CHAPTER 39

When Butler walked into the White Elephant Saloon he could see from the door the look of relief on Jerry the bartender’s face.

As he reached the bar Jerry said, “I was startin’ to think you was dead.”

“I’ll take a beer and we’ll drink to me still being alive,” Butler said.

“Suits me.”

As he was waiting for his beer a hand came down on his shoulder from behind. He turned quickly, thinking it was Sutherland, but it was Luke Short.

“Where the hell have you been?” He asked the question without rancor.

“I had some errands.”

“Where?”

“Hell’s Half Acre.”

“What the hell—”

“Have a beer and I’ll fill you in.”

Later Short said, “You’re crazy, do you know that? You could’ve got yourself killed.”

“Well, somebody got killed, all right,” Butler observed.

“Jesus,” Short said, “I’ve got to watch what I say from now on. Threaten to blow one person’s head off and suddenly there’s an epidemic.”

“The sheriff is going to come looking for you again,” Butler said. “Get yourself a good alibi.”

“I’ve got one,” Short said. “I was here this whole time, right out in front of people.”

“We better talk to Al Newman again, just in case,” Butler said.

“I can’t ask him to help again,” Short said.

“You didn’t ask him last time,” Butler pointed out, “I did.”

“Well, nothing’s happened yet,” Short said. “Let’s just wait and see. Meanwhile, what do we do about Sutherland?”

“He’s either going to come looking for me,” Butler said, “or send somebody.”

“Why wouldn’t he take you down himself?”

“He had a shot at me tonight,” Butler said, “and he didn’t take it. There must be a reason. I’m thinking he’s going to send some friends to look for me.”

“Meanwhile, what’s he going to be doing?” Short asked.

“I don’t know what’s on his mind now,” Butler said. “The man who was paying him is dead. Unless he’s suddenly got more ambition, Sutherland’s pretty much just a gunman for hire.”

“Maybe,” Short said, “if he starts making his own decisions, he’ll make some mistakes.

“Oh, he’s made plenty of mistakes, already,” Butler said. “He missed me once, and he killed his boss. Now he’s killed Zeke, the bartender. And I was able to find him.”

“Do you think you can find him again?” Short asked.

“I wish I knew more about him,” Butler said. “If he’s got any kind of smarts, he’d set himself up somewhere and wait for me to find him again. Maybe get some help.”

“So if he does that, and sets up an ambush, what are you going to do? Walk right into it?”

“I could do that,” Butler said, “but then we’d have to have something set up, too.”

“Like what?”

“Well, we don’t know much about him, but we do know that we’re smart,” Butler said. “We just have to think about it.”

Sutherland had a small room above a dockside saloon that catered only to seamen. He never went down there. He didn’t like seamen, but he figured nobody would look for him there.

He entered his room and locked the door behind him. He was still holding the bottle of whiskey in his left hand. He’d kept his right hand free in case he had to go for his gun.

He went to the window and stared down at the docks. He was only a two-block walk from Rosie’s, but he wasn’t planning on going back there for a while.

He took a deep swallow from the whiskey bottle and turned away from the window. He had to think, and he was the first to admit this wasn’t his strong suit. He was a man of action, with somebody else usually doing the thinking, just pointing him in the right direction. But he’d killed Ed Cramer, and there was only one other man in Fort Worth who regularly had use for his talents. He could go to that man and ask for guidance, but he decided to try and think it out himself, first.

He took the bottle of whiskey to bed with him, sucked on it until it was empty, and fell asleep.

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