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figures, the real men who had built the West were men who lived like this, in small shacks and adobe dwellings, scratching a livelihood out of the dirt and aging quickly in the merciless desert sun.
    The blow dust got into their lungs, their faces became lined and wrinkled prematurely, their backs worn from constant toil. They were, frequently, men who walked on both sides of the law, ranchers or miners by day, rustlers and stage robbers by night. Even Wyatt Earp was once accused of horse stealing and, in later years, he would be accused of being a stagecoach robber and a murderer, as well.
    In the Wild West of legend, the good guys wore white hats and the bad guys wore black. In the real Wild West, things were very seldom seen in black or white.
    "Not much to look at, is it?" said Masterson, interrupting his thoughts. "A sight different from the kind of country that you're used to in Montana Territory.
    "Yes, it is," said Neilson. "I was thinking that it seems like a very lonely place to die."
    They got down out of the rig and brushed the dust from their clothes. Masterson had changed into a pair of faded jeans and boots, a pale brown cotton shirt, a red kerchief and a well-worn, sweat-stained, light brown Stetson hat. He wore two six-shooters on his hips, nickel-plated Colt Single Action Army .45s with four-and-three-quarter-inch barrels and gutta-percha, or hard rubber, grips. He had them made specially for him by the Colt factory in Hartford, Connecticut, with slightly taller front sight blades, a bit thicker than usual, and hair triggers. In the rig, he also had a Winchester carbine.
    "Dying's always lonely." he said, "no matter where you do it."
    Neilson nodded. "Only it's the man who's left alive who thinks about it, not the dead."
    "You've been thinking about those two men you killed yesterday," said Masterson.
    Neilson nodded.
    "First time?" asked Masterson. "Not that it's any of my business."
    "No. it wasn't the first time," Scott replied. "I've killed before. Not because I wanted to, because I had to. But it doesn't get any easier. I guess you'd know about that, though."
    Masterson nodded, solemnly. "No, it sure doesn't. But don't go thinking I'm some sort of expert on the subject. Oh, I know my reputation, and I haven't done much to disabuse folks of it, but to tell the truth, it's mostly hogwash. They say I've killed thirty-seven men. That's nonsense. When I'm asked about it, I never say yes and I never say no. I just always say I don't count Indians or Mexicans. I've been a lawman and I'm now a gambler and in occupations such as those, it can be useful to have people think you're a killer."
    “Doesn't that also invite trouble, though?" asked Scott.
    "Sometimes," Masterson replied, "but it prevents trouble more often than not. Those penny-dreadful writers back East have got people believing that if you've got a reputation as a gunfighter, reckless young blades from miles around come looking for you, anxious to make a reputation for themselves by taking you on. But that's nothing like the truth. You'll find that out. Most people would think real long and real hard before tangling with someone who's known to have killed thirty-seven men. As a result of my so-called deadly reputation, there've been times when I've simply been able to stare down trouble. Wyatt, too. I've seen some pretty tough hombres back down at just a look from Wyatt because it's known he's deadly with a gun. Of course, that doesn't always work, as you saw yesterday. The truth is, not counting any Indians I might've shot at the Battle of Adobe Walls, I've only killed one man. That's why I've got this here limp."
    "What happened?" Scott asked.
    "His name was Corporal Melvin King, a soldier who liked the wild life and fancied himself a good man with a six-gun. He used to like riding with the cowboys and hurrahing towns and such. It happened in Sweetwater. We both liked the same girl, only she had a preference for me. I was spending some time alone