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  Keller frowned at the younger man, then admitted to himself that the other man was right. He was the sheriff and it was his damned job to go and talk to McCall, no matter what the consequences might be.

  It was the only time in nine years he didn’t relish being sheriff of Corozon.

  “All right, Clyde,” he said, extending his hand, “give me the damned telegram.”

  Keller stuffed the piece of paper into his breast pocket, the one nearest his badge. He wanted to make sure that McCall saw the star when he took the telegram out again.

  Chapter Two

  McCall was in the bathtub on the first floor, his gun hanging on the back of a chair that he had placed within reach. On the chair was a towel and his fresh clothes. He had a cigar in his mouth, and a bar of soap in his hands. He was lathered up good and proper when there was a knock at the door. Immediately he shifted the soap to his left hand and rinsed off the right as best he could.

  “Come in,” he said around the cigar.

  The door opened and a fat man entered. The first thing he noticed was that the man was fast, but right after that he noticed the badge on the man’s chest.

  “Sheriff,” he said, by way of greeting.

  The sheriff opened his mouth to speak, cleared his throat, and tried again.

  “McCall.”

  McCall once again started washing himself.

  “You the one spread the word around town that I was comin’ to town?”

  “I, uh, knew about it, yeah.”

  “You mind tellin’ me how you knew I was comin’ here when I didn’t even know?”

  “Uh, we got this a few days ago,” the man said.

  “Got what?”

  The sheriff came forward slowly, removing a slip of paper from his shirt pocket. He held it out to McCall, but had to come even closer before the other man could reach it.

  “What is it?” McCall asked, drying his right hand on the towel.

  “A telegram.”

  “For me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Curious. Not only did someone know he was coming, but they had sent him a telegram before he’d even gotten there.

  “Could you unfold it for me, please?”

  “Huh? Oh, sure.”

  Keller unfolded the paper and handed it to McCall that way. McCall held it in one hand and looked at the sheriff.

  “Who’s read this?”

  “Oh, uh, me and the telegraph operator.”

  “No one else?”

  “No, sir.”

  McCall nodded and then read the telegram.

  Keller nervously watched the reaction on McCall’s face.

  It wasn’t every day that a man got a telegram telling him that both of his parents were dead, and Keller didn’t know how a man like Sam McCall would react to news like that. He’d never even thought about a man like Sam McCall—a man with his reputation—even having parents!

  So he watched his face closely, but from McCall’s expression you couldn’t tell what kind of news he was getting.

  McCall took a long time, reading the telegram, reading it a second and third time, keeping his emotions off his face. Actually, he didn’t know what his emotions were. He hadn’t seen his parents in, what, seven years? Maybe more. Learning that they were dead should have affected him somehow. Shock? Sorrow?

  Or was Sam McCall beyond those and any other emotions, after living the kind of life he’d been living all these years?

  McCall put the telegram down on the chair and continued to soap himself.

  “Anythin’ else, Sheriff?”

  “Uh, no, sir,” Keller said. “I mean—uh, how long will you be stayin’ in town, Mr. McCall?”

  “Just long enough to get a drink, some food, and a good night’s sleep. I’ll be headin’ out in the mornin’.”

  “Well, good. I mean—”

  “I know what you mean, Sheriff,” McCall said. “I told your deputy I’m not looking for trouble, and I’m not.”

  The sheriff nodded, tried to think of something else to say, and then started backing out of the room.

  As the man reached the door and turned to leave, McCall called out, “Sheriff!” making the fat man jump.

  “Yessir?” Keller didn’t turn, he just hunched his shoulders and waited.

  “Much obliged for the telegram.”

  Keller let out the breath he was holding and said, “Sure, Mr. McCall, sure,” and hurriedly left.

  When McCall was finished with his bath he went back to his room and read the telegram again. Still unsure about how he felt, he knew one thing: when a man’s family is killed, he ought to do something about it. He figured he should find his two brothers, Evan and Jubal, head on back home to Vengeance Creek, and find out just what the hell happened.

  He looked at the telegram again and saw that it had been sent by Dude Miller. He remembered Dude well, a friend of his father’s who ran a business in the town of Vengeance Creek.

  He was going to have to ask Dude how he knew where to find him, but of course, that question would take a back seat to the obvious question.

  How had his parents been killed?

  He decided that in the morning he would leave the sheriff an answer to the telegram, to have the key operatorsend when he opened the office. That way he could get an early start and not have to worry about letting Dude know that he and the boys were coming.

  He folded up the telegram and put it in his breast pocket. Now that he was bathed and dressed in fresh clothes, his stomach and throat were demanding their satisfaction.

  He left the room in search of a meal and a drink.

  When Keller got back to his office he found Bob Collins and Clyde Wexler waiting there.

  “Well?” Collins asked.

  “Well, what?” Keller asked. He walked nonchalantly to his desk and sat down. He’d just faced Sam McCall, given him bad news, and left without a scratch. He was feeling mighty fine.

  “What happened?” Collins asked.

  “What did he say?” Wexler asked.

  Keller looked up at both of them and said, “He said, ‘much obliged.—”

  “That’s all?” Wexler asked.

  Keller nodded.

  Wexler looked at Collins and said, “Damn, I coulda done it.”

  McCall walked the street until he spotted a small café. He went in and got himself some steak and potatoes, some biscuits, and some good, strong coffee. It was the best meal he’d had in weeks.

  Nothing special had taken him to Corozon in the first place, except the fact that he was drifting in that direction. Matter of fact, he’d been drifting for a long time, ever since he’d first left home when he was seventeen. At that age he’d fancied himself a hand with a gun and had left home to prove it. Well, he’d proved it, all right. Inthose days he was fast with a gun, and just mean enough to use it when the whim struck him. He didn’t learn the right of it until he was in his late twenties. That was when he truly grew up, but by that time it was too late, he was already “Sam McCall.”

  For the past fifteen years or so he’d been trying to live down the sins of the first ten years. Unfortunately, even during that time he’d managed to find his share of trouble and add to the early reputation. He tried things like riding shotgun, and even wearing a badge for a while, to try and change his image, but all that did was add to the image. Dime novels were written about him, mentioning his days as a gunman, his days riding shotgun for Wells Fargo, his experiences as a lawman and a bounty hunter. It all mixed together to make him a real romantic figure in the eyes of some, and simply something deadly, someone to be avoided, in the eyes of others—like the people of Corozon.

  The waitress who served him was as nervous as the liveryman and the clerk had been. When he left the café to find the saloon, men and women avoided him, and children pointed at him until their parents pulled them away.

  When he reached the saloon and entered he didn’t pause to acknowledge the stares of the other patrons. He simply walked to the b
ar and ordered a cold beer.

  As he’d entered he had seen sitting at a back table the two men he’d previously seen standing outside his hotel. He was now in a position to watch them in the mirror behind the bar while he quenched his thirst with the first beer and ordered a second.

  His original intention had been as he had told the deputy, to avoid trouble. His feeling now, however, was that if these two yahoos wanted trouble, all they had to do was ask.

  He reckoned maybe hearing about the death of his parents had affected him to some degree after all.

  He was angry and looking to take it out on someone.

  “Now what do we do?” Butler asked Weeks as McCall walked in.

  “Get up real slow-like and move to the other side of the room,” Weeks said. “We’ll catch him in a crossfire.”

  “Right.”

  Weeks put his hand on Butler’s arm.

  “Do it slow. Find a table and sit down and don’t move until I do.”

  “Right.”

  McCall saw one of the men stand up and walk slowly across the room, then sit down at another table. He realized that from this position they would have him in a crossfire.

  He called the bartender over.

  “Yes, sir,” the man said, eyeing McCall’s half-finished beer. “Is something wrong?”

  “You got a shotgun behind the bar?”

  The man sized McCall up for a moment and then decided to answer.

  “Sure.”

  “What kind?”

  “Greener?”

  “Side by side?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is it?”

  “It’s under the bar, over—”

  “Don’t point.”

  The man held his hand down by his side.

  “Can I reach it from here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Walk over and stand in front of it for a moment, then move away.”

  “Is—is something gonna happen?”

  “I’d bet on it,” McCall answered. He saw the look on the man’s face and said, “Don’t worry. Just stand where the shotgun is and then get ready to duck.”

  “O-okay.”

  Slowly, the bartender moved about four feet to McCall’s left, stood there a moment, then walked all the way to McCall’s right.

  McCall slid his beer down along the bar until he reached the point where the shotgun was and waited, watching the two men in the mirror.

  At one point he thought about making for the door, wondering how far he’d get, but in the end he stayed put.

  The other people in the saloon slowly came to the realization that something was in the air. Some of them got up and left, others moved to tables at one side of the room or the other, until the center of the room was virtually empty. Now there would be no innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire.

  McCall alternately watched the man to his right and left until finally the one on the right moved. His move was the signal to the man on the left, who was a split second behind’there was just enough time.

  McCall turned to his right, and as he drew his gun with his right hand he reached over and behind the bar with his left, hoping that the bartender had been telling the truth.

  He had.

  McCall fired as the man on the right did. The man hurried his shot and missed, and McCall’s shot traveled straight and true, ventilating the man through the heart. With the shotgun in his left hand he pointed toward the second man, who was just drawing his gun, and fired bothbarrels. The impact of the blast picked the man up and tossed him against the wall. As he fell he left a red smear behind him.

  The bartender, who had ducked behind the bar, stood up, staring at McCall.

  McCall laid the shotgun on top of the bar and said, “Thanks.”

  “S-sure.”

  He walked over to the first man to check him. That the second man was dead was obvious, but he didn’t know for sure that the first man was dead until he leaned over him, his gun still in his hand. Satisfied, he stood up and looked around the room.

  The attention of the onlookers was split among the three men, two dead and one standing. McCall was waiting to see if the dead men had any friends before he holstered his gun. He was still standing over the dead man when the batwing doors swung inward and Sheriff Keller walked in, trailed by Deputy Bob Collins.

  “What the hell happened here?” Keller blustered, and then he saw McCall and seemed to withdraw a bit.

  “Bartender,” McCall said, holstering his gun, “tell the sheriff what happened.”

  McCall started for the door and stopped when he was alongside Keller.

  “I’ll be in my hotel room, Sheriff.”

  Keller stared at McCall, and then looked at the two dead men.

  “I told you I wasn’t lookin’ for trouble,” McCall said.

  “Unfortunately, these two were.”

  In his hotel room McCall ejected the spent shell from his .44 and loaded in a live one. That done, he removed the holster and hung the gun on the bedpost. He took the pitcher and bowl from the dresser and balanced it onthe windowsill. If someone tried to enter that way, the pitcher and bowl would fall, warning him.

  He removed his boots and stretched out on the bed, then removed the telegram from his pocket and read it again. No date, no details, just the briefest of messages:

  SAM MCCALL,

  MOTHER AND FATHER DEAD. ADVISE YOU COME TO VENGEANCE CREEK.

  DUDE MILLER

  Obviously, Dude Miller wanted Sam McCall to come to Vengeance Creek. That could only mean that Joshua and Mary McCall had not died of natural causes.

  In the morning he’d start looking for his brother Evan. Evan was a gambler, and Sam knew of just so many poker games that would attract a gambler of his brother’s caliber.

  After he found Evan, he and Sam, who was the older brother, would look for little brother Jubal. Then they’d go to Vengeance Creek together and find out what happened. All he had to do was hope that he got to his brothers

  All he had to do was hope that he got to his brothers before they went and got themselves killed.

  Chapter Three

  Evan McCall examined the cards on the table very carefully—not only his own, but everyone else’s. In addition, he remembered the cards that had already been folded. His excellent memory was just one of the things that made him such a good gambler.

  That, and his patience.

  He had been sitting in this game for four hours waiting for the right hand to come along, and this was it.

  The man across from him was the only one at the table who was winning more than he. That man’s name was Luke Short. Also sitting at the table were Bat Masterson, Dick Stark, Jack Foxx and Carl Dekker. Of all the other men, Masterson was the only one who was even. Stark and Foxx were losing with grace, but Carl Dekker was losing and not liking it one bit.

  Evan McCall had played poker with Short and Masterson before. This was the first time he’d played with the other three. He didn’t mind Stark and Foxx, but Dekker’s whining was getting on his nerves.

  As for this hand, he and Short and Dekker were still in it. The others had folded and were watching the proceedings with great interest.

  All six men had come to San Francisco for the express purpose of taking part in this game, which was now in its third day. The place was a hotel suite at the Alhambra Hotel. The management had supplied the suite at no cost, because it enjoyed having men of such caliber as guests.

  Besides, whatever they won at poker some of them usually lost in the casino.

  Evan sat back now and regarded his opponent’s cards. Dekker was still in the game with a pair of kings on the table. Short had tens, which Evan considered more of a threat than the other man’s kings. A third king had already been folded, while the other two tens were apparently still at large.

  On the table directly in front of him he had a pair of threes. On the board he was low man, but he had that feeling.

  “It’s your bet, Dekker,” Masterson sai
d. He was the dealer.

  “This is one hand I ain’t losin’,” Dekker said. He picked up some chips and tossed them into the pot. “Two hundred.” The next bet was Evan’s. They still had one more card to come, so Evan simply called.

  “I raise two hundred,” Luke Short said.

  “Ha!” Dekker said, “I call.”

  Masterson looked at Evan, who said, “Call.”

  “Comin’ out,” Masterson said, and dealt out the seventh card facedown.

  “Your bet, Dekker.”

  “Five hundred,” Dekker said, without hesitation.

  All eyes turned to Evan. He took his time, looking at his hole cards even though he knew what they were.

  “McCall?” Masterson said.

  Evan wished that Short were betting before him, but he decided to go ahead and raise.

  “I raise five hundred,” he said, tossing the chips into the pot.

  “With threes?” Dekker asked, incredulous. “Even if you’ve got three of them—”

  “Can we have a little less talk?” Luke Short asked.

  Dekker glared at Short, but fell silent.

  “It’s a thousand to you, Luke,” Masterson said.

  “Call the thousand,” Short said, “and raise.”

  “A thousand?” Dekker demanded.

  “That’s the raise,” Short said.

  Dekker, sweating profusely, examined the small stacks of chips in front of him. It was quite clear to everyone that he didn’t have the thousand.

  “Dekker?” Masterson said.

  “Gimme a minute!” Irritably, Dekker looked at his hole cards. “My credit—”

  “No credit,” Masterson said.

  “I can get the money—”

  “We play with what we have in this room,” Masterson reminded him.

  The only time any of them left the room was when they all took a break or suspended play for a rest period. At that time they were able to replenish their cash supply, if they had to. No one, however, left the room during the game. If they did, they were not allowed back.

  “You know the rules, Dekker.”

  “But I don’t have another thousand!”

  Masterson looked away from him to Evan McCall.

  “It’s your bet.”

  “Wait a minute—” Dekker said, standing up.