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"I don't need a man outside."

"No? You may not, but I do. Things like last night make me look bad. Hell, there's already a crowd of loafers out front on Overland, gabbing and pointing. Maybe the Council could charge admission and get back a little." His wit pleased him. He elaborated. "We'll put up a sign—'See the Famous Killer, Ten Cents! Ten Cents More to See Him Draw!"

"Not three minutes ago," commented Books, "you said in your profession you'd learned to keep your mouth shut."

The marshal stiffened, but his response to the slur on this visit was milder than it had been on the first. That had been a dress-up occasion; he had never before been face to face with a reasonable facsimile of J. B. Books; he had come prepared to lay down his life for the law if necessary. Now he condescended to an invalid, a man with one foot, one leg in fact, in the grave, and the other going, and he could afford to be at ease. He knew where the Remingtons were now, and he had every advantage of time and proximity. He rose, set his cup and saucer on the chiffonier, reseated himself, and crossed his legs.

"I'll speak my mind, Books. And I'll post a man starting tonight. We're not going to turn a decent woman's home into a shooting gallery. Shoup and Norton may be out of the way, but this town's full of hard cases who'd sell their souls to put your name on the wall. I'll see it don't happen."

Books was interested. "Who?"

"Jack Pulford for one. Runs the faro layout at Keating's."

"Gamblers. All bluff and no balls."

"Not this one. Straightest shot I've ever seen, and cool as a cucumber. Couple years back he got off one round here, under fire, through the heart, and they measured. Eighty-four feet. Through the heart."

"Who else?"

"Oh, a Mex name of Serrano. El Tuerto, they call him, 'Cross-eye.' He'll rustle a bunch of cattle over the river, sell 'em on this side, then rustle 'em back and sell 'em to the same outfit he rustled 'em from in the first place. A real cutthroat. I wouldn't turn my back on him in church."

"Who else?"

Thibido rubbed his chin. "Well, I've got a kid in my hoosegow now—Jay Cobb. His dad runs a creamery. Cobb's only twenty or so, but I'll hang him before he's thirty, or somebody will. Gun crazy—been toting one since he was big enough to lift it. I've got him in for thirty days on assault—broke a salesman's jaw with a butt. Oh, he's a wild kid. About like you were his age, I expect."

"Who else?"

"They'll do. Any of that three would prize to do you in. Any time you'd like to put 'em under, and clean up this town, yourself included, Council'll pay for the lead and four first-class wakes. How about it, Books? Do a good deed for once in your life."

Books examined a fingernail. "You'd miss us when we were gone Thibido."

"Miss you? Sure, like the piles." He became grim. "I've already had run-ins with Serrano and Cobb. Pulford'll kill somebody else someday. They all need killing, and so do you." He pointed a finger. "You haven't looked at a calendar lately, Books. This is nineteen-ought-one. The old days are dead and gone and you don't even know it. You think this town's just another place to raise hell. Hell it is. Sure, we've still got the saloons and the girls and the tables, but we've also got a waterworks and a gashouse and telephones and lights and an opera house, we'll have our streetcars electrified by next year, and there's talk about paving the streets. They killed the last rattler on El Paso Street two years ago, in a vacant lot. First National Bank's there now. We had the President of the United States in the plaza yesterday. Why, you can have ice delivered right to your door! Oh, we've still got some weeding to do, but once we're rid of the Pulfords and Cobbs and Serranos we'll have a goddam Garden of Eden here." The marshal's civic satisfaction was almost palpable. "Which leaves you, J. B. Books. Where do you fit into the progress? You don't. You belong in a museum. To put it in a nutshell, Books, you've plain, plumb outlived your time."

"A nutshell?" Books set his cup and saucer on the splintered library table. "You couldn't put it in a barrel with no bottom. You are the longest-winded bastard I ever listened to."

Thibido bristled. "Is that so? Well, I may be windy, but I'm not contrary! When my time comes to die I will, I won't drag it out! Why the hell don't you?"

Books smiled. "I'm sticking around for your sake. When I am gone, how will you earn your pay? Checking door locks? Finding the lost cats for old ladies? You need me, Thibido. A man like me keeps you frisky. When I pull out, you'll go to grass."

"Horseshit!"

Books sobered. He was tired. He looked away, out a window, at the sunlight of another day. "You better mull one thing. When I die, part of you dies too. Maybe the best part."

Marshal Walter Thibido jumped to his feet. "I've heard about enough!" he rasped. "Kill two men before breakfast and scare the daylights out of law-abiding citizens—I won't take any Sunday school lessons from a low-life like you! Three dollars a night to guard a nickel-plate pistolero who's on his way anyway—you're not worth it, Books! Your whole rotten life hasn't been worth three cents!" Emboldened by his own oratory, he put a hand around the butt of his everyday Colt's. "Sympathy shit. What I should do is put you out of your misery," he threatened.

Deliberately, using both arms of the leather chair, Books pushed himself erect. As though there were no one else in the room, he stepped to the closet, pulled the curtain aside, and leaned against the wall. He faced the marshal, one hand at idle rest on the jamb near which hung his coat and vest.

"You've worn out your welcome, Thibido," he said. "Now scat."

"Don't give me orders, Mr. Man-killer." The marshal removed his hand from his gun butt, however. "I'll go when I'm ready. You'll go when you have to. Just do it soon. Get a move on. Die as damn fast as you can. It'll be a blessing."

"Want to see my specials again?" Books inquired.

Walter Thibido backed toward the door. "I don't scare any more, Books. Maybe you had me buffaloed the last time, but not now. Not in the shape you're in. So don't ride me. I don't scare."

"Neither did Shoup and Norton."

It had gone too far. Thibido knew it, but did not know how to extricate himself gracefully.

"You wouldn't gun down a peace officer," he claimed, without much assurance.

"Wouldn't I? What in hell would stop me? Fear of hanging?"

Bond Rogers sewed up the bullet holes in the mattress, remade the bed, and cleaned the mirror and washbowl. She did not speak to Books, nor he to her. Not until she was on her hands and knees, scrubbing dried blood out of the Wilton carpet under the south window, did he acknowledge her presence.

"Thibido says there's a crowd out in front of the house."

"There is."

He adjusted the crimson pillow under him. "I have to say I am sorry again. I assure you I am. Their names were Shoup and Norton. I have never heard of them in my life, or seen them before that I know of."

"But they're dead."

He raised his newspaper and pretended again to read. She continued to scrub. He lowered the paper.

"Not long ago you told me I am a vicious, notorious individual utterly lacking in character or decency. If it will satisfy you, I will say amen to that. But I remind you. They came here to kill me. I did not have one damned thing against them."