I finished my steak and Kitty brought me another beer and we talked about all kinds of things – the weather, the town, a new horse I was thinking of buying. We’d been talking awhile when one of the two cowboys came over and asked Kitty for a dance.
“She’s busy,” I said.
“But she ain’t doin’ nothing but gabbin’ wit’you,” the cowboy protested. He was in his middle thirties, and smelled of the saddle and of whiskey.
“That’s so,” I said.
“Matt,” said Kitty.
“She’s a dancing girl, ain’t she?” said the cowboy. “Oughtn’t she t’dance, then?”
“She’s busy,” I said again.
“Look, mister,” said Kitty, standing and smiling at him. “There’re plenty of girls around tonight. And I promise to save a dance for you a little later, when I’m done talking with my friend, the Marshal.” I don’t know how she did it, but just standing up there seemed to be a vague sensuality, an undefined sense of what she’d move like if she weren’t hampered by all those clothes. It was something I liked.
The cowboy liked it too. He glanced over at me. “Marshal, eh?”
“Yep,” I said. I liked how she’d managed to let that piece of information drop so casual-like.
“Never met me a Marshal before.”
“But I’ve met plenty of cowboys,” I said. “They’re all the same.”
“Is that so?” he said, rocking on his heels.
“Yeah. That’s so.” I stayed sitting, but I picked up my beer with my left hand.
Kitty moved between us. “Look, mister, why don’t you go over to the bar and tell Sam that your next round’s on me.”
The cowboy used the flat of his left hand to move Kitty aside. “And what are all cowboys like, Marshal?”
Kitty shot me a pleading look. Besides, I’d already shot one man today. I decided to back off.
“They’re all looking for something,” I said, “and when they’ve got it, they want to get rid of it as fast as they can. Otherwise they’re not cowboys anymore.”
That puzzled the drunk, but it didn’t sound like an insult. “Well, I know what I’m lookin’ fer, mister Marshal. And that’s a dance.”
“I already promised you that dance,” said Kitty. “Now why don’t you get back to your friend. Look, Sam’s bringing out another couple of beers for you.”
The cowboy turned as saw two beers heading for his lone friend. He was clearly worried that he wouldn’t get his share, but he didn’t want it to look like he was backing down. He looked at Kitty. “I’ll remember ‘bout that dance. Don’t think I won’t.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” said Kitty with a big smile that showed all her teeth. They were good looking teeth.
The cowboy looked at me. “I’ll remember about you, too.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve forgotten you already.” And I took another sip of beer. That reminded him and he lurched away from our table and back to his friend, who had a hand on both glasses of beer.
Kitty waved at Sam, who nodded back to us as he cleaned a dirty glass on his apron. Kitty sat down again.
“What am I going to do with you?” she asked.
I shrugged.
“Were you trying to get into a fight with him?”
“No,” I said. “But I wasn’t avoiding one, either.”
“Is it the Marshal’s job to pick fights?”
“No,” I said.
“Then why were you egging him?”
I shrugged. I felt like Chester. “I didn’t like the cut of his coat, is all.”
Kitty smiled. “He wasn’t wearing one.”
“That must be it.”
“So you’re a man who likes trouble.”
I didn’t like the sound of that – not coming from Kitty. “No,” I said. “But I’m good at certain things. I figured I can either make money by following the law, or by breaking it. I’ve made my choice. If that means trouble comes my way, I’m not going to dodge it.”
Kitty nodded, then added in a wry voice, “Besides, what would the people think?”
I set my beer down. “Kitty, if I wanted a safe life I’d go buy a plot of land and raise some hogs or corn or something.”
“But you’ve killed men. Not just today, but before.”
“Yeah. Some. But I’ll tell you this, Kitty – I never killed a man who wasn’t out to kill me or someone else. Even before I took up this badge.”
“So, tell me, Matt – what were you like before you became so holy?” She was laughing, and I wanted to laugh with her.
“I was just a cowboy. A drifter, sometimes.”
“I bet you were a real wild one.”
“I guess maybe I was.”
“Ever get on the wrong side of the law?”
“Not in any serious way,” I said. “At least, nobody’s after me.”
“That’s a pretty answer. Where did you do all of this nothing, Matt? In Kansas?”
“No. Texas, for awhile, then Arizona. I went down to Mexico a couple of times.”
“Did you ever make it as far as San Francisco?”
“No.”
“Were you born out there?”
“No. Funny enough, I was born right here – well, about thirty miles from here, but close enough.”
“So the prodigal son returns.”
I nodded and took a sip of my beer. “I guess so.”
“Did you ever have a woman?”
I nodded. “Sure, sure. Almost got married a couple of times.”
“What happened?”
“It’s hard to tell. Say, Kitty, what’s with all these questions?”
Kitty’s eyes glittered in the darkening room. “It’s all a plot, Marshal. You see, now I know everything about you.”
“Well,” I said, leaning forward, “what about you, Kitty?”
“What about me?”
“I mean, what’s your story?”
Kitty fanned her face and laughed. It was a good laugh, full of fun and teasing and life. “You’ll just have to keep wondering, I guess.”
The cowboy who’d bothered Kitty was at the bar again. His friend had gone outside, no doubt to relieve his bladder and make way for more alcohol. The rangy youth was giving Sam Noonan some lip. I let my gaze drift off of Kitty and focused on listening for a minute.
“I said whiskey!” the cowboy said real loud.
“And whiskey is what I gave ya,” said Sam in his best calm.
“I don’t mean a shot! I wan’ a whole bottle!”
“You didn’t say that,” said Sam.
“Well, y’shoulda known! Whaddya think I am, a dude? Can’t handle my whiskey? Izzat it?”
“No, mister,” said Sam, still calm. I saw his hand drop behind the bar, though, to the place where he kept his shotgun. I’d seen him use it often enough, though he’d never had to fire it. The sight of that thing in pointing across the bar tends to calm things down in a hurry. And it made a pretty fair club, too.
The cowboy must’ve seen Sam’s hand drop, though, and he wasn’t so drunk that he couldn’t figure out that it wasn’t a bottle of Whiskey Sam was reaching for. He grabbed Sam’s searching arm from behind the bar, yanked it towards him, and slammed it down on the mohagony counter. There was a sharp crack, and Sam yelped as his arm snapped.
I was already moving when Sam reared back, and before he and the cowboy could really come to blows I had my gun out and I slammed the butt of it into the back of the cowboy’s head. He crumpled like a blown buffalo, and looked about as useless.
“How’s the arm, Sam?”
“How the hell do you think it is, Marshal?” said Sam loudly, cradling it.
“Broken.”
“Damn right!”
“Get over to Doc’s. I’ll tell Big Kate, and Kitty can watch the bar for you.”
Sam shook his head. “I’ll tell Kate. You go find this fella’s friend. He’ll be gunning for one or both of us if he hears, an’ I ain’t in no shape to draw.” He tried to take off his apron, and winced as he shifted his broken arm.
“Sounded like a clean break,” I said.
“Silver linings don’t mean there ain’t clouds, Marshal.”
“True enough.”
Kitty was by my side. “Say, Kitty,” I said. “Could you find someone to run over to the jail and have Chester come and haul this sorry poke back to the lock up? I’ve got some more business, I expect.”
“Sure, Matt,” said Kitty. “Did you have to hit him so hard?”
“Not much point to hitting him if he doesn’t fall down.”
“I suppose not.”
“And now you don’t have to dance with him.”
Kitty smiled at me. “My hero.”
