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to you later.”
    “I’ll be at your table.”
     
    Butler was dealing and winning as Bat Masterson entered the saloon about an hour later.
    “Close it up,” he said as he came by the table. He continued on to the bar to wait.
    Butler closed the table despite the protests of the players and joined Bat at the bar.
    “What happened?”
    “I found the kid in the back room of the saloon,” Bat said, accepting a beer from the bartender.
    “What happened to him?”
    “He’s dead,” Bat said. “Caught a stray bullet right in the throat. He never had a chance.”
    “Jesus.” Butler asked the bartender for a beer. “I’m sorry, Bat.”
    “You know what really gets me?”
    “What?”
    “I was the only one firing in that direction,” Bat said. “Must’ve been my bullet.”
    “Well, for one thing,” Butler said, “I don’t think you missed, and for another thing, I was also firing that way. So don’t take it on yourself. Might have been me.”
    “I never should’ve pinned a badge on him, as green as he was,” Bat lamented.
    “He was old enough to know what he was doing.”
    “Yeah, I know,” Bat said, “but that don’t make me feel any better.” He put his beer on the bar half finished. “I got a bottle of whiskey in my room. I’m gonna turn in. You do what you want.”
    “All right,” Butler said. “See you in the morning.”
    Bat waved and left the saloon, his shoulders slumped.
    The bartender, Roscoe, came over.
    “I heard,” he said. “Too bad.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Dean was a nice kid, but Bat was right,” Roscoe said. “He never shoulda been wearin’ a badge.”
    “Maybe not,” Butler said, “but Bat can’t take that all on himself.” He picked up his beer. “I’m going to play some more poker.”
    Roscoe nodded, picked up Bat’s unfinished beer, and wiped down the bar with a rag.

CHAPTER 13
    Bat was hung over. He had killed a bottle of whiskey that had been half full, and then tumbled into bed. When he woke his head was pounding. It had been a week and he still felt bad about Dean Collier getting killed. He was standing at the bar drinking strong black coffee when Butler came down from his room.
    ”’morning, Bat.”
    Bat grunted. Butler signaled to Roscoe, pointing to the cup in Bat’s hand and then to himself. He was still communicating well with bartenders, because moments later he had a cup of coffee in his hand, too.
    “Bad night?” he asked Bat.
    “Worse mornin’,” Bat grumbled.
    “Bat, you can’t still blame yourself—”
    Bat raised his hand and said, “One problem at a time. First I’ve got to get rid of this headache.”
    Butler could sympathize. He’d woken up plenty of mornings feeling just like that.
    “I’m going to go and get some breakfast,” Butler said.
    “You go,” Bat said, waving. “I can’t even think about food right now.”
    “I’ll see you later.”
    “I won’t need you for that table till later tonight,” Bat said as he went out the door.
    Butler waved that he had heard and kept going.
     
    Butler had been taking afternoon walks around Trinidad the past few days, finally trying to get to know the town. He had been surprised to find out it had a population of almost two thousand. Today he peered in the shops, walked through some of the residential sections, checked on his horse, bought some new shirts, and had his boots shined. He sampled a different restaurant for lunch and found it also to his liking. It looked as if eating well was not going to be a problem.
    He had a bath, got dressed, put on one of his new shirts, and went downstairs to play some poker. By this time it was almost four, and the saloon was coming to life.
     
    Leaning against a post in front of his office Bat’s head was still pounding, but it was starting to fade. He was just thinking he might be ready to get something to eat when he saw three riders coming down Main Street, all dressed in dust-covered black coats, trousers, and hats. Their horse’s heads