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the third fella who’s tried to ventilate you and wound up dead his own self instead. I reckon this must be a pretty common thing for you, Jensen.”
    â€œMore so than I’d like,” Luke said. “It’s a hazard of the job, I suppose. When you put men in prison for a living, some of them are going to get out eventually and carry a grudge.”
    â€œHuh. Imagine that. You wouldn’t have to worry about problems like that if you just killed ’em all and brung in their bodies. That’s what most bounty hunters do, ain’t it?”
    â€œI can only speak for myself, Marshal,” Luke said. “I don’t kill a man unless he forces me to it . . . or unless he becomes really annoying.”
    He was joshing about that last part, but Donovan looked like he believed him and Luke didn’t bother correcting the mistaken impression.
    Luke had dried off and dressed in his spare underwear, shirt, and trousers while he was waiting in the hotel’s washroom for the marshal to arrive. He had the Remington tucked into his waistband now, since his gun rig was still back in his room.
    Jefferson Beale stood to one side, all but wringing his hands as he looked upset that such a thing could have happened in his establishment.
    â€œI don’t know how this is possible,” he said. “I didn’t see this man come in, and I was at the desk the entire time.”
    â€œYou have a rear door, don’t you?” Luke asked.
    â€œWell, yes. I suppose that’s the explanation. This man saw you in the saloon, recognized you, followed you over here, and sneaked in the back to see if he could find you. It was your bad luck that he did . . . and his bad luck that he probably considered you defenseless since you were in the bathtub. In the poor light he might not have noticed that you were armed.”
    â€œI’ll take every bit of luck on my side I can get,” Luke said.
    â€œYou ain’t plannin’ on killin’ anybody else while you’re here, are you?” Marshal Donovan said.
    â€œI didn’t plan on killing any of those three,” Luke told him.
    Donovan nodded toward the dead man who was still lying on the floor. He had sent Hardy to fetch the undertaker, but the boy hadn’t returned yet.
    â€œWhat’s this one’s name?”
    Luke opened his mouth, then frowned before saying anything. When he spoke, he had to restrain the impulse to chuckle.
    â€œYou know, I have no earthly idea. He said I was responsible for him spending five years in a Texas prison for rustling, but he never mentioned his name or how long ago that was.”
    â€œAnd you’ve put so many hombres behind bars you don’t remember most of ’em.”
    â€œSad but true,” Luke admitted.
    With a clatter of rapid footsteps, Hardy came down the hall from the lobby, trailed by a short, plump man in a sober black suit. The boy’s companion bore a certain resemblance to the bartender in the Three of a Kind, and Luke wondered if they were related. Brothers, maybe.
    â€œI told Herbert to take my wagon around back,” the newcomer said as he looked down at the corpse. “That’ll be closer and handier, and I didn’t figure you’d want us carting him out through the lobby anyway, Jefferson. That would look a mite bad.”
    â€œI appreciate that,” Beale said. “Anyone in the hotel business knows you’re going to have guests die from time to time, but that’s no reason to call attention to it.”
    â€œThis fella wasn’t a guest,” Donovan said. “Just another would-be killer who ran up against somebody better with a gun.” He looked at Luke. “You want me to go through my stack of wanted posters and see if he’s got any bounty on his head?”
    â€œThat would be very kind of you, Marshal.”
    Donovan sighed and said, “Man oughta collect what he’s owed . . . even if he earned it