The Kid

Jimmy Dolan instructed the sheriff, “And you’ll inventory Alex’s house next?”

“Uh-huh,” Brady said.

“And Tunstall’s livestock?”

“Oh, I expect.”

Alexander McSween told the sheriff, “I have established no partnership with Mr. Tunstall. I merely lease an office from him. Any seizure of his property is plainly unwarranted.”

The sheriff said, “You’re in cahoots, Alex. You testified as such in Judge Bristol’s court.”

“I said no such thing!”

“Well, it got written down.”

Two sheriff’s deputies galumphed into the store and lodged themselves by the front door and cashier’s till with shotguns at parade rest. “What stinks in here?” one asked.

With a loony wave, L. G. Murphy identified himself as the odor’s source.

McSween was still recalling the hearing. “Are you altering testimony now? Is there no end to your prevarications?”

The onlookers worried over the word. Their educations failed them.

“You Irish . . . ,” the Canadian said.

His hands inching up his slung Winchester, Jimmy Dolan said, “Be wide there, Alex, or I’ll claim ye.”

With contempt, McSween faced him. “You all reek of corruption.”

Little Jimmy juggled the decision on whether to shoot the lawyer as he looked to the sheriff for instruction, but Sheriff Brady was in hushed discussion with Deputy George Hindman, whose face was ravaged into ugliness by the chew of a crazed black bear.

The Kid and Waite gently went to their guns, but just rested their palms on the grips when Brewer shook his head against any violence.

> And then John H. Tunstall walked in, a flurry of falling snow in his wake.

“We thought you was at the Jinglebob!” Murphy said gaily.

“Alas, I found out John Chisum is still jailed in Las Vegas.” He took off his felt hat and swatted flakes off it as he scanned all the faces. “We seem to be rather populated here.”

The sheriff said, “I have a writ of attachment against your inventory signed by Judge Warren Bristol.”

The Englishman was unsurprised. “Oh, what a nuisance!”

“And a fret, too, Mr. Tunstall,” said Dolan, his hands so tightening on his rifle that his knuckles whitened. “Would ye like to forget the legalities and settle our differences here and now?”

The Kid’s hand gripped his Colt’s pistol butt and he readied for a gunfight as he sought a go-ahead from Brewer, then Waite, but they were ignoring the Kid’s urgency. Just last May, Jimmy Dolan had killed a Mexican stable hand for the House, claiming Hiraldo Jaramillo had gone after him with a knife, but Waite and Brewer knew Dolan’s fiery excitements often cooled with delay.

The Englishman may have known that, too, for he held up his hands and sought to pacify the twenty-nine-year-old by saying, “I’m not a combative man, Mr. Dolan. I don’t earn my income that way. Besides, I have ridden over two hundred miles for naught. I have much energy to recruit.”

L. G. Murphy was leaning forward like a theatergoer held in suspense and prepared to be entertained by whatever the outcome.

“So, you’re a coward then,” said Dolan.

“Have it your way.”

“A quare fella.”

“I shan’t draw a gun, no matter the insults.”