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“Looks more like a gun butt.”

The rancher made a dismissive face. “Naw! Who’d want to kill Old Swenson? Ever since he sold out the Running C to the sheriff, he’s been a real drunkard. Bigger even than ol’ Tulley.”

“That so?”

“Sure as hell is. Once he fell in the Purgatory and nearly drowned hisself.” He spit chaw. “Nice old feller, though.”

Scratching his head, Warren said, “Well, he did have some money, Burl — maybe not a lot, ’cause he wound up sellin’ out cheap to Harry Gauge, they say. But a grubstake, anyway. Somebody mighta pistol-whipped and robbed him.”

“Possible,” the rancher said, clearly not caring. “People been killed for fifty cents. Less.”

The stranger asked, “What about his horse? The one you think might have thrown him?”

Rancher Burl gestured vaguely. “I left it tied up out at the relay station. I didn’t check his saddlebags for money or nothin’. I’ll leave that to the sheriff. Mind coverin’ him up again?”

The stranger did so, hopped down.

The rancher said, “With the doc away, I’ll go wake up the undertaker. Maybe stop and see if anybody’s in at the sheriff’s office, first. Damn, it’s a pain in the butt bein’ a Good Samaritan like this...”

The wagon rolled off, and the shopkeeper shrugged. He and his hammer went back to work unboarding his windows.

The stranger stood in the street and watched the wagon go.

The storekeeper, noticing the dude’s presence, asked over his shoulder, “Something on your mind, mister?”

“Just thinking that the sheriff might be easier to convince than I was,” he said, “that Old Swenson fell off his horse.”

Then he nodded good night to the shopkeeper and got back on the black-maned gelding and rode down to the livery stable.

Ten minutes later, he walked into the hotel, sweeping off his hat. The bell over the door woke the desk clerk, a weak-chinned character with pince-nez and scant hair, in a brown-and-gold vest with a white shirt and black bow tie. He’d been slumped, sleeping on an elbow over a copy of Beadle’s Dime Library — The Legend of Caleb York by Ned Buntline.

The stranger chuckled at the sight of the cheap publication, and was amused as well by the startled blinking look the wakened clerk gave him. This was one of the faces from the crowd who’d gathered earlier — twice, actually. This morning after the shooting in front of the sheriff’s office, and tonight after the bushwhackers had been dealt with.

“Pretty lively out there last night,” the stranger said. “Like that every payday, I hear.”

“Afraid so, mister. Couldn’t have accommodated you then, but I’m pleased to say I’m able to now.”

“Well, that’s fine. Something on the Main Street side?”

“Certainly.” The clerk reached for his register, opened it, and turned the book around for his customer. “It was, uh, a little lively out there today as well.”

“Could call it that.” He looked up from the register. “Does the sheriff check this book on a regular basis?”

“Yes, sir. He or one of his deputies. Likes to keep track of people staying in town.”

The stranger cocked his head. “When does he do that? Check the register, I mean.”

“Oh, sometime in the evening.”

“Has the sheriff or any deputy of his done so yet tonight?”

The clerk shook his head. “No, sir. But somebody should be around, oh, most any time now. Why?”

“No reason. Just curious by nature.” The stranger grinned at the clerk, leaned an elbow on the register. “Now, just for fun — what name do you suppose might shake our sheriff up the most?”

The clerk’s eyebrows climbed his endless forehead. “Well, uh... of course, we’d prefer your real name, sir. Not that we stand on ceremony.”

“No, really, be a sport — what name might spook him some?”

The clerk tugged at his collar. “Well, uh... I assume you’ve heard the, uh, talk around town... speculation that, uh, you are, uh... Mr. Wesley Banion. If you, uh, are Mr. Wesley Banion.”

“And that name would sit the sheriff up straight, you think?”

“Well might,” the clerk said with a sickly smile. Then he nodded at his dime novel. “But, of course, what would really get his attention... if I might say so, sir... is that.

The Legend of Caleb York.

“Of course,” the clerk said, with a shrug, “Caleb York is dead.

The stranger chuckled again, reached for the pen. “Why don’t we do what heretofore only the Almighty has managed?”

“What’s that, sir?”

“Bring the dead back to life.”

And he signed the register, Caleb York.

The clerk, somewhat confused and not yet seeing what the guest had written, handed across a room key. “Upper floor, sir. Top of the stairs, it’s the last door on your left.”

The stranger nodded at the clerk, catching a glimpse of the man reading the register, eyes popping as he covered his mouth with a nervous hand.

Chapter ten

Lola entered the hotel and was headed for the stairs to the second floor, where she kept a room, when she noticed the stranger leaving the check-in desk, about to start up himself. He saw her, too, smiled, took off his hat, and waited for her.

“Well, my silent stranger,” she said.

He leaned against the banister post. “Is that what I am?”

“I wouldn’t call you talkative. Finally getting a roof over your head, I see.”

“Finally.”

He gestured in an after-you manner and she went up, putting a little extra sway into it. She was still in her elaborate, low-cut dance-hall gown — the walk to the hotel from the Victory was a short one, so she didn’t bother changing before heading back.

Halfway up, she said, with an over-the-shoulder glance at him, “I’m a little surprised to see you back in town so soon.”

“Why’s that?”

“Oh, I suppose because Willa Cullen seems to hold a peculiar... fascination... for a certain kind of man.”

At the top of the stairs, he let his eyes drop briefly down to her décolletage and back again. “And you don’t?”

She gave him a coquettish look that didn’t pretend to be anything but joshing. “It would be immodest of me to say.”

“Walk you to your room?”

“Please.”

She led the way, stopping at room 6.

“Believe I’m next door,” he said, gesturing. “In number five.”

She smiled and it was anything but coquettish. “Well, perhaps that will prove convenient. For example, should you need a cup of sugar.”

He gave her another grin. “Very neighborly of you.”

The man didn’t seem to embarrass easily. She liked that.

She laid a lace-gloved hand on his cheek. “We might start with a nightcap. I have a bottle in my room? Bourbon. Straight from New Orleans.”

“Mighty tempting. Another time?”

“Another time.”

“Good night... ma’am.”

She watched him walk down to his nearby door, use his key, pause to smile and nod at her, then go in.

For a moment, she just stood there, thinking, Now this is a man.

Despite the dudish clothes on the one hand and his frightening abilities with a gun on the other, something decent managed to come through.

But not so decent that they hadn’t been able to enjoy an afternoon together...

She went into her room, which was no bigger or nicer than any other in the hotel, down to the same drab wallpaper. But she had dressed the space up with a few nice pieces of Victorian furniture brought here from Denver — hand-carved mirrored maple dresser with a floral-pattern toilet set, baroque walnut plush-upholstered armchair, a carved rosewood bed, and a few other things. She lived here, after all, and had a right to be comfortable.