A body'd hardly think that the road to redemption could begin with a soiled dove named Suzanne. Nor with glass mugs sloppy with beer foam, and the results of drinking all that beer as I recounted to her how much fun it is to convince a man he's been tarantula bit. After all, I'd long given up on the concept of redemption. And as further distraction, Suzanne in her shiny red dress was leaning forward across the table to display not only healthy attention, but substantial cleavage.

"Why'd we try to convince him Ma'am?" I said in answer to her question. "Big Jim had a troublesome habit of napping in the shade of the chuck wagon while the rest of us did the work."

Suzanne nodded. She'd introduced herself only minutes earlier, and to keep the conversation going I felt obliged to hold up my end. It was nice to be out of the sun, even if the saloon was filled with cigar smoke and the yeasty smell of spilled beer soaked into the rough wood floors.

"It was a hot day," I continued, "And Big Jim made the mistake of removing his boots and socks and rolling up his pants to cool his feet. So while the boys went looking for a tarantula, I was mixing some medicine."

"Why's that?" she asked. "You hardly appear to be the doctoring kind." "I've had dealings with Injuns before. It's given me occasion to pass on some of the cures I learned. And that's what the boys were counting on."

I went on to tell her how it happened and found myself speaking more in one stretch than I'd probably done in the last six weeks of riding range. I told how Big Jim slept sound until the boys got back to camp with the dead tarantula, which they laid down close to Big Jim's foot. They got a pin and fastened it to the end of a stick and gave Big Jim a couple of jabs in the calf of his leg--which brought Big Jim up in a hurry, just in time for him to see one of the boys step on the tarantula and mash it good. Sure enough, Big Jim believed he'd been bit. He came hollering to me and I informed him it was a bad case, as more than one man's died to the tarantula. After he begged for something to save him, I gave him a pint of bear's off, then a package of soda, a half teacup of vinegar, and a quart of water in which I'd been soaking a ten-cent cut of tobacco. Wasn't much of a surprise that he got as sick as a man could be. When he complained, I asked him to imagine how much worse it'd be without these Injun cures. In his enlightened gratitude he insisted on paying for the two-gallon jug of whiskey which I told him would bring him back, and the rest of the gang helped him drink it.

Suzanne clapped her hands in glee at the story, and I was tempted to believe her enjoyment wasn't all show.

"Yes Maam," I told her, "to this day, Big Jim figures I was a wonderful doctor to save him, out there miles away from any sure-enough doctor."

She smiled and we talked some, until it came down to a choice between more conversation or watering some tumbleweed, something also suddenly obvious to Suzanne.

"Darling," she said as she smiled behind the finger she touched to her lips, "squirm much more and a lady might figure she was a distraction."

She was. After that six weeks of open range, a woman with her kind of smile naturally leads a man's mind in a lot of directions. But it takes more than a single mug to wash away six weeks' worth of dust, and all that beer tends to give a man other considerations.

"You guessed rightly, Ma'am," I gritted. When beer hits a man, it hits hard. "I'm so distracted, I can hardly think."

She touched my arm lightly. Her perfume was strong enough so that I could barely smell her stale sweat.

"Darling." She smiled wider, enough to show blackened stumps of teeth at the back of her mouth. "I'll take that distraction as a compliment. I saw real early that you ain't like the rest. Sitting there quiet, watching everything while pretending you ain't interested. Didn't fool me, though. I seen a few men who always sat with their backs to the door like you. Then there's the scar on your face. Gives a man that air of mystery."

She sat back, smugly satisfied now that she had proven she knew men from her years of experience--years I figured would show in the fines of her face had we been outside in bright sunshine.

"So I'm thinking maybe we could sit here awhile longer,". she finished, "and get to know each other on a slow, hot afternoon."

I was old enough now that I couldn't fool myself into thinking her eyes were for me instead of my gold coin and the drinks it could buy her. Long ago I'd done a good job tarnishing the whole idea of love for myself so at least there wouldn't be any pretending to hurt either of us. And compared to most soiled doves, she wasn't difficult to look at. Not in dim light after a few beers, not with shiny blond hair piled high and the delicate hollow of pearl white skin at the base of her throat-softness reminding me of the times I'd held someone else close, my heart wanting to fill the entire night sky with joy....--I stopped those thoughts in a hurry. I was good at that. Start wondering at might-have-beens out on the range and with all that time on your hands, you'd go crazy.

I stole a quick glance away to look past her eyes and around the saloon. There were seven, maybe eight others. Some like me, now that we were in town, wore a tied-down gun strapped on for show. Some were intent on their cards and whiskey and beer. And too many looked real hard right back at our table.

I knew exactly why they were staring. Laramie might have a railroad and a marshal and churches and soldiers' wives and respectable ladies--but there were more than enough drifters and scoundrels that Suzanne wouldn't ever hurt for attention.

"Well then, Suzanne," I said, "I got lots of talk in mind, but there's some real thirsty tumbleweed outside."

Her eyes widened slightly. Then she understood, and she grinned broadly enough to crack the rouge caked on her cheeks.

"Darling, go right ahead." Those shiny eyes hardened. "But you'll understand if a woman can't wait forever."

I understood. Even as I pushed my chair back, two drifters lifted their heads and stared hunger in Suzanne's direction.

"I'll be back," I said to be heard above the tinkering of the piano and clinking of glasses at the bar. Maybe that'd keep those bowlegged coyotes at bay. If not, well, I could always go back to sitting and watching.

A man gets lazy from the freedom of the open range, and it looked too far to go to the privy at the end of the street, so I ducked round the side of the building and checked both ways. False front buildings, a crooked wooden sidewalk along one side of the mud road, and a few horses reined to posts. No women in sight, though. Good thing. Even if I wasn't ever going to see Clara again, a man can't totally forget the manners he was raised with.

It appeared safe as I turned to face the planks of the building wall. Except when I was finally ready to hitch my pants, I heard some strange thumps. Thumps mixed with grunts and a couple of gasps. Thumps like someone whacking a pole against a ornery pack mule. Thumps from behind a small, crooked shed just beyond the shadows of the saloon.

I shrugged and turned back to the saloon.

Then another thump-and the gasp became a strangled yelp.

Suzanne, I told myself with reluctance, could sit pretty at least another half minute. So I wandered to the shed and stepped around the comer.

What I saw was a big, shaggy man standing over a runt of an Injun curled on the ground. I watched two kicks, both a good sign the Injun's ribs didn't much pain the big man's toes.

"Afternoon, partner," I said halfway through the giant man's next kick.

"Tend your own business," he said as casual as if he might be ordering a beer. He paused to mop the sweat from his brow. "This horse-thievin' Injun's getting what he's due."

Some white folks hold that the only good Injun is a dead one. This cowboy seemed intent to prove the saying. He delivered another kick which resulted in another thump. The Injun gasped again. He was slight, with greasy braids flopped below a big hat and ragged clothes covered with dust.

The cowboy stood maybe four inches taller than me, which made him plenty big. I'm pushing six feet myself, and got all the muscle a man needs to outwrestle the most mulish steer. But this man in front of me was so tall, I had to push the brim of my hat back to get a good look at his face.

What I saw didn't cheer me. Small, angry, red eyes set deep gave his face a look halfway between a pig and a grizzly. A dark, matted beard helped that same impression. And, even accustomed as I am to the smells a man can cultivate after weeks in the saddle, I flinched at this one's ripeness.

"Get along, boy," he said. "This is my show."

I wanted to. By now, Suzanne was probably tapping a high-heeled foot with considerable impatience. I could feel the beer now, and without her company I'd have too much time and too many thoughts.

The man raised his foot to give another whack. Behind him, the horse tied to a rail stamped nervously.

"Stop," I said without thinking. It wasn't that I took insult at being called boy. No sir. Long ago, my pa and ma had died over useless pride.

"Huh? Stop? Why?" He was so dumbfounded anybody might order him to do anything, that he remained on one foot, the other reared and ready to kick.

"Well...." I said.

I couldn't think of a good reason for him to stop. This wasn't my business. And it was only an Injun. But I guess it was an Injun too stubborn to cry or beg, and that kind of perseverance always gets a person's attention.

"Boy, horse thievin's a mortal sin." The man mopped his brow again and then delivered the next kick.

I winced at the crack of boot against ribs. The Injun rolled slightly.

"The Sheriff'd be happy to hang him," I mentioned. "Might save you all this work."

"Huh?" He didn't glance up. "You still here?"

I pictured Suzanne moving across the saloon and primping her hair for the next cowboy, just as she'd done for me before sitting down and saying hello in that throaty voice.

I sighed. "I'm still here."

The man stared at me, genuinely puzzled. "I thought I explained. This here's a horse thief. A Injun as you can plainly see. And I don't ever explain nothin' to nobody but once."

"Got money," the Injun managed to croak. "Got money."

"Shut up," the big man said to the Injun and absently added a half kick to encourage the silence.

Why hadn't I just moseyed back to Suzanne? Right now we'd be exchanging sweet talk. Instead, I was half into something I didn't understand and had no idea how to leave alone.

"That's your horse?" I said, pointing behind the giant man for a change of subject. "You must be a smart one, catching an Injun in the act."

"Didn't," the man grunted. At least he'd stopped kicking.

"I thought you said--"

"Injun tried to buy my horse with this here gold piece." The man opened a giant paw and showed glinting yellow. "And any fool knows Injuns don't have that kind of money."

"But--"

"Boy, you test a man dearly. To buy my horse with stole money is jest like to steal the horse itself. And I take insult real easy."

He shook his head, a grizzly shaking off angry bees. His focus moved from the Injun to me. "In fact, you done pushed too far."

He took a step sideways of the Injun on the ground.

I made the mistake of touching the handle of my gun to reassure me it was still there. Not that I intended to use it. Gunfights are mainly something you find in Ned Buntline dime novels, stuff eastern folks believe happens every day out here. Only bounty hunters and desperate men are willing to risk a shootout, and it had been years since I'd been acquainted with either.

I never thought a man so big could move so quick.

Gunfights--real gunfights--usually take longer or shorter than this one did. The short ones happen with the few outlaws-like

Jim Hickok-who learned to survive by any dirty trick-rigged holsters, sleeve derringers, and a shot in the back, front, or sideways when least expected. They ain't fools, and they don't leave survivors.

Not this one.

I'd barely touched the butt of my gun when the man flapped back his vest with one hand and reached across his stomach to draw with the other.

A cross draw's the deadliest if a man does it right, and it took only a wink for me to figure he was doing it as right as it can be done. In the same moment I realized that a part of my brain still remembered enough to instruct my hand to make a move of its own.

I had the advantage 'cause my hand was already on the butt of my gun. Without that lucky accident, I'd be dead. The Colt was out of my holster and jumping with the first shot before I really knew it was live or die.

I was able to fan the gun's hammer maybe twice more before something burned through my left arm and spun me around.

As I fought to stay on my feet, the next second was deadly quiet. Only the smell of cordite told me there'd actually been a gun fight and that I was still alive.

I weaved back to face the giant man again. Except I had to look down, through the drifting gunsmoke, to see him sprawled flat backward, with his hat still wobbling tracks in the dust.

"Durn," I muttered.

He wheezed bubbles of blood that snapped and popped at the side of his mouth. His eyes stared straight up at the high sun.

My stomach bumped. Then lurched. I managed to reach the side of the shed before I threw up. And threw up some more. It had been a long time since I'd seen violent death caused by my own hand.

When a buffet hits, it doesn't really hurt at first. Maybe as much as the sting of a bee. But given time, the nerves and vessels start to realize something's wrong. Awareness of pain reached me about the same time as distant shouts.

I stood, still unable to believe this had happened. Blood soaked through my sleeve. Approaching shouts grew louder.

Who was there to witness this had been a fair fight and not a murder?

The Injun. Maybe I could take a chance someone might take the word of an Injun as witness.

Except the Injun was gone. And so was the horse.

Depending on who I'd shot-whether he was local or not and how much anyone liked him-chances were fifty-fifty I'd hang. I didn't have much time to decide and figured better safe than sorry. I'd ride out. Quick. The territories had plenty of range and not many people.

I stumbled in the opposite direction of the saloon to find my horses at the stable, wanting to build a lead before anyone knew it was me that had done the shooting.

I cursed each step of the way. My first gunfight since I'd become Samuel L. Keaton. The first man I'd killed under that name. And now, no doubt my first posse. With me on the wrong end of the chase.