Epilogue

Just after sunrise …

EARLY AUTUMN 1879

T. J. Simmons caught the evening train for Denver. He couldn’t afford San Francisco, and he had no interest in staying there. He picked up the Globe at the train station and read the story that ran at the bottom of the front page.

San Francisco businessman Taylor Canton, who opened the Glory Hole in this city a few months ago, was badly wounded during an altercation in his saloon Wednesday night.

The police arrested Tom Bailey of Texas for the attack.

According to police, Bailey entered the Glory Hole with an unknown second man, apparently falsely identified Mr. Canton as Marsh Canton, a known gunfighter, and challenged him to a gunfight. Mr. Canton, who was unarmed, refused to arm himself and was shot twice. He is expected to live.

One onlooker called Mr. Canton’s refusal to fight “an act of courage.” Mr. Canton’s bravery was unquestioned since he recently prevented a kidnapping and theft at the neighboring Silver Slipper saloon.

The gunman was apparently mistaken in identifying Taylor Canton, a Texas businessman, as Marsh Canton, a gunfighter in Colorado. Witnesses said Bailey had indicated he’d never met the gunfighter before and had merely assumed from the last name that the two men were the same. The outcome proved the opposite.

This newspaper agrees with the conclusion that Mr. Canton’s refusal to fight was indeed an act of courage, another demonstration that civilization has reached San Francisco, and the gun no longer rules here.

T.J. crushed the newspaper in his hand. His story was gone. Bailey had shot an unarmed man. Canton had refused to fight. And now that Simmons thought about it, the man might not have been Marsh Canton after all. He had said merely that his name was Canton.

Marsh Canton would have fought. No doubt about that. The Colorado gunman hadn’t been afraid of anyone, and no one had ever accused him of having scruples. Marsh Canton wouldn’t have stood there and allowed someone to shoot him down. To say otherwise would even cast doubt on the authenticity of his book, Duel at Sunset.

Hell, he must have made a mistake. Almost got an innocent man killed.

And he was near broke. He had only a few dollars left of the fee he’d charged Bailey to find Canton, most of which he’d spent on the trip.

Muttering low curses, he boarded the train. He would have to find another gunfighter now. Or maybe he would go back to the newspaper. Maybe civilization was coming. Maybe the day of the gunfighter was over.

“I thought you might like to read a newspaper account of what happened,” Hugh said, striding over to Marsh and putting the paper on the bed.

Marsh didn’t. The name Marsh Canton spread all over the papers? The fact that he refused to fight, that he’d allowed himself to be shot like a dog? He heard a low growl and wondered whether Winchester had become a mind reader was well as defender these days. Or perhaps he was just growling at the approach of Hugh. Marsh believed he liked the first explanation better. The whimsical thought delayed his glance at the newspaper, one of San Francisco’s many.

He might as well know the worst. He looked down and started reading, an unexpected warmth spreading through him, damping the pain, erasing the emptiness. “Are the others like this?”

Hugh nodded. “Cat made a few trips to the newspapers. With Mr. Devereux.”

Falsely identified. Marsh Canton was as dead now as Lobo.

San Francisco businessman wounded. The city had claimed him as one of its own.

Hugh stood, grinning. Winchester sat with his head on his bed. Cat was expected back any minute. Marsh chuckled. It hurt, but he couldn’t help it. Cat. His Cat. Cat, who almost had him shanghaied. Cat who was unlike any other woman in the world. He should have known that somehow his Cat would manage to make things right.