The Plains of Laramie by Lauran Paine Page A

can’t you lead him?”
    “No, y’see, this here critter’s dyin’ from a bullet wound an’ he’s down.”
    The Kid understood. The animal was down, weak and dying, and the hostler wanted to turn him over so his body weight would be on the off legs for a while; just in case he ever got up again, the legs wouldn’t be too numb to operate. He walked back, helped the hostler turn the horse, straightened up, and was dusting off his hands when he saw the hip brand. D-Back-To-Back.
    “Where’d you get this horse?”
    “He come staggerin’ in here the night Dodge was killed. ’Twas his horse, so the sheriff says.”
    The Kid studied the bullet holes with compressed lips, then walked from the barn. He went to the Royal House and had an early breakfast. The dining room was vacant and he ate slowly, turning Dodge’s murder over in his mind.
    The day was well along and the Kid had decided to have a talk with Sheriff Dugan. He was approaching the sheriff’s office when he saw Dugan and Jeff Beale standing in the shade of the portico, watching him come forward. The Kid felt an uneasy suspicion at the silent, intent way they watched him approach, but shook it off. He was almost in front of the two men when his wary eye, trained from youth to be alert, caught the slight drop of Beale’s right shoulder. The Kid halted, legs apart, surprised but not unprepared.
    There was a long, tense silence, then Emmett Dugan, still motionless, spoke: “Don’t go for it, Kid.”
    “No? Why not?”
    “’Cause I want to talk to you, an’ a killin’ won’t help you any right now.”
    “All right, Sheriff, tell Beale to shove his hands deep in his pockets.”
    Dugan turned to the D-Back-To-Back foreman. “Do like he says, Jeff.”
    Beale hesitated, still staring, wide-eyed, at the Kid.
    “Come on, Jeff, gun play won’t settle nothin’…not yet, anyway.”
    Beale shoved his balled-up fists reluctantly into his pockets, and the Kid approached warily until he was even with the two men. Dugan jerked athumb toward his office, but the Kid slowly shook his head.
    “Let’s do our talkin’ right here, Sheriff. I sort of like the fresh air this mornin’.”
    Dugan regarded the gunman for a long, doleful moment, then shrugged. “Kid, where was you the night Dodge got killed?”
    “Early in the evenin’ I was at the First Chance, later I went to bed in my room at the Royal House.”
    “Got any proof that you were abed?”
    The Kid snorted. “Hardly, Sheriff. I make it a habit to sleep alone.”
    Dugan and Beale exchanged a significant glance, which the Kid saw. He puckered up his eyebrows and looked from one to the other. “Just what in hell have you two hombres got on your minds?”
    Dugan spoke slowly, in a measured voice devoid of inflections, as if he was reciting a story. “Dodge was killed an’ robbed. We got reason to suspect you done it. If you got proof you didn’t, then we gotta hunt further afield. But if you ain’t got proof, then I’m goin’ to hold you for a while.”
    The Kid’s right shoulder sagged perceptibly and his eyes narrowed. He shook his head slowly. “No, Sheriff, I didn’t kill or rob Dodge, an’ you’re not goin’ to hold me, either.” His voice was almost gentle, and Beale looked at Dugan accusingly, hands still rammed into his pants pockets.
    Dugan shifted his weight a little and frowned. “If you’re innocent, Kid, you got nothin’ to worry about. Better give me your gun.”
    “No good, Sheriff. I don’t know what kind of a deal is cooked up here, but I’m not goin’ to walk into a noose to help it along.”
    There was a long moment of silence as Dugan’sflinty eyes washed over the Kid. He knew the Kid’s reputation with a gun, but Emmett Dugan had a job and a duty to perform, and his complete lack of imagination saw only the course he must pursue. He shook his head slowly and his face set in hard, uncompromising lines. “I’m warnin’ you, Kid, you got no