Butler's Wager

CHAPTER 8

Butler stopped just inside the batwing doors. The Lady Gay was not as large as the Alhambra, but it was no less lively on this evening. He looked around and spotted the two men who had entered ahead of him, one by one. They had split up, one going to the bar, and the other over to the roulette table to watch the wheel. Only he wasn’t watching the wheel, he had his eye on a table where three men were sitting. Butler knew that there was definitely trouble in the air, but if he went to the three men and tried to warn them, would they believe him? He knew what it was to be stalked by assassins, though. If he did warn them, maybe these fellows would leave and there’d be no inkling as to who sent them. Butler also knew the frustration of that.

He decided to go to the bar himself, get a beer and nurse it while keeping an eye on the two men.

“Beer,” he told the bartender.

The man nodded, didn’t speak to him, and brought him one. Butler picked it up in his left hand, turned his back to the bar, leaned against it and watched the floor.

The Lady Gay also had women working the floor, not wearing dresses as fancy as at the Alhambra, and pretty rather than beautiful, but they appeared to be popular nevertheless. Pale skin and overflowing bosoms did wonders for men’s thirst and egos.

But the two men who had come in ahead of him were not looking at any of the women, which was another-tip-off. One of them had gotten himself a beer, the other was still at the roulette wheel, both still had their eyes on the three seated men, who seemed oblivious to the danger.

Butler called the bartender over.

“Those three men over there,” he asked. “Who are they?”

“Them’s three unhappy men, stranger,” the bartender said. “One’s our ex-marshal, Jim Masterson, with his ex-deputy Neal Brown, and the third, older fella is our ex-mayor, Dog Kelley. They all lost their jobs in the past two days.”

“That’s too bad,” Butler said. “I guess they’re drowning their sorrows, huh?”

“Guess you could say that. Listen, I gotta go. My shift is over, but you have yourself a great time. Al will take care of you.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

The bartenders changed places. The new one was in his late thirties, and he weaved a bit, as if he’d already sampled some of the beer, or whiskey…or both. Butler was not going to pay any attention to him until he noticed a quick look pass between him and one of the two men who was at the bar. It looked to him like a signal.

What came next happened very quickly. The man at the bar put his beer down and drew his gun. Likewise, the fellow at the roulette wheel turned and pulled his gun.

Butler was surprised to see Jim Masterson jump to his feet, whirl, draw his gun, and plug the man at the roulette wheel before the fellow could get off a shot. Shouts rose up as the body fell on top of the roulette layout. One of the men seated with Masterson jumped to his feet and drew his gun, watching the crowd. The other—the ex-mayor—simply slid from his chair and hit the floor.

Neither Masterson or his ex-deputy saw the man at the bar, so it fell to Butler to draw his gun and stop him.

“Hold it!” he shouted.

The man turned his head briefly to see who had shouted at him. When he saw Butler with his gun out he frowned, but switched his attention back to Masterson, who was in the act of turning to also see who had yelled. Butler had no recourse but to fire, which he did. The bullet struck the gunman in the side of the head, drilled through and came out the other side. It kept on going and hit another man, a bystander, in the arm, knocking him off his feet.

There was more yelling, but the shooting was apparently over. Both Masterson and his deputy, Brown, turned their guns on Butler, who was still holding his. They both also saw the man on the floor at the base of the bar. Butler made a show of putting his gun up, holstering it, and showing the ex-lawmen his hands.

“Check him out,” Masterson said to Brown, indicating the man on the roulette wheel layout. He, in turn, approached the man at the base of the bar.

It was suddenly quiet in the saloon, men and women clearing out, making room, reminding Butler of the recent scene in the saloon in Wichita.

“Know ’im?” Masterson called out to Brown.

“Never saw him before. That one?”

Jim Masterson used his foot to turn the body over so he could see his face. He had to look at the right side of his face because the bullet had taken most of the left side with it.

“Don’t know ’im,” he said. “Put up your gun, Neal. It’s all over. Dog, you can get up.”

He turned and looked at Butler, approached him. The men around Butler cleared away, fearing another exchange of bullets.

“You helped me out, friend,” Masterson said. “I’m obliged.”

“He was taking a bead on your back, Marshal.”

“You know who I am?”

“You were pointed out to me,” Butler admitted.

“Name’s Jim Masterson,” he said, putting out his hand, “and it’s ex-marshal.”

“Butler’s my name.” The two men shook hands.

“You wanna join us at our table, wait for the law to show up?” Masterson asked. “I own this place. Drinks ’er on the house.”

Butler smiled and said, “Don’t think I’ve had a better offer since I came to town.”

“And when was that?” Masterson asked.

“Just about an hour ago.”

“You don’t believe in wastin’ any time, do you?” Jim Masterson asked.