Western Masters

By A.R. Arrington

3 outstanding Arrington Novels in one!
CLASH AT CRUEL CREEK
Cruel Creek is named because gold nuggets are plentiful in the clear waters but the two mine owners won't let anyone near. Between them they own most of the little town and, whoever they don't own, they buy. Between their money and their thugs, it's a sweet life.
Until a man named "Slate" rides into town. He's a bounty hunter and an ex-prisoner and he's tougher than any four owlhoots put together. His method of "Cleaning Up" a town involves lots of gunfights, brawls, a bit of dynamite and a lot of bodies.
But, then again, he gets paid for the bodies. "Dead or Alive," remember?

GOLD FOR SAN JOAQUIN
Framed for his family’s murder, their homestead burnt to the ground, and the people meant to protect him seeking to shoot him down as an outlaw, 16-year-old Jacob Thorn must become a man. They killed his father for his family's gold. To protect their greed and power, they will stop at nothing to kill Jacob and destroy the truth.
On the run after both the sheriff and his deputy are killed by the same bushwhackers who are hunting him, Jacob enlists the help of his father’s best friend. The two of them decide it’s time to stop running and start taking the fight to Jacob's enemies. Using the tactics his father learned from his Civil War cavalry service, Jacob Thorn goes in search of revenge on behalf of his family and vindication for himself.

MIRAGE, COLORADO
Moss Partridge has just a very rude awakening. The last he remembers, it was 1864 and he was a paroled Union soldier stopping off in Denver on his way home to his wife and child in Montana. Now it's a dozen years later, he's the town drunk in Mirage, Colorado and he has no memory of those 'lost years.' Something sure must have happened because there are people trying to kill him and two Indian children who are following him everywhere he goes and, apparently, deciding whether he should live or die.

"Mirage, Colorado" is just the first installment in A. R. Arrington's brilliant new series: "Road to Redemption." Follow Moss Partridge as he treks across the length and breadth of the Wild West, meets living legends like Wild Bill Hickok and Colonel John Chivington, and takes part in historic events from gold strikes to gunfights. A very different "Western," these books will follow one man's journey in search of his home, his history, and his soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ronin Robot Press
• Release date: Dec 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311079169

Book preview

CLASH AT

CRUEL CREEK

Book One of

A Man Called Slate

BY A.R. Arrington

A STRANGER RIDES IN

The stranger rode into Cruel Creek, New Mexico late in the afternoon. His roan gelding kept up its steady pace. It was a sort of gliding walk that always seemed slow to an onlooker but one that his rider knew the horse could keep up almost all day and all night. He’d overtaken quite a few faster animals this way to the unending surprise of the men astride them.

Today, he appreciated that the meandering gait gave him time to look around and size up the town before he had to start talking business. A pack horse paced along behind him on a lead rein. From the rig that was on its back, they’d traveled a long way. There was room for a couple weeks of supplies, now almost completely depleted.

Overall, he thought that Cruel Creek was hardly worth the effort it took to get here. Just a piss-poor end to a long and tiring ride. Then again, he very seldom went to nice towns in his line of work. He almost smiled as he wondered if he even remembered how to act in place where the picket fences were painted, men tipped their hats to the ladies, and hardly any mudsills were passed out drunk in the gutters.

Clearly, they’d had a bad fire here recently. Main Street seemed to be where the townsfolk had stood their ground and stopped the flames. Everything on the north side was a mishmash of half-burned roof beams, smoking cinders, and blackened debris. Outside each plot of land was a small, sad pile of books, china, tintypes, and any other fragments of their lives that the inhabitants had been able to salvage.

There were still men and women bent over and scraping at the ashes, searching for bits of their past. He couldn’t spot too many that were finding anything. It hadn’t been a big town—only about 800 people--and now half was just burnt and gone.

The more prosperous townsfolk clearly lived and worked on the north side of town--the side that had been saved from the flames. Funny how rich people just seemed to have that kind of luck.

The brick and stone of the bank, the land office, the Assayer, and the homes of the well-to-do hadn’t even been scorched. It was no surprise that the saloons had survived—the stranger imagined that their clientele had put up a good fight against the blaze—and alongside them, the general store, barber, and livery stable had survived as well. What was truly amazing was a large ornate building with Cruel Creek Opera on the front that was dead center next to the bank, resplendent in white paint with blue trim and more windows than he’d seen in months.

There was new construction—a lot of new construction--behind the buildings that face Main Street. In the normal way of things this far from civilization, most of it was just canvas stretched and nailed over wooden braces. Several groups of extravagantly-dressed women under the command of truly-frightening old ladies were working reluctantly on long narrow structures—just a hallway and small bedrooms, most likely. Clearly, the local madams weren’t going to let a little thing like a fire keep her girls from working when there were  paying customers clamoring for relief.

Among the tents, wooden walls were going up as the more determined began to build for the future—a future that was well on its way. There was a one-room schoolhouse a    ways down the street and the Methodists and the Baptists had already staked their claims.

The rider spat a wad of tobacco juice onto the hard packed dirt. He’d never thought much of gospel sharps—always seemed to him that a black-leg who took your money on the turn of a card was more honest. Leastways, you knew what they were up to from the jump.

At first, the stranger thought that Brown’s, the town only hotel, was open for business. His dreams of a good night’s sleep were ruined as he rode past and saw that only the tall false front was finished. Out back, it was nothing but tents.

Staying there could be a cold and wet experience, he thought. Might as well sleep with the horses in the livery stable.

He rode up and tied off his horses to a rail in front of a large tent that had a hand painted sign over the door    way that read, Salon . . He assumed that it was just a spelling error and it was really a Saloon. Most people out here in the Big Empty were in the market for whiskey and a game of cards not whatever it was that they sold in a salon.

He took off his hat and banged it against his clothes, but he still left a trail of dust behind him when he walked up the steps to the raised walkway of the saloon. Despite the dust, the distinctive wide legged swagger of the long rider, the black leather batwing chaps,  and the gunbelt hitched high on his waist with the pistols reversed for a fliphand draw left no doubt that this was a very serious man. Certainly no one you wanted to trifle with.

His boots were old and furrowed, but you could see the high quality black leather and the rich shine of candlewax melted into the creases. Anyone who wore those boots could stand in a creek for an hour and not feel the slightest drop on his toes. There were tin plates on the  on the  toes and heel—a cautious addition that kept the soles from wearing and, not incidentally, made them damn efficient weapons in a bar fight.

His hat was just as dusty as the rest of him, but a close observer would have seen that it had been ordered straight from Mr. Stetson’s factory in Philadelphia—so waterproof that you could use it as a bucket. Since it was hand-stitched from beaver pelts, it was already a dusty brown so the dust didn’t affect it much.

The stranger paused and rolled himself a Quirley. As he lit it with a n Oshkosh match, his eyes below the wide brim of his hat scanned the street. Except for a couple of kids hitting a ball with a wooden bat way up the street, it was empty. He took his first deep inhalation of smoke and thought that these times of quiet were doomed to be short-lived. With two mines tapping rich veins of gold, Cruel Creek would most likely have ten times as many citizens crowding up the place in six months.

He muttered, Enjoy it while it lasts, to no one in particular and stepped into the saloon through the ragged flap of canvas that served as a door. 

The inside was about as cold and damp as the outside and possibly even dirtier. The floor was just packed earth liberally sprinkled with an noxious mixture of urine and vomit. It did smell like a dead mule that had been left in the sun for about a week but it had the advantage of keeping the dust down.

The canvas of the tent flapped when the wind blew. The bar was off to the left, ten feet of a wide-cut wooden board propped on top of two empty whiskey barrels with a few boards tacked on the front to keep them steady. Silver dollars had been nailed into the top of the bar—so close together that it was almost a solid sheet of glittering metal. The stranger nodded. He’d heard of this place all the way back in Las Vegas, New Mexico—every time there was a new gold strike or a some broke back miner came in with a full poke, it was tradition to nail down the luck with a coin.

He shook his head at the foolishness of greedy men. He’d bet even money that most of those coins pounded into the wood were the only remaining actual that the happifying miners still owned , and they were going to be darn difficult to get back. 

Behind the makeshift bar was a mirror with some large blank patches where the silver had been worn off and the raw wood frame it was nailed to could be seen.  There were three wooden boards on apple crates set below the mirror and filled with dusty glasses, dirty plates, and pewter mugs. The top shelf just under the mirror held a dozen bottles of varied brands of excellent whiskey—which would have been surprising if the contents hadn’t been the same murky brown liquid. Clearly, the bottles had been filled from the same vat of swill in the hope that the fancy label would hoodwink the drinker. Well, he thought, if the drinker was drunk enough, it could happen.

At the far end of the bar, on a makeshift table once again made from a couple of planks on top of smaller barrels, was a couple of barrels of homemade beer, lying on their sides with wooden spigots over a box filled with more pewter mugs. They appeared to be rinsed off but it was more likely that they were still wet from the previous imbiber.

The stranger walked up to the bar and stood there waiting for someone to appear and offer to sell him a drink. Waiting didn’t bother him since he spent the time evaluating the other customers. There was an old man sleeping on a couple of chairs over by the pot belly stove. Four men were playing faro—one in a clean shirt and garters and three in rumpled work clothes and extremely puzzled expressions. Most of the chips were in front of what was clearly the house card shark and, as a reward, his lap was occupied by a young girl clad only in her under drawers. She looked bored.

After watching the sharp pull two cards from his sleeve, the stranger got bored and said loudly, Is the sleeping man the bartender? The four men playing cards ignored him and the sleeping man continued to sleep.

He waited a bit more, listening to the snap and rustle of the cards and the gentle snores of the old man. Just as he moved to duck under the bar and procure his own refreshment, a middle-aged man with a pot belly, a big grey mustache, and a respectable set of muscles bulging out of rolled-up shirt sleeves, stepped into the tent through a side entrance.

Howdy stranger, new in town? The old man greeted him.

Nope, lived here all my born days, The stranger replied as he straightened up with a deadpan look.

At first, the bartender appeared befuddled by the stranger’s sardonic comment, but after a long moment of deep thought, he appear to realize the joke. He’d probably just worked his way through every man in town, the stranger thought.

The barkeep grinned. I see you’re one of those men who likes to get a fella’s back up. Well, I’ll admit you had me for a couple of shakes there. I appreciate a bit of ribaldry but I’d be careful to whom you demonstrate your sense of humor around here. Quite a few men see themselves to be the biggest frog in the puddle and don’t take kindly to be made to feel that anyone is getting a run on them. After this solemn warning, the bartender swept a hand across his wares, Now, can I interest you in a spot of our best prairie dew or would you like a growler of the finest brew in a hundred miles?  

Without laughter in your life, it ain’t hardly worth living. The stranger replied and then added, I suspect that pop skull you’ve filled those fancy bottles with would stretch me out rather permanent so I think beer would be the better of two evils.

A beer it is and you might well be surprised. I buy this from a widow woman over on Earle’s Ridge who grows her own hops. As sudsy brown brew flowed into a metal bucket, the barkeep looked up and asked, So what brings you to Cruel Creek?

I was just passing by and thought I’d stop and see the sights. Why do they call it ‘Cruel Creek’ anyways?

As for the name, the town is named after the freshet that flows down from North Mountain. For a while, I’m told you could walk along the bank and just pull nuggets from the water. At that time, it was known as Blossom Brook. Then the Grubstake Mine came in on the east side of the creek and the Little Grubstake followed on the west side. There may still be gold in that water but you don’t go looking for it ‘less you’re tired of living cause you’re going to get shot by one side or the other. I’d say that’s plenty cruel.

The beer slid across the counter with the low growling sound that gave the bucket its name. The barkeep’s gaze turned suspicious. Now, stranger, we ain’t on the way to anywhere and the only sight we got is young Becky over there in her unmentionables. What say you try again and see if you can shoot a bit closer to the truth this time? Why don’t you begin with somethin’ easy, like your name?

The stranger took a long and evidently satisfying drink of beer, wiped the suds off his mouth and belched. You split fair about this beer. He sighed. It’s just what a man needs after a long and dusty trail.

He lifted the metal bucket for another, even longer, swallow and banged it down on the coin-covered bar. Well, sir, the brand I’m riding under is Slate and I’m looking for work, since you’re forcing me to swear an affidavit. A man up in Las Vegas told me I could find honest work in Cruel Creek if I wasn’t afraid of finding myself through honest labor.

In the mirror, he could see the three grubby-looking men look up from their card game. Even Becky glanced over before an enormous yawn practically broke her jaw. She let the force of the yawn push her head down onto the sharp’s shoulder, closed her eyes, and was asleep in seconds.

Work? In Cruel Creek? Now the barkeep seemed a bit rattled. No  I’m afraid you may have been misled unless you mean to hunker down and swing a pick in the mines.

Slate shook his head, No, I’m afeered of the dark so mining isn’t an option unless there are still chunks of gold lying around on the ground.

Both men smiled at the very thought.

I have to confess, Slate continued. I do have a trade that I follow and have followed for many years. You see, I’m a collector. 

He took another long drink of beer as the bartender looked stumped. Well, what do you collect?

Oh things I find lying around, mostly. Slate responded. Now his head was still moving as if he was just passing the time, but the bartender could see his eyes weren’t straying from the three men at the card table.

A thought struck the man with such force you’d have thought it was a yearly happening at best. Oh, well. You won’t find anything lying around here. Speaking of which, he raised his voice, Becky girl, you’ve been laying around for a good long time now. Why don’t you go out back and get me a cup a’ Arbuckles?

Becky raised her head, looking confused. But Pete, you don’t drink coffee in the afternoons. You always say it gives you the collywobbles.

There are days when collywobbles are exactly what a man needs. The bartender said, Now, why don’t you just cut stick and get moving.

Becky stood up slowly and stomped out the canvas flap in the rear. Slate noticed that she was wearing heavy string-tied boots with her underwear. He wondered idly if she took them off to work or just kicked the bejezus out of her customers.

I can’t see as how I agree with you. He said to the barkeep as he watched the old man near the stove--without opening his eyes or ceasing his steady snoring--slide to the floor, and carefully slither along the floor to the side door. Slate couldn’t even imagine what he smelled like by the time he stood up outside and began to run.

So, you’re telling me that no one is going to finish building all them buildings? Slate asked with an air so casual he might have been discussing the weather. Beads of sweat sprang from the bartender’s forehead and he began to sidle sideways. His eyes were jerking back and forth as he worked out the geometry of possible gunshots and tried to muster the book-learning to figger out the safest place to stand.

As he moved, he kept on talking in a shaky voice, Well, there has been some talk of relocating the town. The water hereabouts is mostly sposh. You know, filled with mud?

Slate nodded solemnly. I see. I guess I was misinformed. Although, in truth, the gentleman who suggested Cruel Creek is generally…judicious…in his advice.

There was a simultaneous screech as all three men stood and shoved their chairs back. The card sharp moved faster than a striking rattler and was out the back door with everything that was in the center of the table.

No one turned to watch him go.

Well, I guess I’ll be back on the trail, then. Slate continued in a musing tone. But it has been a hellacious long ride down here. Is there any place in town where a man might get a bath, a shave, and maybe a good hunk of cow with all the doings?

The only place in town with anything close to that, is Brown’s across the street.

That’s a hotel? Slate asked, A man would have to be mighty thin to fit in there. By the time you walk in the front, you’re walking out the back.

Yes, well, uh. Mr. Brown has everything out back in tents. Sweat was now running in rivulets down the man’s face. I know he has a barber, a very nice bath house—you have your choice of washing yourself or, for a very reasonable price, being scrubbed by one of Miss Clancy’s best girls. I have heard that he’s even hired a Celestial to offer comestibles but I can’t testify to the quality of his food.

What about a place to board my horses for the night? Slate asked. Oddly this innocent question caused all three of the men playing cards to slowly reach for the handles of their pistols. Slate could see them, but they didn’t notice how he’d opened his long duster just wide enough to put his pistols in easy reach—hindsite first as they were.

They were hard looking men. Their faces were covered with rough beards, busted noses, and bad teeth, all wrapped in scowls.  They had dirty clothes, dirty hands, and dirty hair. Only if you looked real close—an action that would most definitely not lead to a long and happy life—would you notice that there were no work calluses on their hands. Instead, there were thick pads on their right forefingers. Right where a trigger would rub.

Sure thing, there is a livery stable at the end of the block. The old man pointed off to his left. The stranger dropped two bits on the counter for the beer and started for the door. One of the four men at the table called out to him.

What line of work did you say you was in? A man with a salt and pepper beard asked as the three men spread themselves out in a rough line with about five feet between them.

The stranger stopped and began to roll another Quigley without turning around. When he took to patting his pockets as if trying to locate his box of lucifers, the man on the left side, a particularly ugly individual with only one tooth, spoke up. Yeah, you said you collected things. What do you find on the ground? Dog turds and buffalo chips? He laughed a bit but neither of the others joined in and he soon stopped.  

Slate looked up as if thinking deeply. Finally, he said, A ha and dove a hand into the inside of his long duster and withdrew his box of matches. Once he’d gotten the hand-rolled spiff going, he shook out the match deliberately and threw it out into the street.

Well, not all of it is dead afore it hits the ground. The Stranger said.

Dead stuff? What are you on about? This time, the man in the center with a puckered scar slanting from his forehead and down across his left eye was asking. I think you’re just trying to bamboozle us.

Goodness. I can’t imagine why I’d be gulling honest upright citizens like yourselves. He turned around with his hands clasped loosely in front of him as he made his points with his fingers.  Well, you see, first I go and collect a passel of papers. Second, I got to find someone to read them to me. Finally, these papers tell me what to collect.

What? Where do you get these papers from? The scarred man was confused but not so much that his hand ever left his gun butt.

Slate’s smile was broad and innocent. Why, I get them at the crowbar hotel in Las Vegas, of course.

The what? The man questioned, then looked at his friends briefly before turning back to the stranger and saying, You mean, down at the hoosegow, the sheriff’s office?

Light dawned on the man with a single tooth. Draw you sapheads! He’s a bounty hunter!

All three men suddenly reached for their guns but the awkward angle of a straight draw had no chance against Slate’s smooth fliphand. From where his hands were in the center of his body, they only moved an inch and they were on the handles of a matched pair of Navy 1851 revolvers. He had them set for slip shooting with a loop of rawhide holding the trigger back. All he had to do was pull back the hammer and let it slip out from under his thumb. It was just as fast as fanning a single action but a hell of a lot more accurate.

One of the card-players actually tried to fan his revolver and sprayed three bullets through the canvas walls before Slate hit him dead center with the pistol in his left hand. Instants later, both of the others were spinning and falling to the filthy floor as they were struck by 80 grain slugs from the right hand gun with the thundering force of a thousand foot-pounds behind them. Slate didn’t even have to hit a vital point, he knew damn well that each of the large blunt bullets would tear away six or seven inches of flesh on its way out.

That being said, he’d drilled two of them between the eyes and one in the heart. 

Slate walked over to the men and stood over them looking closely at their faces. Then, he pulled a handful of folder flyers from an inside pocket and began flipping through them. He noticed that the bartender was still standing white-faced and trembling against the back bar.

You got no need to worry. Slate said absently. I don’t kill folks when there ain’t no profit in it.

The bartender might have collapsed with relief but he tipped forward instead and rested his elbows on the bar and his face buried in his clasped hands. Without lifting his head, he said, Can I interest you in an anti-fogmatic? I propose   to have one myself , so it will be made with the good stuff.

Slate glanced up. Well, you surely need a back-stiffener so I suppose I’ll join you when I’ve got this danged paperwork done. The barkeep stood up and shoved the board back to reveal an opening in the top of one of the barrels that supported the bar top. Reaching deep inside, he brought out a cut glass bottle and blew a coating of dust off it.

I swear, I’d rather ride a hundred miles of a dang pig trail than read through a dozen of these ill   - begotten things. Slate bent back to carefully unfolding, reading, and refolding each of what the bartender could now see were wanted posters.  

After a few moments, he found what he was looking for. He pulled a poster out of the wad and proceeded to place it on the chest of the man with the scar. He stepped back and compared the man’s face with the drawing on the poster. Satisfied with the likeness, he bent down and carefully rifled thru the man’s pockets and pulled out a motley collection of coins, bits of copper wire, and a bent nail. Digging deep into the bottom of the man’s vest pocket, he pulled out a chunk of pure gold.

The bartender, trying to pour whiskey into two glasses  with the shakes so bad, he had to support one wrist with the other hand, looked up and whistled a low and approving tone.

Slate looked up and grinned. Every once in long while, I light on a piece of good luck. Without another word, he tossed the nugget to the barkeep who was so surprised that he dropped the bottle, broke both glasses, and had to go down on his knees to recover the yellow treasure from under a shelf. Slate shook his head, still grinning, and went back to work. He found a derringer in the man’s belt and two knives in his boots.

Standing up, he piled his loot on one of the tables and went back to the slow and careful process of matching the other two men to their posters.

When he was done and all three bodies had wanted posters pinned to their shirts, he came over to the bar and gratefully took the glass of crystal clear amber heaven that the barkeep pushed to his side of the bar. Here’s how. They toasted in unison and downed their drinks.

Slate nodded to indicate he’d be partial to another drink. The bartender, who well knew that the nugget would have not only bought two drinks but his entire establishment and every drop of liquid in it, hastened to refill his glass. This time, both men took their time and sipped at the whiskey, appreciating the smoky flavor of the aged bourbon.

If you wouldn’t mind doing a traveling men a personal favor, Slate said as he motioned with an elbow toward the pile on the table. and play bobtail guard on that mess of ironmongery while I stable up my horses and get a bath and a shave. I’ll be back directly to take it over to the store and make sure it’s in safe hands.

Or, leastways, more skilled ones. He turned, rested his elbows on the bar and contemplated the three men on the floor. Why can’t the ones worth enough to kill be all skinny and short? Rachel is going to be mighty put out carrying those lubbers all the way to Las Vegas. Probably take a chunk out of my ear. Not right away, mind, but when she sees the opportunity. He rubbed at his left earlobe which was, in fact, somewhat shorter than the right.

I saw a bone orchard on the way into town so I’m guessing that Cruel Creek has gotten populous enough to require the services of a man to tend to these gentlemen properly?

You mean an undertaker? asked the bartender, who wasn’t too quick at the best of times.

Yes sir. I do. Slate answered. I don’t think a sawbones is going to do any of these bushwhackers the slightest bit of good.

Indeed we do have such a gentleman. His name is  Asa Heimlich Uriah  Comley . I’ll send Becky for him as soon as she gets back.

I’ll go fetch him. Becky said through the canvas wall behind the mirror. Did you really want that coffee, Mr. Jedidiah or was you just trying to get shut of me afore the gunplay?

Forget about the damned coffee! the bartender snapped.

Becky’s voice was already diminishing as she ran off. Thought so.

Slate smiled again. Good. When Mr. Heimlich arrives can you ask him to clean up these three—I think two of them have soiled themselves and I’ll be damned if I ride with that stench for a week—and tie them in their bed rolls all nice and neat. I’ll be taking the bodies with me when I leave tomorrow.

Slate walked over and collected everything off the table but the gun belts, tipped his hat to the bartender, and ambled out the door.

AN INTERRUPTED DINNER

Slate walked the two horses over to the livery stable and arranged for a night’s stay and plenty of oats. He carried as much good food for the animals as he could but over the course of a long ride, they got almighty scrawny on a diet of mostly grass. He asked about which horses had been ridden by the man with the scar, his friend with one tooth, and the owl hoot he simply called the other one.

The stable manager said they were all together down the main run and Slate walked down to inspect them. As he suspected, they’d been starved, with rowel-marks on their bellies, and a clumsy mess of burns where the brands should have been. On his way out, he told the manager to keep an eye on them—he said he’d been told by the proper owners that they were concerned that longriders might take them off to Texas. 

The bounty hunter had done this enough times to know that he was going to have to get a paper from the sheriff or a justice of the peace before he could claim them.

But that was a matter for another day. Right now, he had a hankering for soapy water, a straight razor, and a soft bed—preferably with someone in it. He walked down to the false front that was Brown’s Hotel with a reasonable hope that he could find such things there.

Indeed, he was no sooner walking in than he was walking out but there were neat rows of canvas tents out the back and an oily-looking gentleman standing behind a counter. Ten minutes of conversation and the handing over of a not-unreasonable amount of chink—all of which had been the property of the card players in the Salon not long before—and a modestly-dressed woman led him down to a tent marked Baths, opened the flap, and waved him inside.

The water was hot, the soap soft, and the back scrubbing thoroughly delightful. By the time he was dry, his clothes had been brought back with a great deal of the dust and dirt beaten out of them. It was while he was getting his shave that he began to realize he might have missed a figure by not high tailing it out of Cruel Creek the moment his business was done.

He was sitting with a hot towel wrapped around his face when a booming voice addressed him. Evening sir, I don’t like to interrupt your ablutions, but it appears that I must. Allow me to introduce myself. The name is Nimrod Jones, Sheriff Nimrod Jones to be exact. Now, if you’ll just keep your fingers a bit further away from those border style lead pushers, we need to talk.

Slate didn’t move his hands and said to the barber, Jonas, if you could move very slowly and gently and remove this length of warm crash you’ve so kindly wrapped around my face? I feel I’m giving the Sheriff here the disadvantage, what with my face all covered up.

When the rag was gone, his cold blue eyes took stock of Nimrod Jones—a man who might once have been dangerous but now was just old. White hair, mustache all stained with tobacco, and a paunch that drooped over his belt. The star pinned to his vest was scratched, dinged, and one of the points was bent forward.

Jones coughed and began. It is my job as sheriff, to address what happened in the Silver Dollar Saloon about an hour ago.

My name is Slate and I’m pleased to meet you. If Slate was pleased, it sure didn’t show on his face. Now what, exactly, is the issue that is so vital, you feel the need to interrupt the most salubrious moments of a very long pair of weeks?

I’m going to have to ask you for those guns. The town has decided that guns aren’t allowed in town or every owlhoot and scallywag in the New Mexico Territory is gonna get all roostered up and shoot anyone they please.  So in plain fact, you’re in violation of the aforesaid ordinance against carrying guns in town. That’s a five dollar fine. The sheriff, stuttered slightly as he spoke, while holding the