Shootout of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone, J. A. Johnstone Page A

undertaker in town?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’d say get in touch with the undertaker and let him take care of it.”
    “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” the deputy said.
    “But before you do that, make out that receipt.”
    “The receipt. Oh, yeah,” the deputy said. “All right, come on in.” He looked back toward the body. “I reckon ole Dewey will be all right there—it ain’t like he’s goin’ to be goin’ anywhere.”
    “You might want to get the undertaker fairly soon, though,” Clark said. “He’s been in the sun for a couple of days now and he’s getting a mite ripe.”
    “Yeah, I’ll do that, soon as I make out the receipt for you,” the deputy said.
    Once inside the marshal’s office, Clark stepped over to a wall that was festooned with reward flyers. Seeing a poster with Corey Bates’s name and description, he tore it down. “You don’t need to keep a poster up for this man anymore.”
    “Why not?”
    “He’s dead.”
    “Did you kill him?”
    “Yes.”
    “I suppose you’ll be puttin’ in for the reward?”
    “I already collected the reward.”
    “Five hundred dollars,” the deputy said. “That was a pretty good payday. But if you really wanted some money, you should go after Frank Dodd.”
    “Frank Dodd?”
    “This man right here,” the deputy said, pointing to a reward poster. “Reward on him is five thousand dollars.”
    Clark whistled. “Five thousand? That’s a lot of money. The state has put that much money up?”
    The deputy shook his head. “It ain’t the state that put up the money,” he said. “The money was put up by the Western Capital Security Agency.”
    “Hmm. I reckon I’ll take a look into that.”
    The deputy chuckled. “Yes, you and about a hundred other folks who are tryin’ to catch him.” He handed the receipt to Clark. “I tell you what. If you don’t want to wait for your money, you can take this to the bank tomorrow and they’ll give you ninety percent face value on it.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Where you goin’ to be later this afternoon?” the deputy asked. “Just in case the marshal wants to talk to you.”
    “I’ll be down at the Red Dog Saloon, having a beer,” Clark replied. “Maybe having a lot of beers.”
    Leaving the marshal’s office, Clark walked down to the saloon. Several ollas spaced around the inside of the saloon allowed water to evaporate, doing a reasonably effective job of cooling so that, compared to the sun-baked street outside, it was quite comfortable.
    “You was here a few days ago, wasn’t you?” the bartender asked.
    “Yes.”
    “What brung you back?”
    “You serve good beer here,” Clark said.
    The bartender laughed. “We serve good beer,” he said. “Did you hear that, gents? This fella came back to the Red Dog ‘cause we serve good beer.”
    “That ain’t why he come back,” one of the customers said.
    “It ain’t?” The bartender put a beer in front of Clark and picked up the nickel. “Then why did he come back?”
    “He come for the reward. Ain’t that right, mister?” His questioner moved up alongside him. “You the one I seen ridin’ in a while ago leadin’ another horse, ain’t you?”
    Clark prepared himself for a confrontation. “That was me.”
    “I couldn’t see all that well from here, but looked to me like the fella you had draped across that horse was Dewey Gibson.”
    “That’s who it was.”
    “Uh-huh, like I said, you come back for the reward.”
    “And the beer,” Clark said, smiling and lifting the mug of beer in an attempt to lighten the conversation.
    “Maybe you don’t know this, mister, but me ‘n ole Dewey used to ride together. We was pards, you might say.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that.”
    “Yeah, well, it’s been a while since we’ve rode together so I can’t exactly say we was pards now. Still, I feel bad to see that he’s dead. What happened to him?”
    Clark put the beer down, then turned to face the man. “I killed him,” he