At the fractured, echoing thunder of a single gunshot somewhere ahead in the night air, I threw aside my tin mug of coffee and began to sprint. It was coffee I didn't need anyway; I had an enamel pot of my own stewing on the stove in the marshal's office, and the only reason I'd wandered a few streets over to the Chinaman's cafe was to take a rest from the letter I'd been composing at my desk.

I'd stayed at the Chinaman's a half hour, enjoying some of his fine apple pie, reading this week's copy of the Laramie Sentinel, and watching for Doc Harper to return from a sick call which had taken him to a ranch at the feet of the Medicine Bow mountains some twenty miles southwest. It wasn't that I fretted for Doc and his travel through the open plains at night. With the kindness of this year's spring, weather wasn't a concern, and Doc's horse was trustworthy to the point where Doc often slept in the carriage on his return trips to Laramie. Instead, my concerns were selfish. I could have used some of Doc's considerable conversation skills to take my mind off the letter waiting for me on my desk.

The Chinaman had insisted on pouring a final cup of coffee into the mug I'd brought with me, smiling and nodding with his usual cheerfulness as he shooed me out and secured the door locks behind me. I'd made it almost to Main Street, newspaper now tucked in the back of my pants, occasionally stopping to sip at my coffee, when that single gunshot rocked me from my thoughts.

It wasn't hard to discern which direction I should run. Although, along with the fights of the Red Rose Saloon to my left, the strains of dance hall music seeped into Main Street, I plainly heard the spreading clamor of dogs excited by their rude awakening. Others too had heard the shot and the dogs. The first gawkers had already stepped outside the saloon, yellow light from inside on their backs as they stood with the swinging doors held open.

As I ran, my boots clattered on the wooden sidewalk on my side of the street, and I decided I'd fare better on dirt. Both for comfort and for silence. The single gunshot told me this was one of the few occasions I'd earn the pay I accepted for wearing a marshal's badge. After all, a harmless cowboy in a drinking mood would have been firing pistols like a boy banging a toy drum. No, a single gunshot without return fire usually meant the first cartridge had done its job. Somewhere ahead, I'd probably find murder. Last thing I needed to do was give ample warning of my arrival.

I hopped over a railing onto the street and pushed hard, taking my Colt .44-40 from my holster. The Colt, however, gave me little comfort. The night air had not been ripped by the snap explosion of a pistol, but by the booming roar of a shotgun. Only fools or stubborn marshals continue in the face of those uneven odds.

From a side street twenty-five yards ahead to my right, a big, black horse cantered onto Main, turning in my direction. I skidded to a stop, brought my gun up, and turned sideways to make myself a smaller target.

"Off the horse!" I shouted. "Wyoming marshal!"

If he was innocent, we could sort out the explanations later. If not innocent, I wanted as much notice as possible.

His outline, a shade darker than the night sky, shifted in the saddle, and I saw him reach toward a gun stock protruding from his saddle. scabbard.

Notice enough.

I fired twice, hoping for little, but knowing if he got any closer, his shotgun would shred me into bloody pulp.

My scare tactics worked. The rider yanked his reins and pivoted his horse into the opposite direction, leaning forward to surge away in a gallop. The horse kicked clumps of dirt backward it me and became a fleeing shadow.

I straightened and sucked in air, conscious of the sidewalk suddenly alive with more spectators drawn from the Red Rose. I also became conscious of a more compelling fact. The rider and his horse had bolted from the side street which held the marshal's office.

Before moving ahead, I pulled two cartridges from my gun belt and replaced my spent shells.

I walked slowly.

From behind me and to my left came the thump of fast, heavy steps.

I didn't turn, but continued my slow walk, eyes ahead for any other movement.

The steps reached my side, then slowed. I took a quick glance to confirm my guess. The man was broad-shouldered, his crippled right arm hanging uselessly at his side.

"You're slowing considerable, Jake," I said to my deputy, my eyes again sweeping the street. "Saloon's barely twenty steps back of us."

"My pace is fine, Sam," my deputy replied. "It's my start that was lacking. Vexing decision, when a man's got a chance to draw to a straight flush on the biggest pot of the night."

We were almost to the comer.

"Who's watching the ante?" I asked, thinking of the usual crowded confusion around the poker tables in the Red Rose. "Suzanne?"

"Nope," he said, "money's in my pocket. Made my straight flush."

"Nice to know you had priorities."

"I already allowed as it was a vexing decision."

"Yup," said. "That you did."

"Only heard one shot," he said. "Say it was you in the gunplay: you were dead or the other was. Either way, another minute wasn't going to matter much."

I grunted agreement.

We reached the corner, moved up onto the wooden boardwalk, and hugged the edge of the building. My shoulder pressed solidly against the large window pane, lettered to read OVERBAYS DRESSMAKING & FITTING. Inside, an inch away from my face, a broad corset covered a dummy.

"I don't figure there was more than one horseman," I said. "Should be fine to move out from here."

"Probably."

Neither of us moved anyway. It's easy enough to talk about gunplay. But once you're in it, with time to think about what you're doing, you discover how real fear can be. Bullets punch messy holes in skin and muscle and bone, and if you've ever seen a man shot dead, you don't mock those who prefer caution to heroics.

A couple more seconds passed. The dogs' barking had begun to subside.

"You care much what the crowd behind us thinks?"

"Nope," I said.

"Then how 'bout I try the old trick of a hat on a gun?"

I did it for him. Took my hat off my head, hung it on the end of my pistol barrel, and extended the target past the corner. No jumpy, panic-crazed gunman fired a hasty shot.

"Looking better," I said.

"Yup", he said.

Neither of us moved.

A horse reined to the railing behind us swished its tail.

"We could be here all night," I finally said, jamming my hat into place. "Got a match?"

He told me, he did.

"Take the newspaper from my waistband, will you? Light it and throw it into the street."

I didn't want to light it myself and destroy my night vision. I preferred instead it would grab the eyes of anybody waiting around the corner.

Jake tossed the lit paper over my shoulder, and I swung into the open, facing sideways down the street to the marshal's office, my Colt extended shoulder high in my right hand. No showboating with one-handed firing from my hip.

The street was empty; the building fronts were unmoving shadows.

I didn't need to beckon Jake. He was beside me, his back to my back, his gun extended shoulder high in his left hand. The newspaper burned itself to char in the dirt as we stared at the empty street.

"A lot of sweat for nothing," I said.

"Yup. A waste of good whiskey." Jake paused. "Sam, I'd say our window's been shot."

He was right.

The marshal's office was a few doors down the street. While the street was dark, light from a lamp within clearly showed the jagged edges of broken glass.

I frowned. Despite my preoccupation over the letter I'd been writing, I would not have left the office -with the wick of the lamp still fit. The danger of fire was too great for such carelessness.

"We might want to check it slow," I said.

We moved past the door, the note still plain where I had left it pinned to the frame: Back Shortly. We did our best to keep our steps soft, and we had our guns ready for any movement.

Again, our caution was wasted effort.

The dead man slumped in his own gore across my desk posed no immediate threat to anyone.