Ever been there?”

“No.”

“When the locals held a vote to name the town, a bunch from Raleigh said they could get families to move here if they named it Raleigh. They won the vote, but the folks here pronounced it Rolla, and that’s how it’s been ever since.”

“I wonder why you think I care,” she said.

“It’d be like if you move to Newton and everyone there calls you Feeba.”

“That’s absurd. I wouldn’t stand for it.”

“Not much you could do about it, I s’pect.”

I tied Major to the rail in front of Miss Patty’s, and Phoebe slid off the saddle.

“I’m glad you did that,” I said.

“What, dismounted?”

“Yup.”

“Why?”

“Well, to tell the truth, I wasn’t quite sure how to help you down. I never seen anyone ride side saddle before. Makes for a comfortable ride, I s’pect, if a woman’s bottom is narrow enough to fit.”

“Mr. Love, I suggest you keep such thoughts about women’s bottoms to yourself.”

“Well, it’s a compliment, really, to have such a nice one.”

“Am I to expect similar comments from the men in Kansas? Or is just your mouth that’s as foul as a soldier’s latrine?”

I smiled. “I s’pect most Kansas men should know a fine rear end when they see one. Whether they’ll comment on it as honestly as me is another issue.”

“That’s enough!” she said, though I could swear she seemed about to smile while sayin’ it.

“Emmett?”

I turned to see Hollis Ford walkin’ toward us, Hollis bein’ Sheriff of Phelps County.

I said, “Hollis.”

Hollis wore his gun belt low, his holster tied to his leg with a rawhide strap.

“You puttin’ together another haul?” he said.

“I plan to.”

“There’s been a few askin’ about you. Two or three at Shingle’s, a few more at Lick and Casey’s.”

“I’ll speak to ’em. Any mail orders?”

Hollis looked at Phoebe. “Looks like you found the one I know about. She goin’ with you?”

“She is.”

Hollis was quiet a moment. “I see you’re heeled.”

“Thought it wise.”

“There’s no trouble here that I know about.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Holllis went quiet again, content to stare at me. I stared back. Then he said, “When you plan to head out?”

Thing is, I don’t like folks to know when I’m leavin’ a place. As a known gun hand, I sometimes ruffle feathers in the towns I visit, and them that know when I’m leavin’ might set out to bushwhack me.

“Wednesday, after breakfast,” I said, knowin’ it weren’t true.

“Around nine?”

“Probably closer to ten.”

“I’ll spread the word.”

“I’d be obliged,” I said.

He gave me a long, slow look, then tipped his hat to Phoebe, and said, “Ma’am.”

Phoebe nodded, and Hollis turned and walked away.

 


 

 

 

6.

 

The tall, lanky kid had on a silly lookin’ hat.

“You Emmett Love?” he said.

“I am.”

“You can’t have our whores,” he said.

He must a’been waitin’ for me to show up, since I’d only got ten feet inside Shingle’s Dance Hall before he stepped in front of me.

“You can keep all them that want to stay,” I said.

“They all wanna stay.”

A few locals edged around us, close enough to hear, but far enough so they could jump out the way if bullets started flyin’.

I said, “Wanna bet?”

“Huh?”

“I bet you five dollars at least two whores will want to come with me.”

He stiffened. “Guess we’ll never know, will we?”

“Not ’til I ask ’em,” I said.

He gave me a squint-eyed look and said, “I heard you’re the best rifleman in Missouri. That true?”

“Probably.”

“Better than Vince Tuttle?”

“I don’t know Mr. Tuttle.”

“Well, Vince Tuttle can shoot the hair off a gnat’s ass.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

I nodded. “Well then, yeah, I’m better than Vince Tuttle.”

“You don’t know the man, how can you say that?”

“Vince may be hittin’ gnat hair, but trust me, he’s shootin’ at gnat. If I’m shootin’ gnat, there’ll be gnat for supper.”

There was chucklin’ all around us, and the tall, lanky kid’s face turned red. He said, “Even if you’re the best rifleman in all creation it don’t matter.”

“It don’t?”

“Nope.”

“Why’s that?”

He pointed at the six gun in my holster and smiled. “’Cause you ain’t carryin’ one.”

“Well, it’s hard to swing a rifle around a bar and shoot all three of you at the same time.”

“What three?”

“You, the guy sittin’ at the table with the pocket watch in front of him, and the guy hidin’ upstairs, behind me.”

“You can’t even see him!”

“Don’t need to, son. This is what I do.”

He puffed his chest up a bit. “It’s what I do, too. And anyways, I don’t need my cousins to back my play if it’s just you ’n me with hand guns.”

“Been practicin’, have you?”

“I have.”

“Around the farm?”

His face reddened again.

“Ain’t no shame in that,” I said. “Every great shootist I ever met started on a farm or ranch, shootin’ fruit, vegetables, cans, and varmints.”

He nodded.

I said, “You hittin’ most of them apples and squashes you set on your fence post?”

“I hit all of ’em,” he said, proudly. “Ever’ time.