The Smoking Iron by Brett Halliday

interested.”
    â€œAre you,” Pat asked harshly, “another brother-in-law of the sheriff?”
    â€œNow that’s a funny question. We’re not related, but …”
    Pat said, “We’ll go up to the room.” He turned away, leaving the three silver dollars lying on the desk. Ezra followed him to the back of the lobby and up a narrow stairway which made an abrupt turn at a landing halfway up.
    The upper hallway was lighted with one lantern hanging from the ceiling by a piece of baling wire. Number nineteen was halfway down the hall. The door was unlocked.
    Pat struck a match as he went in, found a lamp sitting on the washstand and lit it. There was a double bed and one chair in the room. A single window looked out on the main street of Marfa. Pat got the window open while Ezra cautiously let his weight down on the bed. The ancient springs creaked but held up under him. “Mattress is sorta lumpy,” he announced cheerfully, but she’ll sleep better’n the ground under a saddle blanket. Three dollars is plenty high for jest one night.” He sighed and leaned forward to pull off one boot.
    Pat said, “I figured that’d be a fair price. Better not pull off more’n yore boots, Ezra.”
    The red-headed man squinted his one eye up at Pat. “You know I don’t sleep good on a mattress with my clothes on.”
    â€œSleep on the floor then.”
    Bewildered, Ezra tried to argue.
    â€œAw, Pat. You know danged well …”
    â€œI know that neither one of us is goin’ to sleep much till midnight … or till Dusty Morgan comes into the room across the hall.”
    Ezra kicked off his other boot and stretched out with a sigh of contentment. “You lookin’ fer trouble tonight?”
    â€œI’m not lookin’ for it. But you heard what the sheriff told Dusty. An’ what Dusty said about it.”
    Ezra looked interested. “You figger Dusty’ll take a runout before midnight ridin’ his own hawses an ruining the swap we had all fixed with him?”
    Pat grunted, “I’m afraid he’ll get in worse trouble by buckin’ the sheriff.”
    â€œWhy you worryin’ so much about Dusty?” Ezra demanded. “The way he jumped us fer helpin’ him tonight plumb digusted me. Let ’im chaw his own tough meat from now on.”
    Pat Stevens was rolling a cigarette. He shook his head slowly. “We’re hooked up with him whether we like it or not. He put in his oar for us at the livery stable.”
    â€œBut that don’t mean we got to coddle him from here on out. Particular after he jumped you for stoppin’ the sheriff from killin’ him.”
    Pat licked his cigarette and lit it with a frown of concentration. “Can’t blame him so much for feelin’ that way. He was mad and ’shamed in front of the whole gang. He ain’t old enough to know it’s smart to be careful.”
    â€œHe won’t never get old enough to larn any sense if he keeps on like he’s started,” Ezra muttered with disgust.
    Pat shrugged his shoulders. “I recollect times when you jumped a gun when you hadn’t ought to of.”
    â€œYou gonna set up waitin’ fer him to come in?”
    â€œI’ll wait a little while anyhow.”
    â€œYo’re a damn fool.” Ezra rolled over and buried his face in the thin hotel pillow. “It’ll make him boilin’ mad to find out yo’re watchin’ over him like a papa.”
    Pat said, “Maybe,” and he took a long drag on his cigarette. Ezra began to snore a few minutes later.
    Pat finished his cigarette and got up restlessly. He went to the window and leaned forward with his palms on the sill, looking down on Marfa’s Main Street.
    It looked like any other cowtown main street. The same lighted saloons with saddled horses waiting patiently at the hitching rails outside. The same occasional