Blacksmith

Round Dodge City and in the territory on West. There's just one way to handle the killers and the spoilers. And that's with the U.S. Marshall and the smell of gun smoke. By William Conrad, the trans-stride story of the violence that moved West with young America.

The story of a man who moved with it. Matt Dillon, United States Marshall. I sure do thank you for that breakfast, Mr. Dillon.

Forget it, gentlemen. My state, eggs, potatoes, and a glass of beer. Well, that could last a man clean the noon dinner. I guess it could. Mr. Done, you figure Amal will have your horse shot by the time we get there?

I should. You think he's done him any good? He's a good blacksmith, Chester. If he trimmed up his feet right before he reset those shoes, he ought to be fine. Funny the way he took throwing his forelay.

Yeah. Looks like there's somebody else waiting. You told me. Yeah, I think it is. Tellin' yourself, Mel's Dutchman, you can whistle for your money. You won't get it from me. All right? I don't make you pay.

The morning after I got him home, he was so lame, he couldn't walk. I'm gonna break your head. Do you see if it was my fault? Something I did wrong? Don't pay me anything. That seems fair enough, Tomah.

Oh, Marshall, this fool Dutchman messed up my pony Then he wants to get paid on top of it. Oh, maybe it's the stone bruise. Any old stone bruise, Marshall. It's pinched feet, that's what. Is that the horse you're talking about?

Well, no, no, he's back at the place. This is another one. How about my horse, Samuel? You finished with him? Or finished? Now he walks good. Ah, fine. Well, how much are we? Two dollars, all right, Marshall?