Butler's Wager

CHAPTER 52

“When are we gonna make our next move?” Updegraff asked A. J. Peacock.

“As soon as the men I sent for get here.”

“Men? How many are we talkin’ about?”

“As many as we need to do the job.”

“How much is that gonna cost?”

“What do you care, Al?” Peacock asked. “You’re not paying anybody anything. In fact, you’ve made money off all of this.”

“What? How?”

“Oh, come on,” Peacock said, shaking his head. “Don’t make me tell you, Al.”

“Are you callin’ me a thief, Anthony?”

“What if I am?”

The two men faced each other over Peacock’s desk, his face turning red and Updegraff’s jaw thrust out pugnaciously.

“Look,” Peacock said, “step back and take a deep breath. All we have to do is wait for Ruger and his men.”

“You sent for Ruger?” Updegraff asked. “That’s gonna cost—oh, never mind.”

“Right, never mind,” Peacock said. “Whatever it costs is gonna be worth it when I’m sole owner of the Lady Gay.”

“Sole owner?” Updegraff asked. “You mean I ain’t gonna be your partner?”

“I’ve had it with partners,” Peacock said. “What I’ll do is cut you in for a small piece. Let’s start with ten percent, minus whatever you’ve stolen in beer, whiskey, and cash.”

“That ain’t fair!”

“Stop stealing from me and maybe it’ll get fair, Al,” Peacock said. “Just do your job for a while until Ruger gets here and then we’ll see what happens. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

“Then go to work.”

Updegraff headed for the door, but Peacock stopped him by calling his name.

“What?”

“Keep your gun clean,” Peacock said.

“What for?”

“I hired Ruger, that’s true,” Peacock explained, “but we’re gonna get our hands dirty, too.”

“That’s fine with me,” Updegraff said, “as long as I get to pump some lead into Masterson.”

“Oh, yeah? And what’ll you do when his brother finds out?”

“I ain’t afraid of Bat Masterson.”

“I’ll remind you that you said that, Al, when the time comes.”

Updegraff left the office, slamming the door behind him. Peacock sat back in his chair, laced his fingers behind his head. If Al Updegraff thought he was going to take on another partner after he rid himself of Jim Masterson he was in for a big surprise.

Once Jason Ruger got to town, Jim Masterson’s days were numbered, because Ruger didn’t let anything get in his way when he was doing a job he was getting paid for—not even the law.

Butler was not happy about having to kill Ryerson. His only consolation was that it had not been a circus. Word was spreading, but they hadn’t had a big crowd watching them.

He always felt relieved when he killed a man who was trying to kill him, but he never felt satisfied. Killing a man was not something he enjoyed, even though he had been forced into getting good at it.

He stopped at the general store and picked up three more three-for-a-nickel cheroots. He was going to sit in front of the hotel again, relax, keep his back to the wall, and wait for the poker games to get started in the saloon. Tonight he might try the Alhambra. It would be nice to play without having Ryerson looking over his shoulder.

He settled back into his chair—the armchair Ben Thompson had brought out from the lobby.

Marshal Fred Singer entered Mayor A. B. Webster’s office and neither man was very happy.

“That gambler killed a man on the street, Marshal,” Webster said. “He should either be in your jail, or run out of town.”

“In order to do that,” Singer said. “I would have had to go up against Ben Thompson. How would you like to try that, Mayor?”

“It’s not my job to do it, Marshal,” Webster argued, “it’s yours. That’s what you get paid for.”

“You want my badge?” Singer asked. “Is that what you want?”

Webster sat back in his chair and said. “Fred. Close the door, sit down and calm down.”

Singer did as he was asked, but he was still fuming.

“I got word that Peacock has sent for some…assistance,” Webster told him.

“What kind of assistance?”

“The kind that will help him get done what he wants to get done.”

“You mean help getting’ rid of Jim Masterson?”

“I mean help,” Webster said. “I don’t really know what Peacock’s intentions are. Only he knows that.”

“What are you tellin’ me?”

“That I think you did the right thing today,” Webster said. “Upon reflection, I mean.”

“What?”

“Now that I’ve thought about it,” Webster explained. “There was nothing else you could have done.”

Singer looked surprised.

“Thank you, Mayor.”

“And when Peacock makes his move,” Webster went on, “I think you should do the same thing you did today—stay out of it.”

Singer fidgeted in his chair.

“You’re tellin’ me that Peacock has sent for some gunman to handle Jim Masterson for him—and probably Neal Brown—and when they get here you want me to do nothin’?”

“I think it would be in your best interest, and the town’s,” Webster said. “That’s all I’m saying.”

It took Singer a moment to realize that Webster was done talking, and he had been dismissed.

On the boardwalk in front of City Hall Singer fingered the badge of his chest—the badge that had belonged to Jim Masterson. He had nothing against Masterson. At one time he might even have described them as friends. But he knew once he accepted the job as marshal, he and Jim Masterson were on different sides.

What he had to decide now was just how different the sides truly were.