guys like him before. They blow into some little town, throw their weight around, then blow on out a couple months later. Itâs no big deal. Besides, Iâm thinking of going to Montana.â He drank half the beer in one long swallow.
âMaybe you ought to stop thinking about it, and just do it.â
âYou think Iâm scared of him?â He sipped more slowly now.
âI think you should be. Deak, Iâm telling you, the man is pure poison. You donât know the half of it.â
âI know enough. But what the hell, Pete. It just adds a little spice, you know? Like some damn leathery stew a mess cookâll throw together when heâs running out of everything but flour and beans. Whatâs he do? He throws some spices in, covers up a lot of sins that way. Lifeâs like that. A little spice never hurt nothing. Not me, anyhow.â
âThis could do more than hurt you. This guyâs got a mean streak in him a yard wide, Deak. I donât know you very well, but youâve always been straight with me. You pay your tab, and you donât make no more trouble than you have to, I guess. I donât want to see nothing happen to you. Thatâs all Iâm saying.â
âI appreciate it, Pete. Truly. But I let this guy run me out of town, I canât never shave again, because I wouldnât be able to look at myself in the mirror. Can you imagine me with whiskers? Well, can you?â
âThat would sure enough be an awful sight, Deak.â
âThere you go. See, I got to stay.â He downed the last of his drink and slid the mug across the bar. âGive me another beer, would you?â
In silence, Slayton finished his second beer and started on a third while Largo went into the back to check his stock. He tried to keep up a running conversation, but Deak couldnât hear him very well, and it hurt his head to shout, so he said good-bye and drifted on out of the saloon.
The sun was full out, and it was getting hot, hotter than it should be, almost, for the time of year. Wyoming wasnât supposed to feel like Texas, even in late July. But it did. Deak was working up a half decent sweat as he walked up the street.
When he got to The Hanginâ Tree, he debated going in, decided not, until he spotted Kinkaid through the open door of the marshalâs office. He shrugged and changed course. Climbing onto the boardwalk, he dropped into a chair and leaned back against the wall. He could hear the piano tinkling inside and pulled his pocket watch out. It was almost noon, kind of early for the buzzing in his ears. He wondered if he had managed to sleep off the nightâs drinking after all. Three beers shouldnât have been enough to make his ears ring like that.
After a couple of minutes, Kinkaid appeared in the door of his office. He leaned against the door frame. He wasnât wearing a jacket today, and Deak noticed how Kinkaidâs gun sat easy on his hip, just out of reach of his fingertips. There was something about the marshal made him feel just a bit uncomfortable.
In the back of his mind, the truth kept gnawing at him. What it was, was Pete Largo was right. Kinkaid did have it in for him, and he knew it. He didnât know why, but that scarcely mattered. No man worth his salt would let himself be cowed, even by a man with a badge. Maybe this was the time to let Kinkaid know it. He thought about it for a long time, the marshal just leaning there in the doorway, staring at him.
It was unnerving, and Deak didnât have the stomach for that kind of thing so early. He didnât mind a good brawl, but bare knuckles was one thing and going toe to toe with a trigger-happy badge was something else again.
Rather than withstand the pressure of those flat, black, and unblinking eyes, Deak got up and went inside. He didnât look back over his shoulder, even after the door closed behind him, but he knew the marshal was grinning. And that
Learning to Kill: Stories