TW12 The Six-Gun Solution NEW (5 page)

In the Wild West of legend, the good guys wore white hats and the bad guys wore black. In the real Wild West, things were very seldom seen in black or white.

"Not much to look at, is it?" said Masterson, interrupting his thoughts. "A sight different from the kind of country that you're used to in Montana Territory.

"Yes, it is," said Neilson. "I was thinking that it seems like a very lonely place to die."

They got down out of the rig and brushed the dust from their clothes. Masterson had changed into a pair of faded jeans and boots, a pale brown cotton shirt, a red kerchief and a well-worn, sweat-stained, light brown Stetson hat. He wore two six-shooters on his hips, nickel-plated Colt Single Action Army .45s with four-and-three-quarter-inch barrels and gutta-percha, or hard rubber, grips. He had them made specially for him by the Colt factory in Hartford, Connecticut, with slightly taller front sight blades, a bit thicker than usual, and hair triggers. In the rig, he also had a Winchester carbine.

"Dying's always lonely." he said, "no matter where you do it."

Neilson nodded. "Only it's the man who's left alive who thinks about it, not the dead."

"You've been thinking about those two men you killed yesterday," said Masterson.

Neilson nodded.

"First time?" asked Masterson. "Not that it's any of my business."

"No. it wasn't the first time," Scott replied. "I've killed before. Not because I wanted to, because I had to. But it doesn't get any easier. I guess you'd know about that, though."

Masterson nodded, solemnly. "No, it sure doesn't. But don't go thinking I'm some sort of expert on the subject. Oh, I know my reputation, and I haven't done much to disabuse folks of it, but to tell the truth, it's mostly hogwash. They say I've killed thirty-seven men. That's nonsense. When I'm asked about it, I never say yes and I never say no. I just always say I don't count Indians or Mexicans. I've been a lawman and I'm now a gambler and in occupations such as those, it can be useful to have people think you're a killer."

“Doesn't that also invite trouble, though?" asked Scott.

"Sometimes," Masterson replied, "but it prevents trouble more often than not. Those penny-dreadful writers back East have got people believing that if you've got a reputation as a gunfighter, reckless young blades from miles around come looking for you, anxious to make a reputation for themselves by taking you on. But that's nothing like the truth. You'll find that out. Most people would think real long and real hard before tangling with someone who's known to have killed thirty-seven men. As a result of my so-called deadly reputation, there've been times when I've simply been able to stare down trouble. Wyatt, too. I've seen some pretty tough hombres back down at just a look from Wyatt because it's known he's deadly with a gun. Of course, that doesn't always work, as you saw yesterday. The truth is, not counting any Indians I might've shot at the Battle of Adobe Walls, I've only killed one man. That's why I've got this here limp."

"What happened?" Scott asked.

"His name was Corporal Melvin King, a soldier who liked the wild life and fancied himself a good man with a six-gun. He used to like riding with the cowboys and hurrahing towns and such. It happened in Sweetwater. We both liked the same girl, only she had a preference for me. I was spending some time alone with her in a saloon one night and King heard we were together. He'd had a few drinks and he was fixed for trouble. He busted in on us and jerked his pistol. Molly tried to get between us just as his pistol went off. The bullet went right through her and smashed into my hip. I managed to get my pistol out and shoot King as I fell, but it was no help to Molly. They both died. And me, after I healed up, I had to walk around with a cane for quite a spell. That's where the story started that I got the name Bat from batting people over the head with it." He chuckled. "Amazing how these things get around."

"Where did you get the name Bat?" asked Neilson.

"It's short for Bartholomew, which is my real name. I never cared for it, so I use William Barclay. I like the sound of it better. But most folks know me as Bat Masterson, just like they'll probably know you as the Montana Kid from now on. I guess you have me to blame for that."

Neilson grinned. "I don't mind. I kind of like it."

"You may not always feel that way," said Masterson. "Having a reputation as a gunfighter is a sword that cuts both ways. It gets you plenty of respect, but not the kind you'd like. The way Wyatt reacted was the way any lawman would react on hearing of a gunfighter come to town. You represent a threat. Potential trouble. And it didn't help any to have Frank say you were faster than Wyatt. That sort of thing puts a man on his guard right away."

They entered the adobe house and Neilson started looking around. He didn't expect to find much. Observers were always careful to leave no sign that would indicate they were anything but what their covers made them appear to be. Even if someone hadn't already torn the place apart, he would have found nothing from the future here. But that wasn't what he was looking for.

"Well, it's like I told the marshal," he said, "I don't want any trouble."

"You stay around here, you'll find it sure enough," Masterson replied. "By now, the Clantons will have heard about how you gunned down those two. Now, Wyatt. Virgil and Morg know them a sight better than I do, but from what I've heard about that bunch, you'd do best to steer clear of them. Ike Clanton I've met. He's not so much. A blowhard, mostly. His brother Billy seems a lot more likable, offhand, but I hear he's quite good with a six-gun and he'll back up his brother. Then there's the McLaurys, Frank and Tom. Both gunmen. And Frank's said to be dangerous. Billy Claiborne runs with them, but I wouldn't put him in the same class as Frank and Torn. And then there's Curly Bill and Johnny Ringo."

"I've heard of them," said Scott.

"That's not surprising." Masterson replied. "Curly Bill Brocius has killed his share of men. And Ringo has a big reputation as a gunfighter. There's a good number of others, cattle rustlers and stage robbers, not a good apple in the bunch, but of them all. I'd worry about those two the most."

“And you think I have something to worry about?" asked Scott.

"If you stick around, you do." Masterson replied. "I don't want to seem ungrateful or unfriendly, Kid, but if I were you, I'd waste little time in moving on. You're young, yet. Got your whole life ahead of you. You can be anything you want to be. But if you decide you're going to be a gunfighter, then you've closed off a lot of options. You can find some town that needs a good man with a six-gun to wear a badge. A saloonkeeper who'll cut you in for a small share of the business to hang around and make sure there isn't any trouble. Or you can hunt bounty. There's some money to be made from that. But it's not what I'd call an easy life. Or a very good one. Often, it's a short life. too.

"Oh, maybe your reputation as a pistolero will make some men back down." he continued, "but it will also mark you. Instead of trying to face you down, they'll look to shoot you from behind or get you through a window with a scattergun. And then they'll be able to brag about how they gunned down the Montana Kid. You'll be popular with the saloon girls, but most respectable women will keep shy of you. You'd be a bad bet to settle down with You'll have men respect you and move aside when you walk down the street, but deep down, they won't like having you, around and no one will be sorry when you leave."

"What about if you're a gambler?" Scott asked.

Masterson pulled out a crudely made wooden chair and sat down at the table.

"Well, it's more respectable, for one thing," he said, as he took out a pack of cards and absently started to shuffle them. "Lots safer, too."

"Like yesterday, you mean?" asked Scott, with a smile.

Masterson shrugged. “What happened yesterday doesn't really happen very often. And, in a way, it was my own fault. Slim was cheating. And he wasn't very good at it. I decided to cheat back a bit, to teach him a lesson. He wasn't good enough to catch me at it, hut he tumbled to it somehow. I read him wrong. I didn't figure that he'd pull a gun. That was foolish of me. Yes, there are risks to being a gambler, but the advantage is that you only have to deal with trouble that comes to you. You don't have to go out looking for it." He glanced at Scott and smiled. "You play?"

He put the deck down in the center of the table for him to cut. Scott looked at him a moment, then picked it up and cut it twice, one-handed. He shuffled it, quickly shot the deck from one hand to the other, split it, fanned the two equal parts in either hand, put it back together and then started dealing from the top, face down.

“Deuce of hearts." he said, as he put the first card down. "Deuce of spades. Deuce of clubs. King of clubs. King of diamonds."

Masterson stared at him, then slowly turned each card over to reveal the full house. He whistled softly.

“Son. I don't know how you did that, but if you could teach me. I'd be much obliged. That's my own deck and I know it's clean.”

“All it takes is practice. Mr. Masterson." said Scott. He reached out and pulled a silver dollar from Masterson's ear, then walked it across his fingers, back and forth, snapped them, and the coin was gone. “Lots and lots of practice.” Masterson shook his head with awe. "There sure is a lot more to you than meets the eye."

Neilson smiled. "You could say that."

"You see about all you want to see here?"

“Yeah. I guess I have." said Scott

They were so small, they could easily have been missed, but he had known what he was looking for. Three tiny holes in the adobe wall. Burned into it by lasers.

The dining room in the Grand Hotel boasted an elegant menu for a town like Tombstone, but Neilson avoided the dubious French cuisine and ordered a thick steak, instead. He had it with a buttered baked potato and some beans and washed it down with a passable claret. He was about halfway through his meal when a soft, feminine voice behind him said. “You're the Montana Kid, aren't you?"

He turned slightly and saw a lovely young girl of about eighteen or nineteen, with long, silky, ash-blonde hair and large, powder-blue eyes. She was wearing a long, light blue calico dress with lace around the collar and high-buttoned shoes. Her creamy complexion was absolutely flawless, she had a small, tuned-up nose, a slightly pointed chin and naturally pouting lips. He thought she was one of the most beautiful girls he'd ever seen.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt your meal," she said, coming around in front of him, "but I saw what you did yesterday and I thought it was about the bravest thing I've ever seen."

"You were
there?
" Scott said, with some surprise. He could hardly believe he had missed seeing her.

"I work there." she said, lowering her eyes slightly. “I . . . I wasn't dressed like this. I'm one of the saloon girls. My name is Jennifer. Jennifer Reilly."

Neilson wiped his mouth and stood up "Pleased to meet you, Miss Reilly. And no, you're not interrupting me. I'd appreciate the company. Please, sit down.” He pulled out a chair for her.

"Call me Jenny. What do your friends call you—Montana?"

He grinned. "No, not really. My friends call me Scott. Scott Neilson.”

“It's nice to meet you, Scott” She watched him as he sat back down. "I see you're not wearing your gun."

"No, Virgil Earp took it from me. Said there was an ordinance against carrying guns in Tombstone."

"That doesn't seem to stop a lot of people." she said.

"No, it doesn't, does it?"

"Aren't you afraid? To be without your gun, I mean. Those cowboys that you shot have some pretty nasty friends."

"Like Curly Bill and Johnny Ringo?"

"And Ike Clanton and the McLaury brothers,” she said. “I see you've already heard of them.”

"Yes. Bat Masterson warned me about them."

"And you're not worried?"

"Well, yes, I confess I am, a little. But the law's the law, isn't it? And I've only just arrived in town. I don't want to get on the wrong side of a man like Virgil Earp. His brother, Wyatt, already seems to have taken a dislike to me."

"Oh, that sounds like Wyatt, all right," she said. "Wyatt's very protective of his brothers. And to him, any man who wears a gun and uses it the way you do means trouble. And wait till you meet Morgan."

"Oh? What's he like? He a lawman, too?"

"He's a shotgun guard on the Wells Fargo stage. You'll know him when you see him. Those three Earp brothers look as alike as peas in a pod, but they're all really very different. Virgil is the steady one. He's calm-tempered and looks to avoid trouble if he can. Wyatt's steady, too, I guess, only in a different way. If there's trouble, he doesn't waste too many words. He'll buffalo you with his six-shooter just as soon as look at you “

To "buffalo" someone, Neilson remembered, meant to get the better of him in some way, usually by force. What Jenny was referring to was Wyatt Earp's penchant for braining miscreants with the barrel of his gun and knocking them unconscious. In a Wild frontier town like Tombstone, it was nothing more than sensible law enforcement. Why give a man a chance to draw his gun if you can crack his skull first and avoid all the unpleasantness?

"And as for Morgan," Jenny continued, "he's real hot tempered and can be quite a handful when he's been drinking. He hangs around with that Doc Holliday a lot. Wyatt and Doc are close friends too, which seems a little strange, I guess, seeing as they're so different. Wyatt doesn't drink at all and Doc drinks quite excessively. When him and Morgan have had a few too many, watch out!"

"I'll try to remember that," said Scott. "May I offer you some wine?"

"Oh, thank you, no." She hesitated. "Well, maybe just a smidgen? It goes to my head so."

Scott smiled and signaled the waiter for another glass.

"Anyway," Jenny went on. "Morgan? He only gets riled when he's had a few too many, but that Doc Holliday, he's got a real short fuse. You wouldn't think it to look at him, him so frail and sickly and coughing all the time--he's got consumption, you know—but he's a real killer. They say he's one of the deadliest men with a six-shooter in the whole Southwest."