Showdown at Dead End Canyon Read Online Free Page A

too. They drawed first, the both of them.”
    “Bartender, you saw it too?”
    The bartender was staring down at the two young men who, but a moment earlier, had been laughing and joking with him.
    “Did you hear the question, bartender?” Dancer asked.
    The bartender looked up at Dancer. His face showed more sorrow than fear.
    “You goaded them into that fight, Dancer,” he said. “They was just two cowboys mindin’ their own business, and you goaded them into it.”
    “Did they draw first or didn’t they?”
    “They drew first,” the bartender said. “But you prodded them until they did.”
    Dancer put a silver dollar on the bar. “Give these boys a drink on me, and have one for yourself,” he said.
    “A drink, yes,” one of the card players said. “Damn, do I need a drink.”
    The four card players rushed to the bar. Dancer reached over and picked up one of the beers Dooley and Boomer had left behind.
     
    A tall, silver-haired, dignified-looking man sat at his breakfast table reading the London Daily Times . Brigadier Emeritus of the Northumberland Fusiliers, Sir James Spencer Dorchester, Earl of Preston, Viscount of Davencourt, was wearing a wine-colored, silken robe. Over the left breast pocket was his coat of arms, a white shield with a blue mailed fist clutching a golden sword, placed at the intersection of a red St. Andrew’s Cross.
    The remnants of his breakfast, the bottom half of the shell of a soft-boiled egg, was still in its silver cup. The rind of half a grapefruit and the crust of a piece of toast were pushed to one side.
    A balding, older man wearing a morning coat and striped trousers came into the room. Stepping up to the table, he raised a silver teapot.
    “Would you care for more tea, sir?” Terry Wilson asked.
    Wilson, Dorchester’s valet, had served him for thirty years. Before that he had succeeded his own father in service to Dorchester’s father. In all, the Wilsons had been “in service” to the Earls of Preston for five generations. When Dorchester got ready to leave England, he gave his valet a choice. He would either find a position for Wilson somewhere else, or Wilson could come to America with him.
    Wilson could not imagine serving anyone else, so he chose to come to America. Here, even though the trappings of peerage were removed, Wilson continued to maintain a “proper” separation between them. Dorchester would have preferred a less formal relationship between them, but he honored Wilson’s wishes.
    “Thank you, Mr. Wilson,” Dorchester said as his valet poured the tea.
    “Is there anything of particular interest in the Times today, sir?” Wilson asked.
    Dorchester took a swallow of tea as he perused the newspaper.
    “It says here that Mr. Dickens may come to America to do a series of lectures,” Dorchester said.
    “That would be nice,” Wilson replied. “It would give Americans an opportunity to meet one of our really fine authors. I’ll just clear this away, sir.” Wilson took the empty plates and withdrew, leaving Dorchester to read the paper.
    The newspaper was actually six weeks old, having madethe journey from London to New York by ship, then from New York to Green River, Wyoming Territory, by train. The papers arrived every month in one big bundle, but Dorchester very carefully read them in chronological order, reading only one newspaper per day, and lingering over it during his breakfast.
    For the one hour each morning that he devoted to his breakfast and the newspaper, he could almost feel as if he were actually back in England.
    Five years ago Dorchester had been a man with a title, a 102-room manor house, and a dwindling financial base. His wife had just died, leaving him with a sixteen-year-old daughter and mounting debts. In a move that some called bold, but most called foolish, Dorchester sold everything he owned and came to America to start a cattle ranch.
    Now, his ranch, Northumbria, was one of the largest in the territory, and his