Chapter One
The man gunned down by a gray-suited stranger looked like a ranch hand or farmer, or one of the many drifters passing through Dodge at the bustle of harvest season. He wore a coating of dust, and the odors of cattle and dung wafted in his wake as he passed Chester sitting in front of the marshal's office.
"Hold it, Mister." His gun aimed at the grubby man's back, the stranger stood about ten paces behind him. "Don't move," said the stranger. "Don't reach for your gun, or I'll shoot." The cowpuncher froze. Chester cautiously stood up and pressed his back against the wall.
His gun leveled at arm's length, the stranger slowly approached the cowboy. He whirled around, grabbing for his gun. The stranger shot him in the chest, and he fired a bullet through the walk as he fell facedown. Chester felt the boards shiver under his boots.
The marshal's office door opened and Matt rushed out, his gun drawn. The stranger holstered his gun and moved easily toward Matt, heedless of the marshal's gun pointed at him.
"That's far enough," said Matt. The stranger stopped. Matt stepped close to him, and the marshal's hand snaked down and snatched the stranger's gun from its holster, while Matt held his gun steady in his other hand, his eyes fixed on the stranger's sharp-featured face. The man's thin lips parted as he startled, then he smiled.
Chester jumped a little as he recollected what he must do straightaway—tell Mr. Dillon if the fallen man was dead or alive, and find some men to carry him to the undertaker's or to Doc's office.
"You move fast for a growed-up man," said the stranger, gazing from his mid-range height up at Matt. Nearly transparent against milk-white skin, the man's eyes were lighter blue than Matt's own.
"You look through your Wanted circulars lately, Marshal?" the man said. "That man I shot is wanted for cattle rustling. Five hundred reward. I trailed him mixing with the drovers like he's another hand, stealing cattle from the corrals right here in Dodge. And he's not the only one. There's a gang of 'em in town."
"He's dead, Mr. Dillon," said Chester.
"I warned him not to go for his gun before I shot 'im," the stranger said.
Chester took a deep breath, and said, "The dead feller walked by me, then that there man tells 'im don't move or he'll shoot. The dead man turns fast and draws, and he shot 'im, Mr. Dillon."
"That's just what happened, Marshal," said the stranger.
"I'll get some men to take 'im to the undertaker's," said Chester.
"What's your name?" Matt said to the stranger.
"Colin Dent. I'd shake, but I don't reckon you're so inclined. It don't hardly matter," said Dent. "There's big money to make here, and I'll help you clean up this town at the same time, Marshal."
"You a bounty hunter, are you?" said Matt.
"Yes," said Dent. "Heard tell more shootings and thievin' here this year than before you come to Dodge, Marshal. Least as many, anyway. You could use a deputy or two. Your man what went to fetch the fellas to haul that carcass isn't wearing a gun or badge. Not that I'm asking for a badge, mind you. I make a heap more bounty hunting."
Matt moved to the dead man. Chester had turned the body over, and Matt looked at the face, memorizing the features to match to the stack of Wanted posters on the marshal's desk. He hadn't made the time to look through the posters. Jailing men, writing reports of burglaries, robberies and shootings, testifying in court, and traveling with prisoners to the penitentiary or to Hays to the gallows had filled the days since summer's end.
"His name was Jim McCane," said Dent. He followed Matt into the office.
There were three men in the near jail cell, and two in the far cell. Except for one who lay sleeping on the bunk, the men moved to the bars and looked at Matt and the bounty hunter. Chester kept hot coffee freshly made on the stove when Matt was in the office, and the aroma filled the room.
"Mind if I help myself to some coffee, Marshal?" said Dent.
"Go ahead," said, Matt, picking up the stack of Wanted posters. He found McCane's likeness near the bottom of the pile. Matt put the other posters on the desk. Coffee cup in hand, Dent moved over to look at the poster in the marshal's hand.
"I get the money even though the poster don't say he's wanted dead," said Dent. He'd hung his hat on a peg by the door. He had shiny brown hair tinted copper, combed back from a widow's peak.
Matt closed the door to the jail, and as he moved back to where Dent stood, the bounty hunter squared his shoulders, his pale eyes narrowing. Except for a chiseled jaw, Dent's lean face ran to fine points with a thin mouth and clean smooth skin conspicuous for its whiteness, as most men in the region had faces weathered tan to brown. About nine inches shorter than Matt, Dent had a slim, light-boned frame. Matt guessed Dent was thirty-five years old or a year or two younger.
Matt patted the stack of posters. "You see any more of these men in town, Dent, you tell me and let me arrest 'em," said the marshal. "You'll still get the reward money; I'll see to it."
"No," said Dent. He put his cup on the desk. "I'll bring 'em in myself, if I have to kill them to do it.
"You don't seem like a man who'd go easy on the job, Marshal, so I'm thinking you need help, or these dregs wouldn't have free run of the town to begin with. You don't even know they're here. Dodge is booming, and that means lawlessness unless you have enough deputies to keep order," Dent said. "And you haven't a one."
"You might've positioned yourself to take McCane's gun so he'd have no chance to draw," said Matt. "You're quick on the trigger, Dent, like most of your kind."
"And you're soft," said Dent. "The man was a cattle rustler."
Though the bounty hunter sounded calm, Matt thought Dent somewhat feared the marshal. "I don't like gunplay, Dent," Matt said. "You don't need to kill these men to get the reward money. And if you shoot a man in the back, I'll run you out of town if I have to rope you to your horse."
"I've never shot a man in the back, Marshal," said Dent. "And I never will." Matt handed Dent his gun.
K~~~~
Although Leah Kelly was a quiet young woman, she preferred society to aloneness. When men weren't seeking her company at the Long Branch, she passed the time with Kitty, or moved along the bar close to Sam. Expecting neither talk or silence, Leah was not particular regarding her companion of the moment. She was a pretty girl whose presence didn't bother Kitty, and Sam liked having Leah nearby.
Leah stood next to Kitty at the end of the bar when Colin Dent walked through the batwings and paused, squinting as he scoped the saloon. "Look, Kitty," said Leah, her soft brown eyes alight. "There's a new one. He looks like a bird of prey."
"We get a lot of strangers at harvest time," said Kitty. "That one looks like a gunman."
Dent saw Kitty and Leah looking at him, and moved toward them. "Ladies," Dent said, lifting his hat.
"Hello," said Leah. Kitty nodded and wondered if she should dislike Dent.
"You have the glossiest hair I ever saw," Dent said to Leah, his gaze roaming over the dark-gold, loose curls framing her face.
"Thank you," said Leah.
"What's your name, honey?" said Dent.
"Leah Kelly."
"I'm Colin Dent. May I buy you ladies a drink?"
"None for me, thanks," said Kitty. "Leah might like a beer."
"I would," said Leah.
"Barkeep," said Dent. "Two beers."
"Another new one just walked in," said Leah. "He looks like a frightening sort."
Dent turned and stiffened at sight of the stocky hard-faced man approaching the bar. "That's Jep Russell," said Dent. "He's a hired gun. Gunnin' for me."
"Good heavens," said Leah. "How d'you know that."
"I'm a bounty hunter. No one's ever seen Russell kill a man," Dent said, "so he's not wanted. Too bad. Were his face on a poster, I'd just shoot 'im."
Dent gulped beer as Russell came up to the bar beside him. Russell thudded his palms on the polished wood and said "Whiskey," in a resonant voice with a hollow undertone.
"Russell," said Dent. "You'd meet me out in the street if you had the gizzard."
"I dunno what the deuce you're talkin' about," said Russell.
"You're a liar," said Dent. "You know who I am."
"Colin Dent," said Russell. "So what."
"You aim to ambush me," said Dent. "You're too much of a coward to fight me like a man."
Russell drained his whiskey glass and looked Dent in the face. Russell's eyes were small and round like shiny dark pebbles in a brown face with wide cheekbones and a square jaw. "I'm not gonna draw first and hang on account of you," said Russell. "And you never draw first, Dent. You called me a coward and a liar, so either get your fists up or shut your mouth."
He turned away from Dent and thumped his glass on the bar. "Barkeep," Russell said. "Leave the bottle this time."
Dent's lean face flushed, and he looked at Kitty and Leah. Kitty looked at the bar, and Leah gave him a sympathetic look. He touched his hand to Leah's hair and kissed her, and tipped his hat to Kitty. "Ma'am," Dent said. Kitty nodded.
Dent walked slowly out of the Long Branch and down Front Street. When he reached the marshal's office, the cattle rustler's body was gone, and there was no sign of his blood on the walkway. Chester sat outside the office again, watching the wagons and buggies, people riding horses and walking.
Chester straightened up in the chair when he saw Dent. Dent looked into Chester's eyes, and Chester looked warily at Dent. Dent moved to the spot where the rustler had fallen. The autumn wind and sun had dried the boards to their normal grayish brown shade, and the bullet hole made by the rustler's gun as he fell was packed with dirt.
Dent looked back at Chester, who watched him. "You wanna see Mr. Dillon again?" said Chester.
"Not just now," said Dent. "You fixed the walk up here?"
"I scrubbed the boards with lye and throwed down water to wash out the red," said Chester. "Then I dug the bullet out the hole and filled in dirt so as no one snags on it and takes a tumble."
"That so," said Dent. He put his hands in his pockets. "You shotgun backup for Marshal Dillon?"
"Betimes," said Chester.
"What's your name," said Dent.
"Chester Goode."
Dent nodded and resumed his walk down Front Street. Chester stared after him a moment, then slouched down in the chair.
Dent walked as far as Grimmick's livery, and sat on a hay bale to take a rest. Two men wearing bandannas approached the stables, and stopped at sight of Dent.
Dent stood up. Though he didn't recollect seeing the men's faces on a Wanted poster, he felt in his gut that they were horse thieves. The men looked at each other, then turned and walked away.
Dent considered going for the marshal, but guessed the men hid out, waiting for him to leave so they could pull the bandannas over their faces, holdup the old timer in the stable and steal the horses, including Dent's mare. Even if the men had no price on their heads, the bounty hunter would try to stop the theives and save old Grimmick from harm.
Figuring the men watched him, Dent strolled toward the walkway. He turned into a passage between two shops, headed to the back end of the livery, and looked around the corner of the structure for the two men. They appeared a moment later, moving to the stable.
Dent's dove-gray mare was so fine and well cared for that Moss gave her special attention. With the midday hay feed, he served Chloe a warm meal mash with carrots and a bit of molasses. The other horses smelled the mash and nickered, and faced with a stable of stretched necks and quivering nostrils, Moss put a ladleful in each stall.
Moss had fed Chloe an apple, and was currying her as she crunched it, when he heard the boot steps. "Be with you directly," he called out.
Moss later told the marshal that if not for horse thieves showing up every month or so and shocking him most to death, he could work the livery if he lived to one hundred. "It comes natural since I was knee-high," said Moss, "but if them thievin' buggers keep visitin', Matt, I might not last 'til Christmas, and not on account of gunshot. My heart gave a misery jump and near stopped tickin' when I saw 'em."
The two men stood in the stable with drawn guns and bandannas covering their faces. "Stay right there, old timer," said one. "Don't do nothin' dumb like reachin' for a shotgun. We'll take your best horseflesh and be on our way. You got some fine ones here."
Dent appeared in the doorway, his gun aimed. "Hold it," he said, and clicked the hammer. The two men went motionless. "Take their guns, Moss, if you would," said Dent. "You gents try anything, there'll be two fresh corpses on Boot Hill."
Moss took their guns. "They were gonna steal our best horses," said Moss. "They said so." He pulled down the bandannas, uncovering their faces.
"Turn around," said Dent. The men turned, and Dent stepped closer, peering at their faces in the shadowy stable. "They're not on the posters," said Dent. "I can't collect a reward on their hides."
"They were fixin' to do it," said Moss. "They said so."
"We ain't done it, though," said one of the men.
"You held up Mr. Grimmick, and I heard every word you said from outside the doors. I'll testify to it," said Dent. "Get moving. You're goin' to jail."
Chester still sat outside the marshal's office, sleeping this time when Dent arrived with the two men at gunpoint.
"Chester," said Dent. Chester pushed up his hat, saw Dent and the men, and jumped up. "These two were about to steal horses from Grimmick's livery," said Dent.
"Gracious," said Chester. "Did they . . . did they hurt Moss?"
"No," said Dent. "He's alright."
"Mr. Dillon's bustin' up a brawl down to the Lady Gay," said Chester. "Two drover outfits on the drunk got to fightin'. They's not many more room in the jail. Five in one cell, four in t'other un."
Dent regarded Chester intently while keeping a keen eye fixed and his wiry frame tensed for any sign of movement from the horse thieves. The bounty hunter's pale-blue hawkish stare made Chester uncomfortable, and he fumbled at his hat, resisting the urge to look down at his boots.
Chester clearly was not the sort to take a lead; he seemed accustomed to following orders. "How about we crowd these two in with the others," said Dent. "Marshal Dillon can put the overflow under guard in a cabin somewhere if need be." Chester nodded without hesitating and opened the door.
Two men in the far cell wrestled on the floor, swinging at each other's heads while the other three prisoners in the cell stood out of the way and watched. "Shall we break that up?" said Dent.
"Mr. Dillon's not here," said Chester. "I'll fetch Doc if they hurt theirselves." He locked the two horse thieves in the near cell. "You want I should check the circulars for their faces?" he said.
"They're not wanted," said Dent. "I've got 'em all to remembrance. I couldn't chance those two hurting the old man and getting away with the horses, especially since my Chloe is at the livery. I'm right fond of that mare. You'll tell the marshal how I helped out here, Chester?" Chester nodded, his brows furrowed and his brown eyes guarded as he looked at Dent.
When he traveled to any town where the railroad and stage ran west of the Missouri, Dent marveled how often outlaws crossed his path. He hardly had to search. The word spread from Oklahoma Territory through Kansas, Texas and Colorado that a lot of lawbreakers mingled with the cattle drives, hunters selling pelts and game, farmers their crops and peddlers their wares in Dodge City, particularly now at harvest time.
So when the bounty hunter walked from the marshal's office to Jonas' store to buy bullets and look for new shirts and vests, Dent wasn't surprised to see the highwayman called Largo trying on a hat in front of the glass. Largo had a seven hundred dollar reward on his head.
Jonas stood behind the counter, and as he opened his mouth to greet Dent, the bounty hunter raised his hand with his palm facing the storekeeper, put a finger to his lips and jabbed the forefinger of his other hand at Largo, mouthing "stagecoach robber."
Largo drew his gun and turned to face Dent in one swift movement. Knowing Largo had the drop on him, Dent stopped still, holding his arm out from his holster.
"Strange thing with mirrors," Largo said conversationally. "A narrow glass shows more than anyone would think. I saw you come in the door and play your little trick behind my back." Largo spoke with slow deliberation, his eyes and round face blank as a festival mask.
Dent's heart thudded painfully in his chest and vibrated in his throat. He grew hot all over and sweated, his breath coming quick.
"You're scared," said Largo. "It ain't so bad as that. It ain't the final act.
"You, storekeeper," said Largo. "Get his gun and hand it to me, and don't try nothin' brave."
Jonas hurried to Dent, pulled his gun from the holster, and handed it butt first to Largo, who stuck it in his belt. "Get back behind the counter," Largo said to Jonas.
"You a lawman?" Largo said to Dent.
"I'm a bounty hunter."
"What's your name," said Largo.
"Colin Dent."
Largo moved fast. He stepped closer to Dent, raised the gun and hit the bounty hunter's face, opeining a gash on his right cheekbone. Jonas cringed behind the counter. As Dent reeled from the blow, Largo raised the gun again and cut another gash in Dent's left temple. Dent staggered and fell to his knees, and Jonas winced again.
"I gotta leave town now on account of you, Dent," said Largo. He holstered his gun and turned toward the door.
Hot blood streaming down both sides of his face, Dent leaned over from the waist, slid his slim fingers in a large pocket inside his suit jacket, and drew out a derringer as Largo turned the knob to leave Jonas' store. "Hold it, Largo," Dent gasped. On his knees on the floor, he pulled the trigger as Largo drew his gun and wheeled around.
The bullet drove a neat hole through Largo's forehead, and blood spurted through the hole. The slug exited through the back of Largo's head, and Dent heard the bullet ping on the floor as Largo fell. Dent dropped the derringer, and went from his knees to his backside, sitting on the floor.
"I . . . I'll get some wet rags for those cuts," said Jonas.
Dent wiped blood from his face and pressed the rags against the gashes. "Where's the doctor's place," he said.
"To your right on this street and up the stairs," said Jonas. "Doc Adams."
"Will you tell the marshal what happened," said Dent. "One name, Largo, wanted for stage robberies. Seven hundred dollar reward."
"Surely," said Jonas, helping Dent to stand. "Largo. Seven hundred dollars."
Jonas walked with Dent as far as the marshal's office. "Will you make it to Doc's?" said Jonas. "I can walk with you, then come back and tell the marshal."
"I'll make it," said Dent. "You go in and let Marshal Dillon know." Jonas went in the office and closed the door.
Dent's head throbbed, his vision blurred around the edges, and his legs felt weak. As he passed the Long Branch, still holding the rags against his head, the walkway seemed suddenly to slant at a sharp angle.
Inside the Long Branch, Leah Kelly had changed from her costume into a woolen dress and a hat. She and Kitty were heading to Grimmick's livery for two horses and a wagon to ride to a farm Kitty patronized for beef and cheese, eggs and butter and freshly baked bread to lay out a spread at the saloon. Kitty would visit with the farmer's wife while she boiled the eggs and put dough loaves in the oven, and her husband went to the meat shed to cut beef slices.
Kitty and Leah were late leaving. Kitty's pendant watch pointed to four o'clock, but the farm was just a mile outside Dodge, and the farmer's wife worked fast. Kitty and Leah would return by twilight, in time to serve the spread to the night crowd.
They moved through the batwings onto the walk as Dent staggered like a drunken man in front of the Long Branch, clutching bloodied rags to his head, then tripped over his boots and fell off the walk in the dirt, his hat bouncing off as he hit the ground.
"It's that bounty hunter, Kitty," said Leah. "Colin Dent. The one who kissed me."
"Looks like a bullet grazed his head," said Kitty.
"No," Dent said weakly from the ground. "I was pistol-whipped."
"You wanna help him, don't you," Kitty said to Leah.
"Oh, Kitty," said Leah. "I have to."
"Well . . . alright," said Kitty. "I'll get Sam to help him up to Doc's. You go along with Dent if you want to, Leah. I'll manage on my own."
"You're sure?" said Leah.
"Of course. I've done it enough by myself," said Kitty. "Take the night off, Leah."
Kitty pushed back through the batwings, and Leah bent down beside Dent. She helped him sit up. "Sam's coming," said Leah. "He'll help you."
"I need to kiss you again," said Dent. "But the blood from the cuts dripped on my lips."
"In that case, we'll wait for Doc to clean you up," said Leah, smiling a little.
Kitty came out of the saloon with Sam behind her. "I'm leaving for the Wilkins farm, Sam," said Kitty. "I'll be back soon."
"Yes, Miss Kitty," said Sam. He held out his hand to Leah, helped her stand up, then put his arms around Dent and lifted him to his feet.
The movement made Dent's head buzz, and darkness clouded his eyes. He felt his head flop against Sam's shoulder, then Sam dragged Dent along the walk with an arm clamped around his ribs.
Leah hurried ahead of them, hiked up her wool skirt and petticoat, ran nimbly up Doc's staircase and opened the door to his office, where Doc sat reading at his desk. "Hello, Leah," Doc said, rising from his chair.
"Doc," said Leah. "There's a bounty hunter been pistol-whipped. Sam's helping him up the stairs."
Along with his blood-stained hat, Dent had left the rags Jonas gave him in the street, and blood trickled from the gashes on his face and head. Half carrying the bounty hunter, Sam dragged him to Doc's table, lifted Dent under the arms, sat him on the table, and headed out of Doc's office. "Doc," said Sam as he left.
"Sam," said Doc.
"I'm staying to help you tend him, Doc," said Leah.
"Alright, Leah," said Doc. "Fill a basin with water and bring me some cloths, a bottle of alcohol, niter, and a box in the medicine cabinet there with needles and catgut." Leah gathered the implements as Doc spoke. "Also get a cup of water and two morphine packets," said Doc. "A bottle of tonic, and that roll of bandages in the cabinet."
Dent sat with his chin resting on his chest. Doc lifted Dent's chin and looked at his grayish pallor. "You're anemic, too," Doc said. "The tonic's good for that. Can you see alright?" He pried Dent's lids up and looked into the bounty hunter's eyes.
"I can now," said Dent. "It got fuzzy after he hit me."
"What's your name," said Doc, stirring the morphine and a spoonful of tonic in the cup.
"Colin Dent."
"Drink that down, Colin," said Doc, "and I'll sew up those cuts." Dent drank the mixture, then Doc helped him lie down. He was asleep by the time Doc finished tending him, and wound a bandage around his head and under his eye.
Doc and Leah were cleaning up when Matt walked in. "Doc," said Matt. "Hello, Leah." Matt touched his hat brim.
"Matt," said Doc.
"How is he, Doc," said the marshal.
"He'll mend," said Doc. "He'll sleep for another two hours or so. Should be fine when he wakes up. I'll give 'im headache powders and a bottle of tonic, and send him on his way. Unless you're takin' 'im to jail," Doc said.
"No," said Matt. "I thought I might have to in time, or run 'im out of town, but I don't think I will. I don't like his methods, but he did stop two horse thieves who might've hurt Moss and brought 'em to jail, although there was no reward in it.
"What I don't like is he's so eager for the reward money, all he thinks about is not letting them escape," said Matt. "He doesn't slow down to figure a way where he might not have to shoot, even if that means they walk around free awhile."
Doc looked at Dent on the table, and at Leah, who had pulled a chair close to the table and watched Dent as he slept. Matt followed Doc's gaze, and for a moment they watched Leah and Dent.
"Well, maybe there're too many of 'em walking around free," Doc said. "Maybe there're so many, you've lost track of who and where they all are, Matt. What we do know is they're here in Dodge, and you need help cleaning this town up."
Dent woke at sundown and walked with Leah to Dodge House, where he put away the headache powders and tonic in his room, put on a hat, dined at Delmonico's with Leah, and walked with her to the Long Branch, where they sat at a corner table, beer mugs in front of them. Leah seemed content to look at Dent, hold his hand and let him kiss her. Her quietness didn't bother him. He thought Leah enchantingly pretty and liked her company. Dent neither expected or needed anything more from a woman.
When she kissed him goodnight and retired to her room upstairs at the Long Branch, Dent left the saloon and headed for Dodge House. The saloons were all still open, a cacophony of tinny music from the player pianos filling the night, but the stores and restaurants had closed, their windows dark, and the busyness of the day ceased until sunup.
When a hired gun like Jep Russell ambushed a man in a town, he potshot his target under cover of night. Dent had no doubt he was Russell's target, though he didn't know which of the men who wanted him dead had hired the gunman to kill him. He hardly thought it mattered, as he couldn't hunt them all down. There were too many. Dent moved carefully, scrutinizing every man he saw on the way, his senses alert so his skin prickled.
Walking his rounds, Matt heard stealthy boot steps in a passage between two buildings facing Front Street. The marshal moved silently to the corridor and peered into the darkness, just as a stocky figure at the end of the passage shot at someone on Front Street.
Matt drew his gun. "Hold it," he said. "Don't move," said the marshal. The burly man turned, his gun leveled. Matt shot the man, and he pitched forward on his face. The marshal moved into the passage, rolled the man on his back, and probed his throat for a pulse. The man was dead.
Matt stepped over the corpse onto the Front Street walk. Dent stood some paces away, his hand pressed to the left side of his chest. His pale face looked stunned in the light from the streetlamp.
"He shot me here, Marshal," said Dent, his voice tremulous. "The bullet's in there. Did you kill 'im?"
"He's dead," said Matt.
"I know it's Jep Russell," said Dent. "A hired gunman. But I have to make sure."
The bounty hunter moved unsteadily to the passage where the dead man lay. Matt saw the dark stain soaking Dent's jacket as he passed the marshal. "It's him," said Dent. "Too dark to see his face clear, but I can tell by the body."
His sharp features tensed in pain, Dent shuffled out of the passage and looked up at Matt. "I can't tell you who paid him to shoot me, Marshal," said the bounty hunter. "So many men want me dead, I won't bother. I s'pose you need to send for the undertaker's wagon to pick up the corpse. I'll get to Doc's alright."
His pity tempered by vexation, Matt watched the bounty hunter stumble away. Like any gunman, Dent attracted trouble like a cadaver draws flies. Mildly tempted to turn his back and head for the undertaker's, Matt knew his sense of duty wouldn't allow it. He habitually helped men like the dead hired gun in the passageway—men who made Dent look saintly. Like patrolling Dodge at night and riding prisoners to the State Penitentiary, once Matt forced himself to start helping, he worked without much thinking on it.
With his long measured strides, the marshal overtook Dent. His jacket and vest, and the hand against his chest drenched in blood, the bounty hunter stopped walking, looked with glassy unfocused eyes at Matt, and collapsed. Matt caught Dent before he hit the boards and carried him to Doc's.