yellowback writer said if he managed to kill you, he’d write a book about him.”
“He came all the way up here because of that?”
“He’s nineteen, Lane. You know how you are when you’re nineteen.”
“Thank God I was never nineteen that way. I wasn’t any wizard, but at least I knew better than to take the word of some asshole who wrote yellowbacks for a living. Where’s he staying?”
Tom looked surprised. “You aren’t going to fight him, are you?”
“No, but I’m going to have a little talk with him before I swing out and see Lucy Daly with the good news.”
“He’s at the Excelsior.”
I got through the mail before I left. Most of it went into the wastebasket. I stood up, grabbed my hat, and said, “I’ll be back around three.”
“You need any help?”
“Last time I looked, Lucy Daly weighed about eighty pounds and was blind in one eye. I think I can whip her.”
“Very funny. I mean with the punk.”
“Thanks for the offer, Tom. But I think I can handle him, too.”
Perry Dolan, the day clerk at the Excelsior Hotel, nodded when he saw me approach the front desk. “You look pretty serious this morning, Marshal. You must’ve lost some money in one of Gunderson’s card games upstairs.”
I smiled. “I’m smart enough to stay out of those, believe me.”
“You looking for somebody?”
“You got a kid named Ned Hastings.”
“I figured that’s what it was about. He ran his mouth all over town last night. We had to carry him up to his room.” Dolan had a round, friendly face. “He ain’t in no danger of becomin’ a beloved figure.”
“He’s going to fight me?”
“That’s what he tells everybody.”
I shook my head. “I’ve got a few other things on my mind. I need to settle this fast.”
“He’s up there if you want him.”
“Give me the extra key.”
He did.
“You going to shoot him, Marshal?”
I smiled. “Sure, Perry. Shoot him in his sleep. That’s pretty much what I’m known for, isn’t it?”
He laughed. “You know what I mean. You going to force him into a gunfight?”
“Can you remember any gunfight happening in this town since I became marshal?”
He hesitated. “Say, that’s right.”
“And there won’t be any this time either.” I nodded to his coffeepot. “How about giving me a cup of that to take upstairs?”
He looked puzzled, then shrugged and got the coffee.
***
The hotel was pretty much empty for the day. The drummers who stayed here would all be out drumming, and the new folks hadn’t yet arrived for tonight. An orange tomcat sat at the top of the landing, his fur being bombarded by the dust motes in the golden sun streaming through the window.
Ned Hastings was snoring loudly enough to rattle the door. I let myself in. He looked like every would-be tinhorn gunny I’d ever seen. He’d been so drunk he slept in his clothes. Fancy leather cowboy boots. Fancy white six-guns riding in a fancy black holster rig. A fancy black vest that would have looked nicer against the white shirt if the white shirt hadn’t been soiled with vomit, beer, and blood. His nose was bloody. Drunks were always hurting themselves. Or letting other people hurt them.
A carpetbag sat in the comer. On the bureau was a framed reverent photograph of a striking young woman who bore a definite resemblance to Ned. Either his sister or his mother in her youth. Hard to say.
I didn’t have any trouble with his six-guns. He went right on snoring. Every once in a while he farted. The room was starting to suffocate me with its hothouse odors.
When I finished with his guns, I grabbed his hair and yanked him to his feet. He cursed, managed to get his eyes open, cursed
“He came all the way up here because of that?”
“He’s nineteen, Lane. You know how you are when you’re nineteen.”
“Thank God I was never nineteen that way. I wasn’t any wizard, but at least I knew better than to take the word of some asshole who wrote yellowbacks for a living. Where’s he staying?”
Tom looked surprised. “You aren’t going to fight him, are you?”
“No, but I’m going to have a little talk with him before I swing out and see Lucy Daly with the good news.”
“He’s at the Excelsior.”
I got through the mail before I left. Most of it went into the wastebasket. I stood up, grabbed my hat, and said, “I’ll be back around three.”
“You need any help?”
“Last time I looked, Lucy Daly weighed about eighty pounds and was blind in one eye. I think I can whip her.”
“Very funny. I mean with the punk.”
“Thanks for the offer, Tom. But I think I can handle him, too.”
Perry Dolan, the day clerk at the Excelsior Hotel, nodded when he saw me approach the front desk. “You look pretty serious this morning, Marshal. You must’ve lost some money in one of Gunderson’s card games upstairs.”
I smiled. “I’m smart enough to stay out of those, believe me.”
“You looking for somebody?”
“You got a kid named Ned Hastings.”
“I figured that’s what it was about. He ran his mouth all over town last night. We had to carry him up to his room.” Dolan had a round, friendly face. “He ain’t in no danger of becomin’ a beloved figure.”
“He’s going to fight me?”
“That’s what he tells everybody.”
I shook my head. “I’ve got a few other things on my mind. I need to settle this fast.”
“He’s up there if you want him.”
“Give me the extra key.”
He did.
“You going to shoot him, Marshal?”
I smiled. “Sure, Perry. Shoot him in his sleep. That’s pretty much what I’m known for, isn’t it?”
He laughed. “You know what I mean. You going to force him into a gunfight?”
“Can you remember any gunfight happening in this town since I became marshal?”
He hesitated. “Say, that’s right.”
“And there won’t be any this time either.” I nodded to his coffeepot. “How about giving me a cup of that to take upstairs?”
He looked puzzled, then shrugged and got the coffee.
***
The hotel was pretty much empty for the day. The drummers who stayed here would all be out drumming, and the new folks hadn’t yet arrived for tonight. An orange tomcat sat at the top of the landing, his fur being bombarded by the dust motes in the golden sun streaming through the window.
Ned Hastings was snoring loudly enough to rattle the door. I let myself in. He looked like every would-be tinhorn gunny I’d ever seen. He’d been so drunk he slept in his clothes. Fancy leather cowboy boots. Fancy white six-guns riding in a fancy black holster rig. A fancy black vest that would have looked nicer against the white shirt if the white shirt hadn’t been soiled with vomit, beer, and blood. His nose was bloody. Drunks were always hurting themselves. Or letting other people hurt them.
A carpetbag sat in the comer. On the bureau was a framed reverent photograph of a striking young woman who bore a definite resemblance to Ned. Either his sister or his mother in her youth. Hard to say.
I didn’t have any trouble with his six-guns. He went right on snoring. Every once in a while he farted. The room was starting to suffocate me with its hothouse odors.
When I finished with his guns, I grabbed his hair and yanked him to his feet. He cursed, managed to get his eyes open, cursed
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