Books considered him. By the end of his peroration he was red in the face and breathing harder and shifting from foot to foot on his squeaky shoes. He was also flexing and unflexing the fingers of his right hand and saying inside, probably, a prayer.
"I can't go," said Books.
"Can't?"
"No. I am in a tight."
"You'll be in a worse."
"Not worse than this. I have a cancer."
"A cancer?"
"Of the prostate."
"That's too thin."
"Ask the doc, Hostetler. That's why I came down here from Colorado, to see him. He examined me yesterday. I don't have long. I will die in this room."
Walter Thibido was a small muscular man in his forties. He looked at Books and his face worked. Suddenly he dropped into a chair, bent forward, elbows on knees, face in hands, and through his fingers expelled relief.
"Whoo. Whooeee."
He reminded Books of someone who had just stepped from a Turkish bath into a cold shower.
"I tell you the truth, Books. When I came here I was scared," he said, smiling through his fingers. "I know what a man like you is capable of when he's cornered. On the way I wondered who'd get my job, and if the Council would give my wife a pension, and if it'd snow the day they put me under. Whooeee."
He shook his head, straightened up, found his hat. "Cancer. Cancer," he chortled. "Oh, that's rich. By God that's rich. When I think of the close calls you must of had, and now this. The great killer doesn't die of lead poisoning or a rope necktie after all—he's done in by his crotch!"
He realized what he was saying. "Excuse me if I don't pull a long face. I can't."
Books was silent. And perceptibly, as he went unchallenged, the marshal was restored to full fettle. He had done his duty and survived. He had not had to draw his weapon. He had been handed his dignity and authority on a silver platter. To the best of his knowledge, his conscience and prostate were in excellent shape. He leaned back, hooked his thumbs in his vest.
"I'm a lucky man, Books. We had bloody hell in El Paso a few years back. Wes Hardin was killed over on San Antonio Street six years ago. John Selman blew his brains out. Then George Scarborough killed Selman. Then some tough—Will Carver maybe—killed Scarborough. Before that, Dallas Stoudenmire killed Hale and Frank Manning killed him. Oh, we've had more than our share. Well, when they hired me last year I thought, This is a new century, the hard cases have killed each other off, the wheel of fortune has finally stopped, I can be a peace officer and stay healthy and someday die in bed. Then Mrs. Rogers on the telephone. I thought, My God, I was wrong, here she goes again. There is just one killer left and by God if he doesn't decide to dance one more fandango and in my town. I will have to face him. Today your string plays out, Thibido. J. B. Books is going to put out your light today. But you're not, are you?" He smiled jovially. "Cancer. If that isn't rich."
"You talk too much," Books said.
It was as good as a slap. Walter Thibido recoiled, then grimmed up and regained his earlier truculence. "As much as I damn please." He stood. "I will ask Hostetler. But I believe you. You stay put right here, where I can keep an eye on you."
"Where would I go?"
"That's right, where would you? Say, by the way, how long does he give you?"
"He doesn't know. Maybe six weeks."
"Six weeks."
"You can do me a favor, Thibido."
"I owe you one. Or Hostetler."
"Keep it under your hat I'm cashing in."
"Why?"
"My being in El Paso, maybe that's news. Dying is my own business."
"All right. Anyway, I don't want some tinhorn trying to cut your time short. Or making a liar out of Hostetler. And you can do me one."
"One."
"Let me see your guns."
"In the closet. On my vest."
A bantam rooster again, Thibido squeaked to the closet, pulled the curtain aside, felt for the vest on its hanger, and one at a time, with a kind of reverence, brought out the Remingtons. "Jesus." He inspected them professionally. "Just like I heard. Made to order."
"They were."
"Double-action?"
"Faster."
"But less accurate."
"Not if you know how."
"Modified, I suppose."
"A special mainspring, tempered. I had the factory file down the bents on the hammer, too. You get an easier letoff when you put pressure on the trigger."
"Five-and-a-half-inch barrels."
"Greased lightning."
"I'll stick to a Colt's."
"You do that."
The marshal cocked his head. "I could take them, you know. Now."
"But you wouldn't."
"Wouldn't I?"
"No." Books spoke evenly. "Because if you did, I'd go out and buy a gun, any gun. I can still get around. Then I'd come for you. Your deputies would swim the river. You'd be alone. You and I know how it would turn out. It would snow the day they buried you. So put my guns away."
It was the maximum Walter Thibido would take. He turned to the closet, and when he had pulled the curtain he fixed his hat on his head, spread his legs, and spoke as evenly as Books had.
"I also heard you are as mean a son of a bitch as ever lived. Well, you be a son of a bitch while you can. I told you, when I walked in here I was scared. No more. I'm not the one going away. You are. So be a gent and convenience everybody and do it soon. Six weeks is too long. I'll see you aren't lonesome. I'll drop in to cheer you up and watch your progress. And I'll do you another good turn."
Books waited.
"The day they lay you away, I will shit on your grave for flowers."
Books adjusted his crimson pillow. "That is a damned handsome suit you're wearing, Marshal."
A line of burros humped high with firewood for sale passed the house, coerced into a trot by a Mexican with a long cactus switch. Walter Thibido and Bond Rogers stood on her front porch.
"He is J. B. Books, isn't he?"
"Yes, ma'am, he is."
"I wouldn't have let him in the door had I known."
"I wouldn't have let him over the city limits."
"Surely he's going now."
Thibido hemmed and hawed. "Mrs. Rogers, I want to talk to you about that."
"You didn't back down!"
"I surely did not. But I'll put it to you confidentially, Mrs. Rogers. He won't be here long."
"Marshall, when my roomers find out who he is, they'll leave like scat. I can't afford that. They are my livelihood. Do you mean to tell me I can't decide who lives on my premises and who doesn't?"
"Ma'am, he's—" He clamped his jaw. "He won't be here long."
"He certainly won't!"
She was diverted. The ice wagon stopped, and she ordered fifty pounds. She watched closely as the iceman cut the block, weighed it, wiped off the sawdust, tonged the block onto his shoulder, then directed him to take it around and in the back way and mark her card, which was tacked by the door. Thibido meanwhile pondered how to soft-soap her and looked her over and concluded he wouldn't kick if he were required to snug up to her some cold night and hoped Ray Rogers had appreciated what he had at home.
"You represent the law," she began again.
"That's what I'm getting at, Mrs. Rogers. From a police standpoint, it's safer to have him here, where I can keep an eye on him, than letting him run loose. He's a dangerous man. He won't harm you, he's not that kind—guns and gunplay are his bread and butter. If he goes to leave, you telephone me right away."
"But my roomers. When they learn—"
"Don't tell 'em. We'll keep it amongst the three of us. That's counting your boy."
"I couldn't sleep. Just the thought of such a man, sitting there hour after hour—"
"In the meantime, the city will be much obliged to you."
"Gillom says he's killed thirty men."
Walter Thibido had other matters to attend. He struck an official pose. "Mrs. Rogers, I give you my word. He won't be with us long."