Drakov replied. “But his name was Neilson. Scott Neilson.”

The girl shook her head. “I don’t know.” she said. “He looks very young. Just a boy, perhaps sixteen or seventeen-”

— Appearances could be deceptive if he’s from the future,” Drakov said. “With the antiagathic drugs, he could be anywhere from sixteen or seventeen to twenty-five or thirty. What else can you tell me about him?”

“He has light blond hair. He wears it long, like a plainsman. But he has the look of a gunfighter. Dark suit, vest, green calico shin, black Stetson…”

“How does he wear his gun?”

“In a cross draw holster on his left side.”

“A Colt?”

“Yes, nickel-plated, with a short barrel.”

Good for a fast draw. What about jewelry? Was he wearing any jewelry.? A bracelet of some sort, perhaps?”

“Yes. Yes, he did have a bracelet. I saw it briefly. It was one of those silver Indian bracelets, with a large turquoise stone.”

“Like these?” asked Drakov, opening a drawer in the end table. There were three matching Indian bracelets inside it. He took one out and held it up so she could set it.

“Yes. exactly like that,” she said.

Drakov smiled. “You didn’t hear what he and the others, the Earps and Masterson, spoke about?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. They were all sitting together at a table and I didn’t want to seem as if I was trying to eavesdrop. And it was noisy in the saloon and-”

“That’s all right,” said Drakov. “You’ve done well, Jennifer. I want you to cultivate his acquaintance. It would be perfectly logical for you to do so. You saw what happened, you’re fascinated by him, you want to get to know him. Find out his real name. Find out anything you can. But try not to arouse his suspicion. Be friendly and curious, but not too curious. Don’t push it.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“Yes, I’m sure you will. Did you find out where he was staying?”

“In the Grand Hotel.”

Drakov nodded “Keep an eye on him. I want to know everything he does.” He smiled. “Things are starting to get interesting. The players are almost all assembled.”

He toyed with the Indian bracelet and opened the hinged cover, revealing the chronocircuitry controls of the warp disc.

“We will move slowly, and with great care.” he said. ‘I will not underestimate them this time. It should prove to be an interesting little drama. Imagine, the Network, the S.O.G., the Temporal Underground and the T.I.A., all gathered in one place, at one strategic time. It will be like playing chess against a roomful of opponents, simultaneously. Only they’ll be playing against each other, little realizing that I control the board.”

He snapped shut the cover on the warp disc.

“And so the game begins,” he said, softly.

The one-horse rig Masterson had rented pulled up in front of the cabin in the Tombstone Hills. It looked abandoned. It was a small, primitive adobe structure with a dirt floor, similar to many dwellings in the area. It couldn’t really be called a house. Building lumber had to be hauled in from the Huachucuas and the only local wood was mesquite, of which a quantity had been chopped and piled up outside the cabin. It gave off a pleasant aroma when burned. The Observers had a well dug and there was a makeshift shed about twenty feet away, with a crude corral beside it.

“Well, this is it,” said Masterson, as he reigned in.

Neilson looked at the place. There was something rather sad about it. It would have been cramped quarters for three men, but this was how a lot of people lived in this time, in this part of the country. They came out from the Eastern cities or from farms and ranches in the Midwest, or from cities on the coast like San Francisco, chasing the dream of making a rich strike. A few of them, like Ed Schieffelin, got lucky. Most didn’t. But still, they kept on coming.

This was how it all started. Neilson thought. One man came out to this barren desert territory, populated only by Apaches, scorpions and lizards, struck silver and, as word got out, the boom began. Tombstone grew up on Goose flats, at first nothing but tents and adobe cabins and a few buildings made of lumber that had to be brought in, then saloons and fancy hotels, the railroad coming in to Benson, stage lines connecting the town to nearby points. Arizona was still a Wild territory, its raucous towns peopled by miners and gamblers and cowboys coming through with their herds, “hurrahing” the town with their six-shooters after months on the trail and blowing all their money on cheap whiskey, dance hall girls and at the faro tables. The Wild West as it really was, a brief, colorful period of American history, one that shaped the nation’s character for years to come.

The men that achieved fame in this period seemed bigger than life. They were men like Wild Bill Hickok, with his brace of Navy Colts tucked butt forward into his belt, and Buffalo Bill Cody, the scout and buffalo hunter who would do more than perhaps any other man to give birth to the legend of the frontier with his traveling Wild West Show. Men like Clay Allison, the rowdy gunfighter and rancher who would contribute the word “shootist” to the language and who once, for lack of anything better to do, hurrahed a town by riding through it stark naked. Men like John Wesley Hardin, one of the fastest guns who ever lived, an outlaw who eventually became a lawyer, and Billy the Kid, whom legend was to paint as a misunderstood, romantic young hero but who was, in fact, a mean spirited psychotic. And here in Tombstone were men such as John Henry “Doc” Holliday, the frail, tubercular dentist from Georgia who, as Bat Masterson would write, was “… a weakling who could not have whipped a 15-year-old boy in a go-as-you please fist fight, and no one knew this better than himself, and the knowledge of this fact was perhaps why he was ready to resort to a weapon of some kind whenever he got himself into difficulty.” And his skill with those weapons made him feared throughout the West.

Then there was Masterson himself, the gambler and lawman, who shot his six-guns from a crossed wrist position and had been credited with killing thirty-seven men, and Wyatt Earp and his brothers, who within a few short months would stride into frontier legend in their famous shoot-out with the Clantons. Yet, for all those larger-than-life, colorful figures, the real men who had built the West were men who lived like this, in small shacks and adobe dwellings, scratching a livelihood out of the dirt and aging quickly in the merciless desert sun.

The blow dust got into their lungs, their faces became lined and wrinkled prematurely, their backs worn from constant toil. They were, frequently, men who walked on both sides of the law, ranchers or miners by day, rustlers and stage robbers by night. Even Wyatt Earp was once accused of horse stealing and, in later years, he would be accused of being a stagecoach robber and a murderer, as well. In the Wild West of legend, the good guys wore white hats and the bad guys wore black. In the real Wild West, things were very seldom seen in black or white.

“Not much to look at, is it?” said Masterson, interrupting his thoughts. “A sight different from the kind of country that you’re used to in Montana Territory.

“Yes, it is,” said Neilson. “I was thinking that it seems like a very lonely place to die.”

They got down out of the rig and brushed the dust from their clothes. Masterson had changed into a pair of faded jeans and boots, a pale brown cotton shirt, a red kerchief and a well-worn, sweat-stained, light brown Stetson hat. He wore two six-shooters on his hips, nickel-plated Colt Single Action Army. 45s with four-and-three-quarter-inch barrels and gutta-percha, or hard rubber, grips. He had them made specially for him by the Colt factory in Hartford, Connecticut, with slightly taller front sight blades, a bit thicker than usual, and hair triggers. In the rig, he also had a Winchester carbine.

“Dying’s always lonely.” he said, “no matter where you do it.”

Neilson nodded. “Only it’s the man who’s left alive who thinks about it, not the dead.”

“You’ve been thinking about those two men you killed yesterday,” said Masterson.

Neilson nodded.

“First time?” asked Masterson. “Not that it’s any of my business.”

“No. it wasn’t the first time.” Scott replied. “I’ve killed before. Not because I wanted to, because I had to. But it doesn’t get any easier. I guess you’d know about that, though.”

Masterson nodded, solemnly. “No, it sure doesn’t. But don’t go thinking I’m some sort of expert on the subject. Oh. I know my reputation, and I haven’t done much to disabuse folks of it, but to tell the truth, it’s mostly hogwash. They say I’ve killed thirty-seven men. That’s nonsense. When I’m asked about it, I never say yes and I never say no. I just always say I don’t count Indians or Mexicans. I’ve been a lawman and I’m now a gambler and in occupations such as those, it can be useful to have people think you’re a killer.”

“Doesn’t that also invite trouble, though?” asked Scott.

“Sometimes,” Masterson replied, “but it prevents trouble more often than not. Those penny-dreadful writers back East have got people believing that if you’ve got a reputation as a gunfighter, reckless young blades from miles around come looking for you, anxious to make a reputation for themselves by taking you on. But that’s nothing like the truth. You’ll find that out. Most people would think real long and real hard before tangling with someone who’s known to have killed thirty-seven men. As a result of my so-called deadly reputation, there’ve been times when I’ve simply been able to stare down trouble. Wyatt, too. I’ve seen some pretty tough hombres hack down at just a look from Wyatt because it’s known he’s deadly with a gun. Of course, that doesn’t always work, as you saw yesterday. The truth is, not counting any Indians I might’ve shot at the Battle of Adobe Walls, I’ve only killed one man. That’s why I’ve got this here limp.”

“What happened?” Scott asked.

“His name was Corporal Melvin King, a soldier who liked the wild life and fancied himself a good man with a six-gun. He used to like riding with the cowboys and hurrahing towns and such. It happened in Sweetwater. We both liked the same girl, only she had a preference for me. I was spending some time alone with her in a saloon one night and King heard we were together. He’d had a few drinks and he was fixed for trouble. He busted in on us and jerked his pistol. Molly tried to get between us just as his pistol went off. The bullet went right through her and smashed into my hip. I managed to get my pistol out and shoot King as I fell, but it was no help to Molly. They both died. And me, after I healed up, I had to walk around with a cane for quite a spell. That’s where the story started that I got the name Bat from batting people over the head with it.” He chuckled. “Amazing how these things get around.”

“Where did you get the name Bat?” asked Neilson.

“It’s short for Bartholomew, which is my real name. I never cared for it, so I use William Barclay. I like the sound of it better. But most folks know me as Bat Masterson, just like they’ll probably know you as the Montana Kid from now on. I guess you have me to blame for that.”

Neilson grinned. “I don’t mind. I kind of like it.”

“You may not always feel that way,” said Masterson. “Having a reputation as a gunfighter is a sword that cuts both ways. It gets you plenty of respect, but not the kind you’d like. The way Wyatt reacted was the way any lawman would react on hearing of a gunfighter come to town. You represent a threat. Potential trouble. And it didn’t help any to have Frank say you were faster than Wyatt. That sort of thing puts a man on his guard right away.”

They entered the adobe house and Neilson started looking around. He didn’t expect to find much. Observers were always careful to leave no sign that would indicate they were anything but what their covers made them appear to be. Even if someone hadn’t already torn the place apart, he would have found nothing from the future here. But that wasn’t what he was looking for.

“Well, it’s like I told the marshal,” he said, “I don’t want any trouble.”

“You stay around here, you’ll find it sure enough,” Masterson replied. “By now, the Clantons will have heard about how you gunned down those two. Now, Wyatt. Virgil and Morg know them a sight better than I do, but from what I’ve heard about that bunch, you’d do best to steer clear of them. Ike Clanton I’ve met. He’s not so much. A blowhard, mostly. His brother Billy seems a lot more likable, offhand, but I hear he’s quite good with a six-gun and he’ll back up his brother. Then there’s the McLaurys, Frank and Tom. Both gunmen. And Frank’s said to be dangerous. Billy Claiborne runs with them, but I wouldn’t put him in the same class as Frank and Torn. And then there’s Curly Bill and Johnny Ringo.”

“I’ve heard of them,” said Scott.

“That’s not surprising.” Masterson replied. “Curly Bill Brocius has killed his share of men. And Ringo has a big reputation as a gunfighter. There’s a good number of others, cattle rustlers and stage robbers, not a good apple in the bunch, but of them all. I’d worry about those two the most.”

And you think I have something to worry about?” asked Scott.

“If you stick around, you do.” Masterson replied. “I don’t want to seem ungrateful or unfriendly. Kid, but if I were you, I’d waste little time in moving on. You’re young, yet. Got your whole life ahead of you. You can be anything you want to be. But if you decide you’re going to be a gunfighter, then you’ve closed off a lot of options. You can find some town that needs a good man with a six-gun to wear a badge. A saloonkeeper who’ll cut you in for a small share of the business to hang around and make sure there isn’t any trouble. Or you can hunt bounty. There’s some money to be made from that. But it’s not what I’d call an easy life. Or a very good one. Often, it’s a short life. too.

“Oh, maybe your reputation as a pistolero will make some men back down.” he continued, “but it will also mark you. Instead of trying to face you down, they’ll look to shoot you from behind or get you through a window with a scattergun. And then they’ll be able to brag about how they gunned down the Montana Kid. You’ll be popular with the saloon girls, but most respectable women will keep shy of you. You’d be a bad bet to settle down with You’ll have men respect you and move aside when you walk down the street, but deep down, they won’t like having you, around and no one will be sorry when you leave.”

“What about if you’re a gambler?” Scott asked.

Masterson pulled out a crudely made wooden chair and sat down at the table. “Well, it’s more respectable, for one thing,” he said, as he took out a pack of cards and absently started to shuffle them. “Lots safer, too.”

“Like yesterday, you mean?” asked Scott, with a smile.

Masterson shrugged. “What happened yesterday doesn’t really happen very often. And, in a way, it was my own fault. Slim was cheating. And he wasn’t very good at it. I decided to cheat back a bit, to teach him a lesson. He wasn’t good enough to catch me at it, hut he tumbled to it somehow. I read him wrong. I didn’t figure that he’d pull a gun. That was foolish of me. Yes, there are risks to being a gambler, but the advantage is that you only have to deal with trouble that comes to you. You don’t have to go out looking for it.” He glanced at Scott and smiled. “You play?”

He put the deck down in the center of the table for him to cut. Scott looked at him a moment, then picked it up and cut it twice, one-handed. He shuffled it, quickly shot the deck from one hand to the other, split it, fanned the two equal parts in either hand, put it back together and then started dealing from the top, face down.

“Deuce of hearts.” he said, as he put the first card down. “Deuce of spades. Deuce of clubs. King of clubs. King of diamonds.”

Masterson stared at him, then slowly turned each card over to reveal the full house. He whistled softly.

“Son. I don’t know how you did that, but if you could teach me. I’d be much obliged. That’s my own deck and I know it’s clean.”

“All it takes is practice. Mr. Masterson.” said Scott. He reached out and pulled a silver dollar from Masterson’s ear, then walked it across his fingers, back and forth, snapped them, and the coin was gone. “Lots and lots of practice.”

Masterson shook his head with awe. “There sure is a lot more to you than meets the eye.”

Neilson smiled. “You could say that.”

“You see about all you want to see here?”

“Yeah. I guess I have.” said Scott

They were so small, they could easily have been missed, but he had known what he was looking for. Three tiny holes in the adobe wall. Burned into it by lasers.

The dining room in the Grand Hotel boasted an elegant menu for a town like Tombstone, but Neilson avoided the dubious French cuisine and ordered a thick steak, instead. He had it with a buttered baked potato and some beans and washed it down with a passable claret. He was about halfway through his meal when a soft, feminine yoke behind him said. “You’re the Montana Kid, aren’t you?”

He turned slightly and saw a lovely young girl of about eighteen or nineteen, with long, silky, ash-blonde hair and large, powder-blue eyes. She was wearing a long, light blue calico dress with lace around the collar and high-buttoned shoes. Her creamy complexion was absolutely flawless, she had a small, tuned-up nose, a slightly pointed chin and naturally pouting lips. He thought she was one of the most beautiful girls he’d ever seen.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt your meal,” she said, coming around in front of him, “but I saw what you did yesterday and I thought it was about the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You were there? “ Scott said, with some surprise. He could hardly believe he had missed seeing her.

“I work there.” she said, lowering her eyes slightly. “I… I wasn’t dressed like this. I’m one of the saloon girls. My name is Jennifer. Jennifer Reilly.”

Neilson wiped his mouth and stood up “Pleased to meet you, Miss Reilly. And no. you’re not interrupting me. I’d appreciate the company. Please, sit down.”

He pulled out a chair for her.

“Call me Jenny. What do your friends call you-Montana?”

He grinned. “No, not really. My friends call me Scott. Scott Neilson.”

“It’s nice to meet you. Scott” She watched him as he sat back down. “I see you’re not wearing your gun.”

“No, Virgil Earp took it from me. Said there was an ordinance against carrying guns in Tombstone.”

“That doesn’t seem to stop a lot of people.” she said.

“No, it doesn’t, does it?”

“Aren’t you afraid? To be without your gun, I mean. Those cowboys that you shot have some pretty nasty friends.”

“Like Curly Bill and Johnny Ringo?”

“And Ike Clanton and the McLaury brothers: she said.” I see you’ve already heard of them”

“Yes. Bat Masterson warned me about them”

“And you’re not worried?”

“Well, yes. I confess I am, a little. But the law’s the law, isn’t it? And I’ve only just arrived in town. I don’t want to get on the wrong side of a man like Virgil Earp. His brother, Wyatt, already seems to have taken a dislike to me.”

“Oh, that sounds like Wyatt, all right.” she said. “Wyatt’s very protective of his brothers. And to him, any man who wears a gun and uses it the way you do means trouble. And wait till you meet Morgan.”

“Oh? What’s he like? He a lawman. too?”

“He’s a shotgun guard on the Wells Fargo stage. You’ll know him when you see him. Those three Earp brothers look as alike as peas in a pod, but they’re all really very different. Virgil is the steady one. He’s calm-tempered and looks to avoid trouble if he can. Wyatt’s steady, too. I guess, only in a different way. If there’s trouble, he doesn’t waste too many words. He’ll buffalo you with his six-shooter just as soon as look at you “

To “buffalo” someone, Neilson remembered, meant to get the better of him in some way, usually by force. What Jenny was referring to was Wyatt Earp’s penchant for braining miscreants with the barrel of his gun and knocking them unconscious. In a Wild frontier town like Tombstone, it was nothing more than sensible law enforcement. Why give a man a chance to draw his gun if you can crack his skull first and avoid all the unpleasantness?

“And as for Morgan,” Jenny continued, “he’s real hot tempered and can be quite a handful when he’s been drinking. He hangs around with that Doc Holliday a lot. Wyatt and Doc are close friends too, which seems a little strange. I guess, seeing as they’re so different Wyatt doesn’t drink at all and Doc drinks quite excessively. When him and Morgan have had a few too many, watch out!”

“I’ll try to remember that.” said Scott. “May I offer you some wine?”

“Oh. thank you. no.” She hesitated. “Well, maybe just a smidgen? It goes to my head so.”

Scott smiled and signaled the waiter for another glass.

“Anyway,” Jenny went on. “Morgan? He only gets riled when he’s had a few too many, but that Doc Holliday, he’s got a real short fuse. You wouldn’t think it to look at him, him so frail and sickly and coughing all the time-he’s got consumption, you know-but he’s a real killer. They say he’s one of the deadliest men with a six-shooter in the whole Southwest.”

“Really? You seem to know a lot about the people in this town.”

She blushed and looked down. “You must think I’m an awful gossip.”

“No. I don’t. Just that I’m new in town and it’s useful to hear such things. Might help me stay out of trouble.”

“Seems to me like you’ve already found some. With Slim and Jack, I mean. Not that anybody’s going to miss them overmuch. They were rustlers, you know. Real troublemakers.”

“I gather there’s a lot of rustling going on around here,” Neilson said.

“

Oh, yes. And there’s a lot who don’t mind it. They can get their cattle and their horses cheaper when they’re rustled up from Mexico. Or from one of the bigger spreads around here. People don’t ask a lot of questions when they’re getting a bargain. Course, the big ranchers, they don’t like it one bit, but they don’t have all that much to say about it. The rustlers don’t bother the smaller ranches and they usually get a real welcome there. And they never cause much trouble in town, either. At least they didn’t until lately.”

“Oh? What changed things?”

“Well, there’s a lot of money in this town right now. It’s growing bigger every day. And that’s a lot of bullion going out on the two stage lines. That can be real tempting for some people who don’t have too many scruples.”

Jenny downed her “smidgen” of wine in one quick gulp and held her glass out for more as she spoke. Scott refilled it.

“So you’re saying the town’s attracting a bad element?”

“Oh, there’s no doubt about that! Sheriff Johnny Behan? You run into him yet?”

“No, I can’t say I have.”

“Well, you ask me, he’s one of them. He’s a real handsome man, though his hair’s thin on top, and he goes around like he’s God’s gift to women. He’s good friends with Ike Clanton and his bunch. And his deputy, Billy Breakenridge, he’s not much better. Sadie calls him Billy Blab, because he talks so much and is real full of himself.”

“Sadie?”

— Oh, that’s right. you wouldn’t know her. Actually, her name is Josephine, but her middle name is Sarah so her close friends call her Sadie. She used to be Johnny Behan’s girl, only now she’s with Wyatt and there’s been bad blood between the two men ever since. See, her daddy paid for her to build this house in town when she was engaged to Johnny, only now Johnny’s on the outs with her and she’s with Wyatt, but Johnny owns the lot the house is standing on and one night, he came to, try and dispossess her. Only Morg was there and he knocked Johnny clear off the front porch.”

“Sounds like things keep jumping around here.” Neilson said, with a smile. He refilled Jenny’s glass as she held it out again for another smidgen. “I just might stick around a while.”

“What brings you to Tombstone, Scott? If you don’t mind my asking, that is.”

“No. I don’t mind. I came looking for some friends of mine. Only I found out they’d been killed. Maybe you knew them. Ben Summers. Josh Billings and Joe McEnery?”

“Oh. My, yes!” she said. “They were friends of yours? It was an awful thing, what happened. They were real gentlemen, all three of them, always so nice and so polite. Never pawing at you like a lot of men do. Ben and Josh were always friendly, but Joe was kind of sweet on me. He used to sneak over sometimes to see me, when the others weren’t around. See, they were all supposed to be saving up to buy a ranch together out in Oklahoma and he didn’t want the other two to know that he was spending any of it on me.

“I see,” said Scott. What he hadn’t wanted them to know was that he was going to a hooker. That son of thing was against regulations, though it was known to happen. Observers were only human, after all, and long-tem postings had their hardships.

“You don’t approve of me.” she said.

“No. I wouldn’t say that. A girl has to make a living. I’d say that Joe McEnery had good taste.”

She lowered her eyes demurely. “It’s sweet of you to say that, Scott.”

“Did you see Joe often?”

“Every now and then.”

“Did he ever say anything about anyone in town he might be worried about? Someone he had trouble with, perhaps, or someone new in town who looked suspicious to him?”

“Well, he did ask some questions, once or twice,” she replied. “He seemed curious about that Mr. Drake and a few others.”

“Mr. Drake?”

“Oh, well, he had a room right here in this hotel, but he checked out and left town. Nathan Drake, his name was, a rich man from hack East somewhere. He came out here looking to make some investments, like a lot of people do. He wasn’t interested in silver, I don’t’ think, just property, only he didn’t find anything here that suited him. Then there was that Mr. Stone, from San Francisco. Joe was curious about him, as well. He’s a gambler and you can find him most nights in the

Oriental or the Alhambra He’s new in town, only came in a few weeks ago. And Zeke

Bailey. Joe asked about him, as well. Zeke’s a gunsmith, works for Mr. Spangenberg at his shop over on Fourth Street. He came to town about a month or so ago and old George Spangenberg, he says he’s just a wonder when it comes to tuning guns and fixing them. Zeke makes knives, too. Beautiful things they are. I’ve seen some of them in the shop. He has a little place just outside of town, where he’s got himself a forge and all. Zeke’s kind of quiet and keeps to himself a lot. And there’s a few other people that Joe asked about. To tell the truth. I think Joe distrusted just about everyone he didn’t know. Most folks around here think those three were greenhorns, nice enough, but city boys who didn’t know their business and were slowly going broke out there. Me, I think they made themselves a strike and didn’t talk about it, for fear of someone robbing them. I think they were hiding what they found till they were ready to pull out. Only it looks like someone found out about it anyway and killed them for it. I guess Joe was right to worry.”

The bottle was empty and Scott had only drunk two glasses.

“Oh, look at me!” said Jenny. “My, here I was rattling on so, I went and drank up all that wine and didn’t even notice! Now I’m feeling a bit tipsy. Scott, you naughty boy. I do believe you’re trying to get me drunk and take advantage of me!”

“I’d never take advantage of a lady.” Scott replied.

“Well, aren’t you the proper gentleman. But what must you think of me, talking so and drinking all that wine!”

“I think you must have been thirsty,” Neilson replied, with a smile.

“Now you’re teasing me!”

“Well, maybe a little. But I have enjoyed talking to you, Jenny. You seem to know a lot about what happens in this town. I’d like to try and find out what happened to my friends. You’ve been very helpful. Maybe we could talk some more.”

“You mean, like in private?” she asked, looking at him.

Neilson had been thinking about that. She did seem like a font of valuable information and information was exactly what he needed now. A friend like Jenny could be very helpful. Yet, if he turned her down, he might offend her. Or was he just rationalizing the fact that he was sexually attracted to her? He’d been rendered immune to most diseases, including those that were sexually transmitted, but he wasn’t sum if getting involved with her would be a very smart thing to do. On the other hand, he did need intelligence…

Before he could decide, he heard a loud voice say. “I’m lookin’ for the Montana Kid.”

“Oh. dear.” said Jenny. “It’s Ross Demming.”

“Demming?” Neilson said, looking over his shoulder.

“The brother of one of the men you killed. And the other man with him is Frank McLaury. Don’t say anything. Maybe they won’t know who you are.”

But Demming’s gaze had already settled on him.

“You,” he said. “You’re the one. You’re the polecat who shot my brother.”

The room had become completely silent, save for the sound of chairs scraping as people quickly moved out of the way. Neilson turned away from him and remained seated.

“He’s not wearing a gun. Ross,” Jenny said. “If you shoot an unarmed man, it will be murder.”

“You stay out of this. Jenny. It’s none of your affair. He murdered Jack.”

“It was a fair fight.” Jenny said, was there. I saw it. As anyone in town. Jack jerked his pistol first “

“I said, stay out of it!”

“Frank, you get him out of here before there’s trouble,” Jenny said, speaking to McLaury. “You have more sense. You get him out of here right now.”

“Jack was a friend of mine, Jenny. And Ross has a right to be upset about his brother bein’ shot down by some young gunfighter out to make a reputation for himself.”

“He’s got no right to shoot an unarmed man!”

“The Kid can have one of my guns,” said McLaury, pulling one of his Colts out of its holster. He held it out butt first. “Here, Kid. Take it. It’ll be a fair fight. They say you’re good. Let’s see how good you are.”

Neilson still sat with his back to them. His heart was beating fast and his stomach felt tight.

“I don’t want any trouble,” he said. “I’ve got no quarrel with you, Mr. Demming. Or with you, Mr. McLaury. What I did yesterday. I did because. I had no choice.”

“What makes you think you’ve got a choice right now?” asked Ross.,

“Take the gun, Kid,” said McLaury. “Unless you’re yellow.”

“All right.” said Scott. “I’m yellow.”

“You take that gun,” said Ross. “You stand up and take it, right now, or so help me. I’ll let you have it in the back.”

There was the sound of soft coughing behind Demming and a voice said. “Two can play at that game.”

Demming and McLaury both stood very still.

“This ain’t none of your affair. Holliday.” said Frank McLaury, without turning around.

“I just made it my affair. Wyatt’s on his way and so is Virgil. They heard you just rode into town and forgot to check your guns. Morg just got in on the stage, so I expect he’ll be along, as well. And I don’t think they’ll take too kindly to your actions. Funny thing, though, how the sheriff never seems to be around at times like this. Where do you figure Johnny went?”

“Okay. Holliday.” said Frank McLaury. “You win. This time. Come on. Ross. Let’s go.”

“Before you turn around. Frank, put away that six-gun, nice and easy. I wouldn’t want to chance your pulling a border roll on me. Hear Curly Bill’s right good with it and he’s been teaching you.”

Slowly. McLaury put away his gun and turned around, with his hands held out from his sides.

“Okay? Now if you stand aside, Doc, we’ll be going. Come on, Ross.”

Demming shot a hard look at Neilson. “This isn’t over, Kid. Not by a long shot. You hear me. yellowbelly? It isn’t over!”

“Right now it is,” said Holliday. “Now git!”

The two men went past him and out into the street. Neilson exhaled heavily as Holliday backed over to their table, then holstered his nickel plated Colt.

“Thanks,” said Scott.

“Don’t mention it,” Holliday replied. “Evening Jenny.”

“Doc, was I ever glad to see you!” she said.

Holliday smiled thinly. “Always a pleasure to see you too, honey.” He looked up as Wyatt Earp came in. “Well, howdy, Wyatt. We almost had us some excitement here just now.”

“I know.” said Wyatt, grimly. “Virg and Morg just took Frank and Ross to jail for carryin’ their guns in town. What happened here?”

“They came in looking for the Kid.” said Doc. “I heard Demming threaten to shoot him in the back.”

“He’s right, Wyatt.” Jenny said. “The Kid and I were talking and those two came in. looking for trouble. Ross wanted to kill him. And he would have, if it hadn’t been for Doc.”

Wyatt Earp gave Neilson a hard look. “I knew you were going to be trouble,” he said.

“I was only having dinner, Marshal,” Scott said. “I didn’t do a thing.”

“I want you on the next stage out of town.” said Wyatt.

“I haven’t broken any laws. Mr. Earp. Unless it’s against the law to have men threaten you while you’re eating dinner.”

“Don’t sass me, son. I haven’t got the patience for it.”

“I’m not carrying a gun, Marshal. I’m obeying the law, just like your brother told me to. I haven’t done anything to be run out of town for.”

“There’s no reason for you to stay around.” said Wyatt. “And I can think of lots of reasons for you to leave. Next time. Doc might not be there to protect you.”

“I’m obliged to Mr. Holliday,” said Scott. “But I’ve still got some business here in town. And I haven’t broken any laws. Those cowboys did. They’re the ones you should be running out of town.”

“They’ll be leavin’, soon as they’ve paid their fines,” said Wyatt. “And I don’t need you to tell me my job. I know what business you have here and it’s trouble.”

“Your brother said that I could ask around and try to find out what happened to my friends; said Neilson. “That’s all I was doing, Marshal. Asking. I told you. I don’t want any trouble. Not with you and not with anybody else, either.”

Wyatt stared at him for a long moment_ Neilson met his gaze.

“The next stage leaves at noon tomorrow.” Wyatt said. “If you’re smart, Kid, you’ll be on it.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Jenny.

He turned around and left.

“If I were you. Kid. I’d do as he said,” said Holliday.

“I haven’t done anything wrong, Mr. Holliday. Or is that how you people do things here in Tombstone? Fine the outlaws a few dollars, but run law-abiding people out of town?”

Holliday shook his head. ‘You’ve got Wyatt wrong. He’s only trying to do his job. And he’s looking out for you, as well.”

“I can look out for myself.”

“Is that right? Tell me, what would you have done if I hadn’t come along when I did?”

Scott looked up at him, then made a quick movement with his wrists, crossing them and pulling two slim throwing knives from concealed sheaths strapped to his forearms, turning quickly in his chair and hurling them. They stuck in the wall by the entryway, exactly where Frank McLaury and Ross Demming had stood.

Jenny gasped, as did a number of other people in the dining room. Someone invoked the Lord’s name, softly, and there was an undertone of excited murmuring.

Holliday stared at the knives. You seem to be a young man of many talents,” he said. “You practice that back on the farm, as well?”

“There a law against carrying knives in Tombstone?” Scott asked him.

“Not to my knowledge,” Holliday replied. He walked over and pulled the knives out of the wall. He examined them before he gave them back to Neilson. “Clever-lookin’ things. Never seen any like ’em before.”

Neilson slipped them back into their sheaths. “I had them made special.”

Holliday nodded. “Maybe it’s too bad that I came in when I did. I’ve never seen two men dropped with knives at the same time before. You got any other tricks up your sleeve?”

“If I have to leave town, you might never find out,” said Scott.

Holliday coughed several times. “I’ll speak with Wyatt. See if I can get him to back off a bit. I have a feeling that having you around might prove to be quite interesting. Quite interesting, indeed. Be seein’ you, Kid. You too, Jenny.”

“‘Bye. Doc,” she said. Her eyes were shining as she looked at Neilson. “I’ve never seen anything like the way you threw those knives in my whole life!” she said. He felt her foot rubbing up against his leg under the table. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

Neilson cleared his throat. “Waiter? Check, please.”