Butler's Wager

CHAPTER 3

The two men at the bar in the Gold Room watched as Tyler Butler faced off against the young kid, with the older gambler backing his play—or the other way around. Either way, the two men had managed to disarm the kid and send him packing.

“Damn,” the first man said.

“What?”

“I wanted to see his move.”

“What does it matter?” the second man asked. “We’re gonna bushwack him, anyway. I’m just glad the kid didn’t kill ’im, because then our bounty woulda went up in smoke.”

“Still,” the first man said, “after hearin’ so much about this guy, I kinda wanted to see his move.”

Dutch Miller stared at his partner, Ben Johnson, and said, “I tell you what, Ben. You call him out. This way you’ll get to see his move. And if he kills you, I’ll gun him.”

“Sure, you’d like that,” Dutch said. “Get to keep the reward for yerself, that way.”

“Okay,” Dutch said, “so if yer not gonna face ’im, stop your jabberin’. Let’s get outside and get ready.”

As they headed for the door Ben asked, “What if the other gambler comes out with ’im?”

“If he gets in the way,” Dutch said, “we’ll do for him, too. Now let’s go.”

Butler stepped up onto the boardwalk and melted into the shadows. His hotel was on this side of the street, a couple of blocks up. He wondered if the shooter would run ahead to wait for him, or if there’d be a second one there?

In Cleveland a guy had tried for him from a rooftop with a rifle in broad daylight. His mistake. There was a policeman nearby who got to him even before Butler could.

In Chicago one single man had tried for him, but he’d tried it out in the open and Butler had beaten him to the draw.

In St. Jo, Missouri they’d sent two shooters after him. He’d gotten both of them, but not before a lot of running and ducking and taking a bullet in the left arm.

In Abilene, just a month or so ago, three men had tracked him for miles, but they waited too long. By the time they tried for him he’d met up with his friend Mickey O’Day. Between the two of them they’d dispatched the three gunmen, unable to take any of them alive.

Now he was wondering to himself, what was it this time, one or two?

There was a time in Wichita when, on any given night, you wouldn’t hear a shotgun blast in the middle of the street because of the noise coming from all the saloons. Even now the patrons in the Gold Room were too busy to hear a single gunshot—all of them except Three-Eyed Jack. His ears were attuned to all sorts of sounds, and he was able to differentiate them from one another. He could hear the piano, the cooing of the saloon girls to the customers, trying to get them to buy another drink or go upstairs. He could hear money or chips hitting the faro table, and the sound of the ball bouncing around on the roulette wheel, looking for a place to rest.

And he knew a single gunshot when he heard one.

Butler made his way along the street toward his hotel, gun in hand. It didn’t sound like he was being followed, but as experienced as he got year after year at handling himself in these situations, the assassins were also becoming more and more adept. Sooner or later he was going to run into one who had developed a little more quickly than him, and he’d meet his match and maker on the same night.

But hopefully, not tonight.

“You missed, didn’t you?” Dutch asked Ben.

“Yeah, I did,” Ben admitted, “but why’d you tell me not to take a second shot if I did?”

“Because I knew you’d miss.”

“What? You sayin’ you’re a better shot than I am?” Ben demanded.

“With a rifle, yeah,” Dutch said, “but you got it all over me with a handgun, Ben.”

“Then why’d you make me take a shot with a rifle?”

“Because I wanted you to herd him down here, to his hotel,” Dutch explained. “This is where we’re gonna take ’im.”

“But now he’s warned.”

“No,” Dutch said, “he’ll think that kid poker player took a shot and missed. He’ll write it off as a drunk sore loser, and he’ll go to his room. He’ll be there waitin’ for us.”

“But if he’s waitin’—”

“I didn’t really mean he’d be waitin’ on us,” Dutch said quickly. “He’ll just be waitin’ there for us to kill.”

He could tell from Ben’s face that the man was totally confused.

“It don’t matter,” Dutch said. “You do just like I say and we’ll earn our bounty tonight.”

“Good,” Ben said. “I need me some money—Look, that him? Here he comes.”

“Just relax,” Dutch said. “We got to give him time to get settled.”

The one thing Butler wasn’t going to do tonight was get settled.

His guess was someone was in the saloon watching him, saw what happened with the banker’s son, decided to take a shot at him thinking he’d figure it was the young sore loser. Butler had gotten real good at guessing the intentions of these assassins, and judging solely by the fact that he was still alive, his instincts had yet to fail him.

He finally made his way to the front door of his hotel without further incident and entered carefully. The desk clerk looked up at him curiously as he approached the desk.

“Has anyone been looking for me, today or tonight?” he asked the young man.

“No, sir, Mr. Butler,” the man said. “I ain’t seen nobody, all day or all night.”

“All right,” Butler said. “Thanks.”

The clerk looked down at the gun, which Butler had forgotten he was holding in his hand.

“Is there some problem, sir?”

“No,” Butler said, holstering the weapon. “No problem. At least, not one with the hotel. I’ll be checking out come morning.”

“Yes, sir. Good night, sir.”

Butler went up to his room, hoping that whoever the assassins were they’d come for him soon. He needed to get some sleep if he was going to get an early start.