“Hopefully,” Kincaid said, “it’s going to keep would-be gunfighters from coming here looking for me for anything other than a stubbed toe, or worse.”
“Gabriel, you gotta understand,” Llegg said, “the politicians liked you having more than one reputation. Now you wanna just be a doctor.”
“The town needs a doctor more than it needs a gambler or gunfighter, Jack,” Kincaid said. “Make them understand that.”
“Well, at least I didn’t have to try to run Chance Armstrong out of town. He left on his own.”
“He got what he wanted,” Kincaid pointed out.
“Another notch on his gun?”
“Yes,” Kincaid replied, “let’s say that.”
* * *
* * *
Kincaid had supper in a small, out-of-the-way café he’d never eaten in before, hoping to go unnoticed so he could be alone with his thoughts. By the time he had paid his check and left, he thought he had his life figured out. However, it would all depend on whether or not his encounter with Chance Armstrong had accomplished what he hoped it would.
And he thought it was time to have a serious conversation with Nora.
When she answered the knock on the door to her house, she stared at him expectantly.
“I think we need to talk,” he said.
She stepped back to allow him to enter.
* * *
* * *
The wedding was set for six months later. If, they both agreed, there was no gunplay during that time, and no gambling. Only doctoring.
He told Nora what Maggie had said about Doc Edwin’s house, and they were in agreement on not wanting to live there. As a result, Maggie put the house up for sale. Kincaid and Nora would find their own place.
His life and lifestyle was set.
He thought . . .
* * *
* * *
He was sitting in the Silver Dollar one night, nursing a beer after a busy day. People seemed to be catching cold, breaking an arm or a leg, spraining an ankle, or falling off a ladder. However, there had been no gunshot wounds for quite some time, and that was a good thing.
“No poker tonight?” a man’s voice said.
He looked up and smiled when he saw Bat Masterson.
“Bat! What are you doing here?”
“Passin’ through again,” Bat said. “Mind if I sit?”
“I insist!”
Masterson, already holding a beer, sat across from Kincaid.
“You been busy since the last time I was here,” Masterson said. “That is, if the newspapers are tellin’ the truth, for a change.”
“I’ve been busy,” Kincaid said, “but I don’t know what you’ve been reading.”
“Seems your reputation as a fast gun took a bit of a hit,” Masterson said.
“That’s true.”
“And somebody in town told me you’re gettin’ hitched.”
“That’s true, too.”
“And I’m assumin’ you’ve cut poker out of your life.”
“I have,” Kincaid said. “It’s just doctoring, from now on.”
“Sounds like you’ve got what you want, then,” Masterson said. “You know, I’m familiar with Chance Armstrong. He’s not the kind to miss.”
Kincaid looked around, lowered his voice, and said, “Unless he wants to.”
“How’d you get him to go along with a plan like that?” Masterson asked.
“It had something to do with a hernia.”
“Ah . . .” Masterson took a long drink. “So when’s the big day?”
“Still months away,” Kincaid said.
“Then there’s time to change your mind.”
“I doubt I’ll do that. She’s a fine gal.”
“I’m happy for you, then,” Masterson said. “I’m gonna play some poker and get out of here in the morning.”
“If you’re in the area on that day,” Kincaid said, “you’ve got an open invitation.”
“I’ll remember that,” Masterson said. He stood up. “I hope it all works out for you, Doc. But I do have one last piece of advice for you.”
“What’s that?”
“Hang on to that gun and holster,” Bat Masterson said, “because you never know.”
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Ralph Compton stood six foot eight without his boots. He worked as a musician, a radio announcer, a songwriter, and a newspaper columnist. His first novel, The Goodnight Trail, was a finalist for the Western Writers of America Medicine Pipe Bearer Award for best debut novel. He was the USA Today bestselling author of the Trail of the Gunfighter series, the Border Empire series, the Sundown Riders series, and the Trail Drive series, among others.
Robert J. Randisi has authored more than five hundred published books and has edited more than thirty anthologies of short stories. Booklist magazine said he “may be the last of the pulp writers.” He cofounded and edited Mystery Scene magazine and cofounded the American Crime Writers League. He founded The Private Eye Writers of America in 1981, where he created the Shamus Award.
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Ralph Compton Frontier Medicine Page 24