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like gettin’ shot at to sober a girl up, huh?”
    â€œOr a man, for that matter,” Clint said. They had entered the hotel lobby and were walking to the stairs. “You did really well, by the way.”
    â€œThanks,” she said. “That’s a big compliment comin’ from you.”
    â€œAnd you thanked me for it,” Clint said. “See? You’re learning.”
    When they got to the second floor, he walked her to her door. They stopped there.
    â€œWell . . .” she said.
    â€œI’ll talk to the sheriff in the morning about getting to see the mayor,” he said. “I’ll keep my word.”
    â€œI figured you would.”
    â€œWould you like to have breakfast together in the morning?” he asked.
    â€œI’d like that,” she said.
    â€œIn the lobby at eight?” he asked.
    â€œSounds good.”
    â€œWell,” he said, “I’m just down the hall. Good night.”
    â€œGood night.”
    As he walked to his door, she put the key in hers, unlocked it, opened it, and went inside.

ELEVEN
    Clint got as far as taking off his gun belt when there was a knock on his door. He removed the gun from the holster, dropping the belt on the bed, and went to the door.
    â€œWho is it?”
    â€œDakota.”
    He opened the door, holding the gun in plain sight. She stood in the hall, hands clasped in front of her, looking a lot younger than her thirty-six years. She had not removed any of her clothes or her gun belt.
    â€œIs something wrong?” he asked.
    â€œYes,” she said. “Can I come in?”
    â€œSure.”
    He backed away to let her enter, then took a quick look in the hall before closing the door and turning to face her.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?”
    â€œYou were about to do something in the street before the shooting started,” she said. “Do you remember?”
    â€œI remember.”
    â€œWell . . . it’s still been a long time for me,” she said. “Do you think you could do it . . . now?”
    Sheriff Dekker finished going through the dead man’s pockets and came up empty.
    â€œAlbert, you didn’t take anythin’ off him, did you?” he asked the undertaker.
    â€œThat’s a insult, Sheriff,” the man said.
    â€œAlbert . . .”
    The old man rubbed his hands together, making a dry, raspy sound, and said, “I did take a few dollars from him. Ya know, ta pay for the burial.”
    â€œI don’t care about the money, Albert,” Dekker said. “I’m lookin’ for somethin’ that’ll tell me who he is or where he’s from. All I know is that he’s a stranger in town.”
    â€œWell, I ain’t taken anythin’ like that, Sheriff.”
    â€œYou sure you didn’t take, say, a letter so you could write to the family and ask for more money?”
    â€œI swear, Sheriff,” the man said. “I didn’t take nothin’ but a few—mebbe five dollars.”
    â€œWell,” Dekker said, “he musta been sittin’ with somebody in the saloon. All right, Albert. I’m done.”
    Albert walked the sheriff to the door, locked it when the lawman stepped outside. Dekker figured no one was going to admit to sitting with the man, not after he’d tried to back-shoot the Gunsmith. He decided to save his questions for the bartender until the morning, then went home to get some sleep. Tomorrow there would likely be more hunters—most of them amateurs—coming to town in response to the bounty.
    Wait until they found the mayor was raising it.
    Jack Fiddler heard the shooting from his camp, but didn’t bother going to see what was going on. It wasn’t any of his business. His business was the Wendigo, and that was all he was concerned with. He pulled his blanket around him and moved closer to the fire. That old horse of his would warn him if anybody came close to camp. He was asleep in