I heard Marshal Burnman before I saw him. He always wears these fake-looking white boots that always stay clean no matter how dusty his Godforsaken town gets. Big white stained-leather things that look like something a woman would wear. I hate him.

He sat down next to me, sitting wide-legged on the stool all casual and cool-like. He looked at me. “’Nother one for ya, Brigham?”

I watched the barman choose a burnished whiskey from the shelf and wipe the bottle with a rag. “Think I’ll pass.”

“You know why I’m here?”

“I suppose not.”

“You really don’t have an idea.”

“That’s what I said.”

He flicked his finger contemptuously at the barman and ordered some sort of brandy I couldn’t pronounce. French or something. He leaned back like someone growing tired on a horse. “Folks ‘round here might rile themselves up if they see the likes of you still lawling about.”

“Is that right?”

“What with that hoo-ba-loo ya pulled down at Yeller’s last night? Sir, the cahones on you.” He took his drink and knocked it back like one of the desperados. I saw him grimace. It took him two swallows.

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

He forced himself a laugh. Funny piece of fluff. “Brigham, why do you have to play this game with me?”

For the first time I looked at him, “I wasn’t aware we were playin’ a game, Marshal, but if you’d rather play something a little more serious I can do it right quick.”

He drew his finger around the rim of his glass. “Cool your head. We both know your gun fell off ya last night, during your bout of h*ll raisin’.”

“You callin’ me a h*ll-raiser?”

His expression contorted into a mocking image. “Looks like I am, partner.”

And I took his glass up and smashed it right into his leering teeth.