"When will I have the honor of meeting Mr. Rogers?"
"My husband passed away last year."
"I am sorry."
She rinsed the bowl. "When my other roomers hear who you are, they will go, I can't stop them. This house is all I have—the income from it—and there's a loan against it at the bank. If I lose that income—"
"What did he do?"
"He was passenger agent here for the G & H, the railroad." She picked up the slippery cake of cleanser, dropped it, picked it up again, turned, and the gall of him, seated on a velvet pillow like a potentate on a throne while she did his menial chores, engendered in her the gumption she had needed from the beginning. "Mr. Books, I know all about you." She put hands on hips. "You are a vicious, notorious individual utterly lacking in character or decency."
"Passenger agent. Did he wear sleeve garters?"
"You are an assassin."
"I have been called many things."
"I believe my son. And Marshal Thibido. You've killed I don't know how many men."
"That is true."
"So you are an assassin."
"Depends which end of the gun you're on."
"Rubbish!"
He smiled. "They were in the process of trying to kill me." The smile, the mordant tone, most of all the remark, the common sense of which was unassailable, brought color to her cheeks again in spite of herself. Distraught, she snatched the dustcloth from her apron band and commenced to do the top of the chiffonier. "You misrepresented yourself to me basely, Mr. Books. You took advantage of a widow, a helpless woman."
"I don't know about helpless. You appear to me full of vim and vinegar."
"He said you won't be here long."
"Who?"
"Mr. Thibido."
"What else did he say?"
"That you are a dangerous man—which I scarcely needed telling." She ceased to dust. She bunched the cloth as though to make a weapon of it. "Long or not, I ask you for the last time to leave my house. If you cannot be a gentleman, you can at least take pity on my situation. Sir, I demand that you go. If it will give you pleasure, I will fall on my knees and beg—"
"No."
"Damn you."
"Mrs. Rogers, I can't."
"Can't!"
"I have nowhere to go."
"There are plenty of—"
"I have a cancer."
"You—"
"I am dying of it."
"Oh."
She did not really comprehend. She tucked the cloth into her apron.
"That's why I am in El Paso, to see Doc Hostetler. He took a bullet out of me once. He was here, as you know, and examined me. I have no chance."
She moved past him to the bowl, retrieved the cake of Bon Ami. She was like a woman walking in her sleep.
"Thibido was right. I won't stay long. Two months, maybe. Six weeks."
She crossed the room again, to the carpet sweeper, took it by the handle.
"I'm sorry, ma'am. I am the one helpless. I would leave, but no one would take me in."
Bond Rogers gave way then. She sank to the far side of the bed, covered her face with her hands, burst into tears.
"I know what is troubling you," he said. "Tending me. Well, you won't have to. Just bring me my meals and I will do what else is needed. I guarantee not to be a burden."
She tried to speak but could not.
"I will make it worth your while. I will give you four dollars a day."
She said something unintelligible.
"All I ask is that you keep this between us. It's out that I am in town, I can't help that, the harm's done. But I do not want my condition known. Somebody might get the idea I can't defend myself, and I am in deep enough as it is."
"No, not in my house!" She was sobbing uncontrollably. "Oh, no, please, God, no!"
Shoup and Norton were second cousins and drunk. They were playing billiards in the Acme. Concluding the game, they refilled at the bar and took a table in a corner of the saloon, bringing with them a platter of hard-boiled eggs and flies from the free lunch.
"Bring back them eggs," said the barkeep.
"They're free, ain't they?" demanded Norton.
"You get one egg, not the bunch. Take one apiece and bring 'em back."
Shoup pulled his pistol, laid it on the table. "You talk tough't'me, you slatty sonabitch, I'll part your hair on the other side."
The barkeep was a man named Murray, called "Mount" because, though he was very thin, he was six feet, four inches tall. Stooping, he brought forth a double-barreled Parker shotgun and placed it on the bar. "See this, Shoup? I am very sure with it. You go to put finger to trigger in here and I will fire one barrel and then the other and take off your stones one at a time. Separate. Now bring back them eggs."
Shoup kept one for himself, Norton kept one, Shoup returned the platter to the bar, then sat down again. They put heads together.
"Books," said Shoup.
"Books," said Norton.
"Three blocks from here."
"Three blocks."
"Shut up. I owe 'im from way back, in San Saba County. I owe Books an' you owe me."
"Unh-unh."
"There might could be a way. Two of us, we might could do it."
"I ain't goin' up agin' him nohow," Norton stated, lifting his egg and opening his mouth. "He's too sudden of a man."
Using the barrel of his pistol as though it were his hand, Shoup slapped egg, fingers, and mouth with one blow. Norton's eyes bulged at the impact. He choked on bloody egg. "You craven bastid," Shoup said. "I owe Books an' you owe me."
His landlady knocked and explained that a reporter from the newspaper was waiting on the porch. He wanted an interview.
"An interview? What about?"
"He didn't say."
"Send him in."
Before his visitor appeared, Books rose with some effort, straightened his tie, dropped the crimson pillow behind his chair, thought of putting on his coat, thought better of it, stood waiting.
"Mr. Books, J. B. Books, I'm most pleased to meet you, sir, and honored. The name is Dan Dobkins. I'm with the Daily Herald."
They shook hands. They sat down.
"As I said, Mr. Books, this is a great and unexpected honor. Thank you for seeing me, thank you very much."
"How'd you know I was in El Paso, Mr. Dobkins?"
"Why, it's common knowledge, sir. News like that spreads like wildfire, believe me. We ran the story this morning, that you're here and stopping with Mrs. Rogers and enjoying our salubrious winter climate, so on and so forth. Have you seen it?"
"No."
"Well, it was page one, I assure you."
"What can I do for you?"
"Well, sir."
Dobkins was a spindle-shanked young fellow in his late twenties, with a long nose and yellow shoes and a striped suit and an Adam's apple which was perpetually agitated. He smelled almost romantically of toilet water and talcum powder.
"That's what I came to talk to you about, Mr. Books. You must appreciate, sir, that you are the most celebrated shootist extant."
"Extant?"
"Still existing. Alive."
"I see."
"All the others are gone, I'm sorry to say—Hickok, Masterson, the Earps, Bill Tilghman, Ringo, Hardin, Doc Holliday, Sam Bass, Rowdy Joe Lowe—all the great names."
"That's true."
"The end of an era, the sunset, you might say. You're the sole survivor, Mr. Books, and we're thankful for that—I mean, your reputation is nationwide. This morning's story went out over the wires, and every daily of any consequence will run it. But it's only a teaser. They'll want more. Papers in the East in particular—a colorful figure like you is a hero to the dudes back there. New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Washington—they'll run every word we send. Between us, Mr. Books, we can really put El Paso on the map."
"You're going the long way round the barn, Mr. Dobkins."