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marshal’s office. “Remember what I said, Mr. Browning. Whatever you want, it’s on us!”
    The Kid started to follow the group of men out, but Fairmont growled from behind him, “Hold it. I said I wanted to talk to you, Browning.”
    The Kid half turned. “What is it, Marshal? I have business to tend to.”
    “Is that so? I’m curious what sort of business brings you to Las Vegas, mister.”
    The Kid couldn’t very well answer that. He said, “Nothing that concerns the law, Marshal.”
    “Everything concerns the law if it effects the safety of the community. And having a gunfighter in our midst is a definite safety hazard.”
    The Kid shook his head. “I never said I was a gunfighter.”
    “You didn’t have to,” Fairmont replied with a note of contempt in his voice. “I saw how slick you handled that Colt out there, Browning. There aren’t very many men who can do that. I admit I haven’t heard of any gunfighters with your name . . . but maybe it’s not your real name.”
    “Why don’t you just call me a liar while you’re at it?” The Kid snapped. He turned to face the lawman as anger boiled in him. “In case you didn’t notice, my gun was fighting on your side out there.”
    “I noticed, all right. I noticed plenty.”
    For a moment, the air in the marshal’s office was thick with tension. Frank Morgan had told Conrad about men like that, star packers who didn’t like gunfighters, no matter who they were or what they had done. Frank had been asked to leave many towns where he hadn’t caused a bit of trouble, simply because the local law didn’t want him around.
    Maybe Fairmont would be reasonable, The Kid thought as he struggled to keep a tight rein on his temper. The man was in late middle age, with a weathered face and plenty of gray in his hair. He had probably been wearing a tin star long enough to be set in his ways, firm in his likes and his dislikes. The Kid might be able to take advantage of that.
    “Look, Marshal,” he said. “I have to send a telegram, and I’d like to wait a little while to see if I get a reply. Other than that, I have no interest in staying in Las Vegas. I won’t be here long, and I won’t cause any trouble while I am here.”
    “How can you guarantee that?”
    “I suppose I can’t,” The Kid replied with a shrug. “But I promise you I won’t be looking for any trouble.”
    Fairmont frowned in thought as he rubbed his chin with his left hand. His fingertips rasped a little on the silvery beard stubble that had started to sprout.
    “Well, I suppose—” he began.
    “Dad?” a woman’s voice asked from behind The Kid. A quick flurry of footsteps sounded. “Dad, are you all right? I heard all the shooting, but I couldn’t get away until now.”
    The Kid turned his head to look at the woman who had just come into the office. She was in her early twenties, not much more than a girl. Wings of honey-blond hair framed her face. She was tall and slender and moved with a natural grace.
    “Carly, take it easy,” Fairmont said. “I’m fine.”
    “I heard talk on the street about some killings.”
    The marshal nodded. “Four men tried to hold up the bank. Three of them are down at the undertaking parlor by now, I expect. The other one is safely locked up.”
    “You killed three men?”
    “Only two.” With a grudging nod toward The Kid, Fairmont added, “This young fella took care of the other one.”
    She turned to gaze at him. Her brown eyes were open wide with admiration. Despite not wanting to, he took off his hat. The courtesy that Western living had instilled in him demanded it.
    “Then . . . you saved my father’s life.”
    “I don’t know about that,” The Kid said. “Everything happened so fast, it’s hard to say.”
    “I think you’re just being modest, Mister . . . ?”
    “Browning.”
    Might as well stick with that name for now, The Kid thought.
    She held her hand out. “Well, just in case I do owe you my father’s life, Mr.