Sliphammer

Tree glanced at the approaching train. Wyatt Earp was lifting his reins, adjusting them in his hand, and Tree said to him, “You had a chance to kill me-I think maybe you wanted to.”

“If you’re wondering why I didn’t-a life for a life,” Earp growled. “You saved my brother’s skin when you took Sparrow out. I pay my debts-always.”

Tree said, choosing his words with care, “Then if you didn’t owe me for that, you’d have shot me in the back.”

“You had it coming,” Earp said. His voice was strictly flat; it gave away nothing.

“Honor,” said Sheriff McKesson, “is for fools and story-book heroes.”

Tree said, “You’re dead wrong about that.”

McKesson shrugged. Wyatt Earp said, “Amigo, you had a lot of luck and you didn’t get killed. That kind of luck won’t hold out very long unless you learn how to be practical about things. Right and wrong are flexible ideas-you’ve got to learn how to count up the odds.”

The train was close, sliding on protesting wheels. Tree took Caroline’s hand and when the train stopped he handed her up to the coach platform and climbed onto the step behind her. The whistle hooted. Wyatt Earp made a vague, grave sort of hand salute and neck-reined his horse around; the four riders went toward the mountains, not hurrying; Josie and Warren were looking back. The train jerked and began to pick up speed. He stood gripping the handrails and felt Caroline’s hand on his arm; she said, “Do you still doubt which one of you was the better man?”

He gave her a quick, blank look. She said, “I think you’ve learned something about legends.”

He made a puzzled frown and looked up toward the mountains at the four riders. It was young Warren who hipped around in the saddle and, hesitantly, lifted his arm and waved. Tree didn’t answer the gesture. The train clattered along the Arkansas bank and Caroline moved close against him, warm and soft; she said, “Maybe they’ll write a dime novel about you.” When he looked at her he saw she was joking.