Folks recollected the solemn angular face of bounty hunter and hangman Thane Anson when they saw his horse, a striking black stallion with white mane and tail pictured in papers and magazines as much as the man himself. His muscled steed cantered into Dodge under the glaring sun on a frigid winter morning as Moss toted the water pail to the stable. Anson reined in and the horse tossed his head, whinnied and danced in place, his shoes kicking up clods of frosted earth and frozen breath clouding his muzzle.

Anson pulled his scarf below his chin, uncovering sharply sculpted features beneath keen dark eyes. "Good morning." Moss nodded as Anson climbed stiffly from the saddle. "Thor and I trailed a long way. He needs a vigorous rubdown, feed with hot mash and a thick straw bed. And heat his water tepid, please." The man spoke with a refined east coast accent.

Moss nodded again and took hold of the bridle. His hand touched the gloved hand of Anson as the man's fingers tightened round the bridle. Moss jerked his hand back and wiped it on his pants. "You know who I am," said Anson. He was an inch or so over six feet with a lean build, and Moss looked up at his hat brim, not meeting his eyes. Like gazing into the eyes of a fortune-teller or magician, it could bring on a hex. Moss thought that were he Catholic, he'd cross himself when Anson went on his way.

"You're Thane Anson, but that don't matter far as tending your horse goes. No stableman in Dodge will treat him better than me. Fifty cents a day and not a penny more for the extra care."

"Very well." Anson released the bridle and slung the saddlebags over his shoulders. "What is your name, sir."

"Moss Grimmick."

"Can you direct me to a good rooming house? Best in town if you know of it."

Moss averted his eyes from Anson's face and stroked the stallion's glossy black neck under the white mane. Ma Smalley wouldn't want a man like Anson at her place. "Dodge House is the best hotel."

"I plan to stay the winter in Dodge, so I shall want home cooking and comforts one doesn't get at a hotel. Perhaps the owner won't mind lodging me if I offer double the rate of board."

"Well . . . . "

"I'll happily pay you a dollar as well, if you will only tell me where the best rooming house is." Anson shifted his shoulders under the weight of the saddlebags, reached inside his coat, pulled a coin from his pants pocket and held it out to Moss. "Please."

"I don't want your money. Except to stable your horse. It's Ma Smalley's boarding house. Short walk that way."

Anson returned the coin to his pocket. "Much obliged, Mr. Grimmick."

"You tracking an outlaw?"

"No."

"If you're looking for hangman work, try Hays City. The marshal here doesn't do executions."

"I'm taking a break for the winter. The outlaws are holed in their dens."

Moss led the horse to a stall and Anson followed. "You don't need to come in. I'll unsaddle him," said Moss.

"I want to see what stall he's in." Anson hovered as Moss removed the saddle and bridle. Moss sensed, oddly, the man wanting to meet his gaze, so he gave Anson's intense dark eyes a glance. The eyes had an eager questing expression that made Moss uneasy. He wished Anson would leave.

"I know you find me repellent, Mr. Grimmick," Anson said abruptly. "I don't blame you. I am however human. I think and feel like any man."

Moss didn't know what to say to that, nor did he want to answer. He started rubbing down the horse, pausing to stare at Anson's back when the man left the stable. Moss shuddered a bit and went on with the rubdown, wondering if he should have said something neighborly.

Ma Smalley saw nothing in Anson's manner that hinted at his profession. He was a black-clad gentleman with dark hair, a beige complexion and serious bearing. His name gave her a shock. She'd heard of him, of course; scarce a body in Dodge had not heard of Thane Anson.

"You recognize my name," he said. "Forgive me for startling you. Maybe I ought to use an alias when I meet ladies."

"I'm afraid you can't board here, after all, Mr. Anson. I've no room for you."

"You just said you did, ma'am."

"I forgot. Every room is taken."

"I'll pay twice the amount you usually charge."

"I run an honest establishment. I never overcharge, but I have no room for you."

"I had a long trip on horseback. These saddlebags are heavy and I'm chilled to my bones. I might wander the town an hour before I find a place half so fine as yours. I'll be no harm here, Mrs. Smalley," Anson pleaded.

Ma felt herself relenting. The man's face was drawn and strained and he looked desperate. She clasped her hands, nervously kneading her fingers, and Anson reached with a swift motion and seized her hand. His hand was warm, his touch gentle. Ma stunned herself by not pulling back. Anson was thirty-five or thirty-six years old, not attracted to her that way, surely, but he clearly needed to hold her hand. Or a woman's hand, and as hers was there, he took his chance.

"Well alright, Mr. Anson. But you're not to eat at the dining table with my other boarders or sit in the parlor. If you want to stay here, keep to your room and I'll serve your meals there. The boarders might tolerate you if they don't see too much of you."

Anson let go of her hand. "I anticipated conversation and dining in society," he said, his cultured voice low and quiet. "The more well-known I become, the less folks share a table and talk. Like I am fading away, and I shall soon disappear altogether."

"On account of your dreadful occupation," said Ma. "Even if you gave it up, it's likely too late to expect folks to act neighborly."

"Yes. Too late for the murderers I shot dead and hanged. It's my turn now. I knew hope was lost when I came to Dodge, but I longed to be among people." Anson's dark eyes looked distant, as though he'd gone to a forbidding place far from Ma's warm parlor with the bright winter sunlight filtering through the curtains.

Guilt pricked Ma's heart. Having no one to pass the time with was unthinkable. She couldn't unsay what she said though, or honestly refute it. A body did reap what he sowed. Not one to dwell on the morality of laws and such, Ma held only the vague idea, more feeling than opinion, that men like Anson moved in a murky realm between good and bad, unfit to mingle with decent folk.

All of which stirred her to pity this forlorn man. She could give him a comfortable room with a fire in the stove, heat water for his bath and serve him nourishing tasty food. He'd ridden too far alone on the plains and was morbid.

"Well, Mr. Anson, you're here," she said briskly. "Nothing bad is happening now, so you needn't talk about any of it. I'll get you settled and you'll feel much better."

Anson took a steamy bath while Ma ironed the clean black suit in his saddlebag. He ate a lunch of roast chicken and hot rolls, and after two cups of coffee was sufficiently revived to visit the general store.

Jonas did not follow the exploits of bounty hunters and treated him like any patron. "I'll just take a bottle of laudanum," he said.

"Got a wound on the mend, do you?" Jonas asked as he bagged the bottle. Despite a gaunt visage that matched his lean frame, the sober-faced gent looked hardy enough.

"No, I am quite sound," said Anson.

"Not sick, then?"

"My spirit is sick, thus my feelings. And my senses have always been off kilter," Anson easily replied, counting coins to pay for the laudanum.

Jonas curiously regarded him. "None of my business, but if you take too much laudanum, you can't stop. You'll need it all the time in higher doses."

"Yes yes, I know. I need only the one bottle." Anson slipped the bag in his coat pocket. "As I may be here through the winter, you best know who I am. Your customers will tell you about me. They are scowling at me. They won't want me in here."

"They can go elsewhere, but they always come back here when they get tired being mad at me. This is the best general store in Dodge. The townsfolk know outlaws are welcome here so long as they keep their guns holstered and don't beat anyone. No matter to me who you are; I took you for a gunman when you walked in the door."

"I am Thane Anson."

Jonas nodded. "Uh-huh." He'd never heard of Thane Anson, and wondered if the man's face was on a Wanted circular. The marshal would know of him, and likely either arrest him or run him out of town.

"I am a bounty hunter and hangman, Mr. Jonas. I've killed more men than most gunmen for hire."

Jonas stared into Anson's acute dark eyes. Neither cold or dead, they held no viciousness, and there was no hardness round the man's mouth. Anson didn't look like a killer. He was, though, if on the law's side. The marshal would still want him out of Dodge, and Jonas told him so.

"Matt Dillon is more widely known than I. He doesn't like bounty hunters. I suppose he dislikes hangmen, too. There used to be a gallows outlying Dodge City. Did he have it dismantled?" said Anson.

"I don't know. It's gone."

"You dislike me, too, don't you. Now you know what I am."

"You can shop here whenever you want. Your money's good. What difference does it make what I think of you."

"That answers my question," Anson said wryly. His fingers closed around the laudanum bottle in his pocket. "Which way is the Long Branch."

Like most winter afternoons, business at the Long Branch was slow. Despite the dazzling white sun and dry windless day, the air outdoors was icy, and few men braved the cold for a beer or whiskey. Sam was alone in the barroom, and Kitty ate a late lunch with hot tea in her room upstairs. The pianola was silent.

Anson walked to the stove, pulled off his gloves and put them in his coat pocket, and rubbed his hands in the warmth. He moved to the bar and pushed his hat to the back of his head. Sam had seen the grave face with its chiseled features and piercing eyes in pictures, but couldn't recall who the man was. "What'll it be," said the barkeep.

"Beer. And a whiskey bottle. You've seen me before?"

"Not in person. Seen your likeness."

"You're the first one in this town knows what I am and looks at me neighborly."

"Maybe because I don't know what you are," said Sam.

"I'm Thane Anson." The man took a swallow of beer. "My name means nothing to you. I am a bounty hunter and hangman." Anson waited a moment, his eyes searching Sam's stolid face. Sam impassively returned his gaze.

Anson took another drink. "Well. Your face chilled, but at least you don't look like a noxious odor comes from me. Nothing I say will provoke a reaction from you. What's your name, sir?"

"Sam Noonan."

"Does the Long Branch employ women, Mr. Noonan? Upstairs, perhaps?"

"Not 'til sundown. We don't get a full house most days after the first freeze."

"I'd hoped for a room visit. Are there any girls up there?" Anson looked up at the closed doors. "Ah. Here comes a ravishing gal now."

"The lady's no gal. Miss Kitty Russell owns the Long Branch."

"Owns the place, does she? Then I needn't give up hope just yet."

Smiling, Kitty approached Anson. Though he looked like a gunman, he was also a patron, well-groomed with an arresting face. He took off his hat. "Miss Russell."

"How do you do. I see Sam announced me," said Kitty.

"This is Thane Anson, Miss Kitty. Bounty hunter and hangman," said Sam.

Anson gave Sam a grim reproachful look, then turned his eyes back to Kitty as her smile melted away. Anson's eyes were bottomless pools. She couldn't decipher his feelings, only that whatever they were, he felt them fervently. "May I buy you a drink, Miss Kitty?"

"I'll buy you one."

Sam refilled Anson's beer mug and poured hot apple cider for Kitty. They sat at a table, and Anson set his unopened whiskey bottle on the tabletop. "Looks like you plan to do some serious drinking," said Kitty.

"The most serious of my life. Not here in the saloon, though."

"In your hotel room?"

"I am staying at Mrs. Smalley's, but I won't disrespect her by imbibing in her home. She seems a fine lady and the outcome might shock her."

"Ma's seen a lot of drunk men," said Kitty. "Any woman has who's stayed in Dodge a few days."

"I don't figure Mrs. Smalley has seen near as many dead men as drunk," said Anson.

"You're gonna shoot someone?"

"No, ma'am. I won't, I assure you. Not while I'm in Dodge, and I may never leave this town."

Puzzled, Kitty frowned as her exquisite blue eyes penetrated his dark ones. Anson lowered his eyes and gazed into his beer mug. "If you intend to drink yourself to death, you'll need more than one bottle," she said, and regretted the words at once, unsure why she spoke them. Kitty considered herself jaded concerning men like Anson. She served gunmen and churchgoers alike. She could not call him good, yet sensed he wasn't bad, either. She somehow pitied him and found him attractive in a shadowy patrician way, so accepted his offer to have a drink without a thought of saying an unkind thing. Kitty had met bounty hunters and hangmen, but never a man who was both. Maybe she was less benumbed to Anson's breed than she realized.

He stiffened and raised his eyes to hers. "You are very perceptive, Miss Kitty."

"You're really thinking of killing yourself?"

"Perhaps I died long ago. I was thinking of spending the winter in Dodge and moving on come spring, or . . . never leaving here. I am undecided."

Kitty frowned again. "You mean you'll either—"

"You stay upstairs, then?" Anson interrupted. "May I see your room?"

"No, Mr. Anson. I have two girls working tonight, though. They're pretty and obliging."

"Common dance hall women," said Anson.

"Does it matter?"

"It didn't until I saw you. You don't like my looks, Miss Kitty? I rather thought you did."

"It's not that. I own this place, Mr. Anson. I don't need the money."

"Not even one hundred dollars?"

"Not even one hundred dollars."

"Then will you tell me where the doctor's office is?"

"On this street to your right as you go out and up a flight of stairs. Doctor Adams. You feeling poorly?"

"Physically, I am well." Anson rose and put his coat on over his black suit, and Kitty noticed the bulge in his coat pocket. He saw her look inquisitively at the bulge and slapped his hand over the pocket. "I know doctors don't generally treat an ill spirit; that falls to the minister. I'm ashamed to darken the threshold of a church. The doctor's elixir will ease my pain, permanently if I wish it."

"Then you're really thinking of killing yourself," Kitty repeated, wondering if she cared enough to tell Doc and Matt, and if she should. Doc would feel responsible if he gave Anson a sedative and the man used it to end his life. Anson's fate intrigued Kitty. Whether that meant she cared, she hardly knew.

She stared at Anson as she pondered him, and his face flushed under her scrutiny while he buttoned his coat. "Putting your hand over whatever's in your pocket doesn't hide it," said Kitty. "What is it?"

"Merely a bottle."

"A bottle of what?"

"I will tell you if you kiss me. Then perhaps I won't need to take what's in it."

A hot tingle rushed through Kitty, surprising her. "If a kiss stops you from poisoning yourself, Mr. Anson, then I'll kiss you."

He looked stunned, then fumbled to pull back her chair as she stood. "It's not poison," he stammered. "It's just laudanum from the general store. You are very kind and I won't deceive you into kissing me."

Feeling daring in an almost giddy way, Kitty stepped close to him, touched her hand to the back of his head and put her other hand on his shoulder, and kissed him. He held her tightly and kissed her frenziedly. Kitty felt his hands shaking as he caressed her back, and knew she had to pull away. She slapped her palms on his chest and pushed him back. He looked dazed.

"Why don't I walk you to Doc's, Mr. Anson," Kitty said brightly. "The Long Branch gets like a tomb in winter. I could use some fresh air and exercise."

"I'll be delighted to walk with you, Miss Kitty, if you will call me Thane."

"Alright, Thane. Just let me put on my cloak and hat." The corners of his finely molded mouth turned up in a small smile as he put on his gloves and picked up the whiskey bottle. He'd be disappointed to find Kitty wasn't befriending him, not in the way he hoped. Her concern was for Doc. She had to let him know about the laudanum in Anson's pocket, that the man might use any narcotic Doc gave him to harm himself. Pinning on her hat, Kitty mulled over her feelings as to Anson. Caring what became of him unsettled her, like the feeling itself was wrong.

She lifted her cloak from the stand and Anson came up behind her, put his gloved hands over her hands and draped the cloak over her shoulders. How he could ply his grisly trade baffled her, for Kitty felt sure he had tenderness in his heart.