Patricia Potter by Lawless

cared before. He didn’t now, he told himself. Yet he couldn’t forget those gentle hands on his burns, and for the first time he knew regret for the life he had chosen, for the life that had chosen him.
    L OBO RODE INTO Newton Monday. He passed by a small white building with a bell, and he knew that must be the school. His jaw clenched as he left it behind and found the general store.
    He was wearing a brown shirt and well-worn denim pants. Without knowing exactly why, he had carefully unbuckled his gunbelt and placed it in his saddlebag.
    His hands were still sore and bandaged. He had decided to visit the doctor and get some salve, and then purchase a pair of gloves and a new shirt. He needed the gloves if he was going to ride on.
    He found the doctor’s office, but no one answered when he knocked, so he went to the general store.
    There were several men at a counter, and he quickly discovered through overheard snatches of conversation that they were buying ammunition.
    “You should have been there. I ain’t never seen anyone so fast. Yates never even got his gun free.”
    “You say his name was Canton?”
    “Yep. Old Gar hired him. Never thought I’d see the day Gar hired guns.”
    “Well, Newton started it, sending for that renegade Indian.”
    “Damn both of them. This used to be a right nice town. Now I won’t ’low Carrie to even come to town.”
    One of the men turned and noticed Lobo, and the others saw their friend’s expression. One by one they turned and stared at the newcomer, eyes falling down to the man’s waist. There was a collective sigh of relief when they saw he didn’t wear a gunbelt. Hostile looks turned friendly, or at least neutral.
    The storekeeper moved over toward him. “Anything I can do for you, Mister?”
    “I was looking for the doctor.”
    “He’s out delivering a baby,” the man said. “No telling when he’ll be back.”
    Lobo ignored the stares he was getting. “Do you have any salve for burns, then?”
    Six pairs of eyes went to his hands.
    “Say, you wouldn’t be that fella that helped Willow Taylor, would ya?” one man said. News traveled fast in Newton. They all knew about the fire, all the details, in fact, and Dr. Barkley had been deviling them to help with a barn raising come next Saturday.
    Christ, Lobo thought, wishing like hell he’d never come into town. “Burned them on a coffeepot,” he lied. “Now, about that salve. And some gloves and a shirt.”
    Interest faded. The stranger, with the exception of the cold eyes, looked like any vagabond cowboy looking for a job. Didn’t even wear a gun.
    The transaction was quickly completed. Lobo handed over the coins carefully, just like a man with few of them. He picked up his purchases, took a few steps and stopped, turning back.
    “Heard you mention a man named Canton. Marsh Canton?”
    One of the men reassessed the stranger. “You know him?” he asked carefully.
    “Heard of him. What’s he doing here?”
    “Killed a man Saturday night. I hear tell he’s come to go against another gunfighter named Lobo. You know him?”
    “Heard tell.”
    “Well, he better be good. Ain’t never seen anything like Canton.” The voice was full of awe. “Would be somethin’ to see, awright. Them two.”
    “You staying around town, Mister?” another asked.
    Lobo shrugged indifferently. “Where’s Canton now?”
    “Gar Morrow’s place, I s’pose.”
    Lobo nodded and left.
    “Don’t say much, does he?” he heard a man behind him sputter.
    “Wonder why he was interested in Canton. You don’t think…?”
    “Hell, no. Didn’t even wear a gun. B’sides, Lobo’s part Indian, I heard tell. That one sure ain’t got no Indian blood.”
    Lobo’s lips twisted into a half-smile as he mounted. There was something to be said for rumors. But what in the hell was Canton doing here?
    He had always considered the possibility they might meet someday. The thought had never particularly bothered him.
    Until now. For