Looking up from his newspaper, U.S. Marshal Clayton Mayfield gave a slight nod. “Thank you, miss.”
“You sure you don’t want any food, sir?”
“No, thank you.”
“All right, sir. Well, you enjoy that tea and let me know if you change your mind, and I’ll bring you some eggs and bacon.”
Mayfield just smiled at that and let her go.
He wasn’t much of an eater. That went double for when he was hunting someone.
You need to stay hungry on the trail. Food kills hunger, dulls your edge.
So he stuck to tea.
He returned his attention to the newspaper and finished the article he’d been reading. It told all about how Conn Sullivan and his two friends had ridden down the line and mixed it up with the Blake brothers.
Conn Sullivan was a problem.
Of course, maybe he’d get lucky. Maybe Sullivan would wipe out Toole’s gang and save Mayfield the trouble.
More likely, Sullivan would get himself killed.
And that would be a pity. Because Mayfield still had unfinished business with Sullivan, who had shot and killed his cousin that night on the Arizona borderlands.
They called it self-defense, and maybe it was, but Mayfield’s cousin had been a good man, and as far as he was concerned, birds of a feather flock together.
Sullivan might have acted in self-defense, but he’d been riding with an outlaw. The world would have been a better place if they’d wiped out the whole outfit.
Of course, the law wouldn’t allow that, so Sullivan lived on.
But Mayfield hadn’t forgotten the way Sullivan had stood his ground, refusing to put his weapon on the ground until one of the other men put a barrel to the back of his head.
Mayfield hadn’t lowered his weapon. If Sullivan had lifted his muzzle, Mayfield would have killed him.
And based on their recent exchange in the street outside, Sullivan was obviously still holding a grudge.
That was all right. They could sort that out anytime Sullivan wanted.
Mayfield had let Sullivan and Sheffield ride out, figuring they probably knew more than they were letting on. Today, he would follow them like a hunter following his hounds.
Hounds point the way. The hunter does the killing.
And if he ran into Sullivan on the trail, after forbidding him to pursue Toole, well, that would be just fine. He’d publicly warned the man. Everyone had seen Sullivan ignore that warning.
Maybe they’d sort their differences along the way.
The notion appealed to Mayfield.
He’d set out after Toole. The Tooles of the world never quit coming. You had to keep chasing them and killing them if the West was ever going to be a place where good folks could live in peace.
So Toole was just another job to him. One more murderer to eradicate.
Sullivan, on the other hand, was unfinished business. And Mayfield hated unfinished business.
The notion of settling that account appealed to him more, even, than killing Toole. Which he would do, of course. He would not shirk in his duty. But he did hope Sullivan crossed him.
Not just to settle the account, either. Sullivan was sneaky. He might’ve avoided official charges so far, but he was a bad apple and a dangerous man. Better to settle his hash now, before he put together a gang and started real trouble.
