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felt the same way. Of course, Bennett was grateful the robbery had been stopped and the deposits in his bank were safe.
    The Kid didn’t like the idea that the marshal didn’t want people to defend themselves and their property. Sure, it was necessary to have the law around, but sometimes a man had to stomp his own snakes.
    The Kid smiled to himself as he kept his head down. That sounded like something Frank Morgan would say. It had been a long time since he’d seen his father.
    Maybe when the mistake about the wanted posters was cleared up, he’d try to find The Drifter. It would be good to visit with Frank again.

Chapter 7

    The marshal’s office and jail was a squat, sturdy-looking adobe building on one of the cross streets. A frame cottage sat behind it on the same lot, and The Kid wondered if that was the marshal’s living quarters.
    The lawman led the way inside and directed the men with him to place the unconscious outlaw in one of the four empty cells in the cell block. They lowered the man onto the narrow bunk and filed out of the iron-barred cell.
    The marshal checked the outlaw’s clothes for another gun or a knife but didn’t find any weapons. He stepped out and clanged the door shut.
    Bennett said, “Marshal Fairmont, I intend to bring up the subject of hiring a deputy for you at the next town council meeting.”
    The marshal grunted. “Told you before and I’ll tell you again. I don’t need a deputy. I can handle things just fine without one.”
    Bennett used a pudgy hand to point toward The Kid. “Without this young fellow’s help, you’d be dead right now, Marshal, and those outlaws would have gotten away.”
    “You don’t know that,” Fairmont said, bristling with resentment at the charge.
    “I saw everything from inside the bank,” Bennett insisted, “and I’m sure plenty of other people in the street did, too. This young man saved your life.” He extended a hand to The Kid. “What’s your name, friend?”
    That sure wasn’t the way The Kid had intended for his visit to Las Vegas to go. He kept his face expressionless, careful not to reveal the annoyance he felt, and shook the banker’s hand. “Browning,” he supplied his name curtly, using the real one for a change since, rightly or wrongly, for the moment Kid Morgan was a wanted man.
    “Well, Mr. Browning, I’m grateful to you . . . every citizen of Las Vegas is grateful to you . . . for taking a hand in this affair and making sure those vicious desperadoes were brought to justice.”
    The Kid shook his head. “No thanks necessary. I just saw the trouble and figured I ought to take a hand.”
    “Not everyone would have done that. Most people run and hide when the bullets start to fly.” Bennett laughed self-consciously. “I know I hit the floor pretty quickly when the shooting started in the bank.”
    “That’s smarter than what I did,” The Kid said.
    He meant that more than Bennett could possibly know. The Kid hadn’t wanted anybody looking at him except maybe the clerk in the telegraph office. Backing the marshal’s play had been foolish.
    But he hadn’t been able to sit there on his horse and let the lawman get killed.
    Bennett and the bank tellers were gazing at him with open admiration while Marshal Fairmont regarded him with a shrewd, somewhat resentful frown.
    The Kid thought maybe it would be a good idea to get back on the buckskin and ride out of Las Vegas as soon as he could, getting while the getting was good.
    “For the next twenty-four hours, your money’s no good in this town,” Bennett declared. “Whatever you need . . . supplies, a hotel room, food and drink . . . the bank will stand good for it.” He slapped The Kid on the back. “You’re a hero, my boy, a hero!”
    “You’d better get back to the bank so you can see about getting all that bullet damage repaired,” the marshal said with a scowl.
    Bennett nodded. “That’s right.” He pointed at The Kid and grinned as he left the