Marston laughed, rather grimly. “No, child. Mr. Dutch and I understand each other first rate. We’ll get along fine. See you later.”
She left them, reluctantly. The men took a side street that led toward Benton’s stable. Dutch was anxious to be gone from Carson. The preacher’s words had filled him with foreboding. He would not feel easy until the dust of the capital had long been shaken from his horse’s hoofs.
His surly voice took on a whine. It was his way of attempting to propitiate fate. “I got a bad name, Parson, an’ so folks don’t feel right to me. Lemme say that there’s a heap of worse men than Sam Dutch. I’ve shot men sure enough, but I ain’t ever shot one that wasn’t better dead. Most folks don’ know that. They think I go round killin’ to see ’em kick. Well, I don’t. Live an’ let live would be my motto, if gunmen would only lemme alone. But you know yorese’f how it is, Parson. They git to thinkin’ if they can bump off Sam Dutch they’ll be chief. So they come lookin’ for trouble, an’ I got to accommodate ’em.”
A man came down the street walking as though he loved it. His stride rang out sharp in the still night. He was singing softly the words of a trail song:
“Last night as I lay on the prairie,
And looked at the stars in the sky,
I wondered if ever a cowboy
Would drift to that sweet by and by.
Roll on, roll on,
Roll on, little dogies, roll——”