Butler's Wager

CHAPTER 37

Ryerson had his meal in a small café off of Front Street and then went to his hotel. Before going to bed he took the wooden chair from the room and jammed it beneath the doorknob, then put the pitcher and bowl on the windowsill, so no one could open the window without knocking it off. Only when he felt he was safe from being surprised did he lie on the bed, his gun belt on the bedpost within easy reach.

He only needed a few hours, because he had ridden day and night to get to Dodge City.

Butler knew he’d only given M.J. a couple of hours to find something on Ryerson, but he was impatient. The man intrigued him, and he wasn’t sure why. Maybe he’d just had gunman after him for so long, he had to check everybody out.

When he entered the press was going, manned by M.J.’s brother, Lou. Apparently, he’d managed to find his way to work. He waved, received nothing back, and went into the office where M.J. was sitting at the desk.

“I know, I know,” he said, waving a hand, “you need more time—” he started.

“Actually, I don’t,” she said. “I checked and checked but there’s nothing in any western paper about a Kevin Ryerson.”

“What about eastern papers?”

“We don’t have many—”

“I saw a New York Herald in there when I was looking.”

“We have a few, but—”

“Good, then it won’t take you long to check them?”

She frowned.

“All this for a meal?”

“At the restaurant of your choice.”

“Well,” she said, “we could go back to your friend Hank’s place, but I want this meal to cost you, so I choose the Delmonico.”

“You’ve got a deal. I check back with you later.”

“Wait.”

“What?” He stopped at the door.

“How about a word about the shooting this morning?” she asked. “Are you sure you didn’t know any of those men?”

“Didn’t know them,” he said, “and never saw them.”

“Then, can you see any reason for them to try to shoot you?” she asked.

“This is the West, right?” he asked her. “That’s what men out here do, isn’t it? Shoot at each other?”

He left quickly, before she could ask another question.

As Butler came out of the newspaper office he heard his name being called from across the street. He stopped, turned and saw Marshal Fred Singer coming toward him. He waited for the lawman to reach him.

“I’m glad I caught you,” Singer said. “Can you come to my office for a few minutes?”

“What for, Marshal?”

“I just want to have a talk.”

“Actually, I was just going to—”

“I’m makin’ it a request, Butler,” Singer said, “but that could change.”

Butler hesitated a moment, then shrugged and said, “Well, in that case, lead the way.”

Updegraff was heading back to the Lady Gay to talk with his brother-in-law when he was Fred Singer walking with Butler. He watched them just long enough to figure they were going to the lawman’s office, then continued on his way at an increased pace.

“Have a seat,” Singer said.

The marshal’s office was in a two-story brick building. There were several desks for him and his deputies, and the cellblock was on the second floor. It was not typical of any lawman’s office Butler had seen in the past.

Singer hung his hat on a wooden peg on the wall and sat behind his desk. Butler sat in a chair just across from him.

“What’s this about, Marshal?”

“It’s about you, Mr. Butler,” Singer said, “and the possibility that you might be takin’ the wrong side.”

“Am I taking sides?”

“Obviously, you are.”

“Oh, I see,” Butler said. “Because I saw that someone was going to try to bushwhack Jim Masterson and Neal Brown, and I took a hand to stop it, that means I’m taking sides?”

“In this town, it does.”

“You mean this town that has two sides, the Dodge City Gang on one and the Reformers on the other?”

Singer frowned.

“You sound like you’ve been readin’ back issues of our newspaper,” he said.

“And does that put me on one side or the other?”

“Let’s not talk about sides,” Singer said. “Let’s just talk about what’s right for you.”

“And what would that be?”

“I’d say that would be to move on.”

“No room for another gambler in Dodge? Or will you be telling Ben Thompson to move on as well.”

“Ben will move on, eventually.”

“And so will I.”

Singer paused, then said, “Maybe I should just make this a suggestion.”

“All right.”

“I suggest you don’t use your gun again while you’re in Dodge,” the lawman said. “You’ve killed enough men here.”

“Is there a quota?” Butler asked.

“I don’t know what that means,” Singer admitted. “I just don’t want to have to take your gun and put you in a cell.”

“You won’t have to.”

“Good.”

“I won’t kill anyone who isn’t trying to kill me,” Butler said. “How is that?”

“Is that the best I’m gonna get out of you?”

“Best I can do, Marshal,” Butler said. “I’m sure not going to take a bullet because you don’t want me to kill another man. I’ll kill anyone I have to in order to stay alive.”

Butler stood up, stared down at the seated man.

“That I can promise you.”

“I can understand that,” Singer said. “That’s personal. Just don’t be takin’ on anyone else’s problem while you’re here.”

“Is that another suggestion?”

“Let’s make that a piece of advice.”

“I didn’t know giving out advice was part of your job, Marshal,” Butler said.

“It’s a new service offered by the marshal’s office,” Singer told him.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Butler turned to leave, stopped when he got to the door.

“These other desks.”

“Yes?”

“Have you hired your deputies yet for your new office?”

“Don’t worry,” Singer said. “I’ve got deputies.”

“Enough of them?”

“Enough to do the job,” Singer said. “Why? Are you thinkin’ of takin’ on a new profession?”

“Oh, no,” Butler said. “I’m very happy with the one I’ve got. I was just…curious.”

“Good day, Butler,” Singer said. “I hope we won’t have to talk again.”

“Oh, I hope that, too, Marshal,” Butler said. “I surely do.”