Chaco Banyon: Sheriff of Lordsburg

By Fred Schmidt

Darkhorse glared at Chaco. "I might have left the peasants alone if they hadn't tried to stop me, but now it's too late. All a' them will have to die."

Chaco was getting angry. "Darkhorse, you're crazy! Before this is all over, you'll have the entire United States Cavalry down your back."

"It's too bad you won't be around to see that."

"If you wanna make a fight a' this, let me get back to the town an' prepare for the battle."

"Do I look stupid? Without you, that bunch a' fumblin' fools will end up shootin' each other, an' you know it. This is a good place for you to die."

As Darkhorse reached for his revolver, a shot rang through the air. Judas Barbone fell from his horse, the blood spurting from the bullet in his head. Chaco seized the slim chance, pulled his six-shooter, and started firing at the riders in front of him. The horses, startled by the noise, started bucking and rearing. In the commotion. Chaco turned and made a run for the town. Before the comancheros could get their frightened mounts under control, a barrage of bullets hit the cluster and sent them running into each other. Spurring his horse, Chaco raced toward safety. The distance between him and the oncoming desperados was widening when a flying bullet shattered the back left leg of the horse. The animal reared and fell over on its side, throwing Chaco to the ground. A bullet struck the dirt in front of him as he scrambled to his feet. Looking up, he saw the galloping gang of gunslingers bearing down on him. He turned and ran toward the town. A yell from his left turned his head. Coming in fast was a lone rider, leaning low over the outstretched neck of his mount. Pulling hard on the reins, the horseman spun the mare around, slowing her enough to allow Chaco to swing up behind the rider. Giving the horse her head, the two frantic riders leaned over and held their breath, expecting any second that a bullet would find its mark. They started to breathe easier as they saw the town coming up fast. Their reprieve was short-lived. The mare stiffened and then seemed to relax. Her front legs foundered, and she fell forward, flipping over on her back. Chaco leaped out to his right, away from the plunging animal, but the front rider couldn't break from the stirrups and the horse fell on his leg. Coming to his feet. Chaco rushed over and started pulling on the trapped man. Bullets whizzed by as he strained at the one pinned leg. Realizing that time was running out. Chaco twisted his newfound savior round the dead horse, sheltering him from the deluge of gunfire. Grabbing his rifle from the saddle's scabbard, he ducked behind the horse and started returning fire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9781639614349

Book preview

1

Chaco Banyon was slumped over, half-asleep in his saddle when the slow-moving buckskin came to an abrupt halt. The sudden stop threw him off balance and he went flying through the air, landing headfirst in the dirt.

What the— sputtered Chaco, staggering to his feet. He rubbed his back. Buck, have you been eatin’ loco weed?

The horse raised his head and started sniffing the air. He started pawing the ground and shaking his head up and down. Chaco saw this as a warning of danger. Now fully alert, he patted the horse’s neck while he checked the trail. His first thought was that there was a rattler coiled nearby sunning on a rock. When he didn’t see one, he searched the surrounding terrain. Maybe it’s a cougar? he murmured. He didn’t see any movement. Satisfied that they were not in any immediate danger, he relaxed.

You smelled something, huh? As a precaution, Chaco checked the saddle to see if something was binding the horse. When he found nothing, he tightened the cinch and climbed back into the saddle. Well, whatever it was, it’s long gone now.

The crackling sound of a rifle firing answered him as a whistling bullet made a small, neat hole in his blue denim shirt sleeve. The horse was already moving by the time Chaco could react. He grabbed for the saddle horn to keep from falling off again. He retreated behind a large rock just as a second bullet ricocheted off the boulder, throwing small bits of sandstone in his face. Chaco drew his pistol. It’s sure not a cougar! Chaco dug his heels into the horse’s sides. The animal lunged forward, knowing instinctively what was expected of him. Leaning low, Chaco charged the bushwhacker.

Standing on a ledge was an Apache with a rifle aimed at Chaco. Both men, quick to respond, shot simultaneously. The Indian’s bullet hit the ground in front of the buckskin, spraying up sand. Chaco’s slug slammed into the red man’s chest, knocking him off the ridge. Before he could get the horse stopped, he had run up on the lifeless body. Sure that the Indian was dead, Chaco holstered his gun and rubbed the sand from his eyes. He checked his horse to see if he had been hit. Satisfied that he hadn’t, Chaco patted the animal on the neck.

Buck, you saved my hide again. The sudden sound of distant gunfire brought him straight up in his saddle. Looks like we’re not out of this yet. Standing in the stirrups, he leaned forward, half expecting the extra six inches could give him the visibility to see where the shots came from. He knew it could be coming from any direction since sound carried in the desert. Sitting there while the hot sun beat down on him, he scanned the horizon, listening through the dry wind. A bee started buzzing around his face. As he slapped it away, he heard another round of shots. His past experience in warfare told him that somewhere there was a gun battle in progress. He could tell from the exchange of gunfire that one side was greatly outnumbered.

The horse shifted his weight, turning his head to the south. That’s where it’s comin’ from, huh? He turned the stallion southward and gave him the reins. The buckskin, having been in this situation before, leaped forward, prepared for the long, fast flight.

Now attuned to battle, Chaco followed the sound of gun-bursts. Minutes later, he brought his mount to a quick stop on a ridge overlooking a canyon. Sitting there, he appraised what was happening below. Sweat started dripping off his nose, seeping into his mouth. He could taste the salt. He didn’t like what he saw down there. A band of eighteen or twenty Apache renegades had six men pinned down in some overhanging rocks.

He had to admire the trapped men. They had positioned themselves well. With the overhead rock, the Indians couldn’t get above or behind them. Where they were holed up, the marauders couldn’t hit them from the sides either. It would be suicidal for them to make an all-out frontal attack, but Chaco knew that the Apaches weren’t in any hurry. It was hot and just a matter of time before their captives ran out of water.

Chaco knew there wasn’t much he could do. One more man wouldn’t make much difference. He also knew he had to do something. He couldn’t go for help. The nearest town was three hours away, and by the time he got there and back, there was little chance that any of the men would still be alive. From file top of the ridge, he could kill one or two of the renegades, but then they would turn on him once they realized that there was only one rifle shooting from their backside. All they had to do was to leave four or five of them surrounding the trapped men and the rest would come after him. An idea started to form. He wasn’t sure it would work, but he had to do something and do it now!

He dismounted and started picking up dry scrub grass and twigs and made a pile. When he had enough to make a decent fire, he pulled out a match and lit the kindling. Once the fire took hold, he swung up on his horse and raced twenty yards along the ridge and started another one. Once it started burning, he moved down the line and built a third fire. When it was blazing, he grabbed two more handfuls of dry grass and twigs and placed them in the middle of the fire, making sure that there was a solid bottom. This done, he pulled eight cartridges from his belt and delicately placed them in the center.

When finished, he leaped on his mount and headed for the second fire. Picking up twigs, he gingerly placed them in the bottom of the fire and added more cartridges. He repeated the ritual at the first fire. Then he pulled his horse down behind a mound so as not to get him hit by a random bullet. He grabbed his rifle and ran to a spot down off the ridge where he could get a better angle at the Apaches. He waited and prayed, knowing that surprise and confusion was his only hope. He took aim at the leader of the party and prepared himself for the inevitable.

It wasn’t long before the heat from the fire exploded one of the cartridges. Chaco immediately shot the warrior oft the rock he was standing on. His next bullet caught a confused brave darting for cover. His fourth shot was drowned out by the echoes off the canyon walls of bullets exploding from the fires. All the time, Chaco went running from one position to another, firing a round of shots, moving to another, giving the impression that the entire ravine was full of riflemen. The Indians started scampering up the canyon to their horses. Chaco got a last shot oft at a lagger, who fell dead. The sound of distant horses getting further and further away was a feeling of relief. Chaco returned to his grazing horse. He mounted and headed down the ridge to the survivors.

2

When he had heard the shelling start, Sam Pate raised his five-foot, eight-inch, 230-pound frame up from behind the rock that was protecting him from the Indian attack. From the sound of the gunfire, he figured there to be six or seven men out there.

Not a moment too soon, he muttered to himself.

The Indians caught in the crossfire started scattering for safety. This made them easy targets for the trapped men, who started firing at will. Sam had his sights on the last of the renegades, but before he could get his shot off, he heard the crack of a rifle and the Indian fell. Scratching his beard, his eyes searched the area where the shot came from. He saw a lone man up on the ridge. After staring for a few moments, he turned back to their fortress to count his casualties. They were lucky. Of the six men, two were injured, only one seriously.

Now wiping his brow with his bandanna, he turned toward the ridge. He was grateful to the men who had come to their rescue. Expecting to see half a dozen men coming down off the ridge, he saw the same lone man he had seen earlier. Sam was curious. Where were the rest of the men? Always anticipating the unexpected, he stood ready while the stranger rode up to him.

Welcome, friend, Sam said. You’re a sight for a tired man. Light a spell.

Thanks. Chaco climbed off his horse. He took off his hat, wiped file sweat off his forehead, and passed his hand over his brown hair. He was over six feet tall, around thirty, Sam surmised, and had to weight close to 200 pounds.

How hard did you get hit?

Two men, one serious was Sam’s laconic answer.

Sorry to hear it.

Coulda been worse. Where’s the resta you? asked Sam.

The rest?

Yeah, the resta your men.

I’m it. Name’s Banyon. Chaco Banyon. He reached out a hand.

Shaking it, Sam continued, Sam Pate. What do you mean, you’re it?

You mean all the noise. Well, if you go up on that ridge, you’ll find three fires with some empty casings in ’em. Not long ago, they were explodin’ bullets. I was gamblin’ that when the Apaches heard the gunshots, they’d think there was an army behind ’em. I guess they did.

You mean to tell me all that ruckus came from some cartridges that you dropped in some fire? Sam sounded surprised.

That’s what I mean.

Well, I’ll be damned! I guess it could work. Hell, I’ve hearda crazier things. Then, you’re it.

I’m it, Chaco repeated, an’ I suggest that we get outta here before the Apaches return for their dead an’ find out for themselves.

Good idea. Come into camp. The boys’ll want to meet the man who saved their scalps.

The aftermath of the battle lay heavy on the impromptu camp. The air was filled with dust and heat mixed with relief and exhaustion. The siege was over, but it had left its scar. Two wounded men were lying on blankets under a tree. One man was working over them. One man was checking the horses for injuries. Another was picking up supplies that had fallen out of the wagon.

Hey, Pop, come over here an’ meet Chaco, yelled Sam.

Pop Cage was bent over one of the wounded men. Give me a minute. I need to get this bandage around John before he bleeds to death.

How bad is it? asked Sam anxiously.

He’ll live. The bullet went clean through. He’ll need some rest, though. Pop stood up. Seeing Chaco, he reached out his hand. You must be one of our saviors. Pop Cage’s the name.

Chaco Banyon at your service.

Where’s the resta your men? asked Pop, looking around.

I’ll tell you all about it later, said Sam, but right now we better get some distance between us an’ this place. Those Indians may be back any time. Chaco, let me introduce you to the resta the men. The two wounded are John Walters and Gamp Austin. The man workin’ the horses is Bill Henry. That’s Swede Gannon reloadin’ our buckboard.

What brand do you work for? asked Chaco.

The Bar F, outside ’a Tucson, replied Sam.

Heard of ’em. Good outfit from what I hear. What you doin’ this far east?

We’re headin’ for El Paso to pick up a new breed of cattle called Brahma. S’pose to be good at adaptin’ to heat.

Heard somethin’ about ’em. Don’t need the water.

That’s it. Anyway, we were travelin’ when ’round mid mornin’ we were rousted by those renegades. We made for these rocks. We’d held ’em off for four or five hours when you showed up.

Glad to oblige. Now, if my mind hasn’t gone dead on me, about five miles northeast a’ here is a line cabin. We’ll be safe there.

The sun was going down when the party started out—seven men, two hurt, Chaco and Sam leading, with Bill Henry and Swede Gannon bringing up the rear.

How’d you know ’bout this cabin? asked Sam curiously.

It’s a line cabin for the Lazy D spread. I worked for ’em one winter about eight years ago. I’d left Tucumcari, drifted west. Winter was comin’ on an’ I needed a job. They put me to work.

Where’s home?

I grew up ’round Durango. Got the itch to move. Been movin’ ever since.

If you’re lookin’ for a job, Sam offered, we can always use a good hand at the Bar F.

’Preciate it, replied Chaco, but no thanks. Got a job.

With that, Chaco poked his horse and trotted off to locate the cabin. It was nearly dark when he spotted the cabin. It was another hour before the group arrived. After the horses were fed and put up, the tired men went inside and settled for file night. After supper, they sat around smoking and relaxing.

Tom, said Chaco, how’s John doing?

Not good. The ride was hard on him. He started bleedin’ again. I think we should stay here a coupla days.

Kinda expected that. I think you’re right to stay a while. Myself, I’ll be leavin’ in the mornin’.

What’s the rush? asked Sam quickly.

No rush and no reason to stay. I don’t foresee any more trouble from the Indians. You’re goin’ east to El Paso an’ I’m headin’ west to Lordsburg.

Lordsburg. Why Lordsburg?

They need a sheriff. I’m it. Chaco gave the simple answer.

Sheriff! Hell, man, do you know what you’re gettin’ into? Sam exclaimed, pushing out of his chair. Sheriffs don’t last long there. That’s one mean town.

I’m a sheriff by trade, Chaco said, "an’ I need a town.

’Sides, I’ve found that all towns have their mean side. Some are just meaner than others.

Well, you may’ve met your match in Lordsburg. That town is home to the comancheros. They’re led by a half-breed man name ’a Jefferson Darkhorse, an’ he’s ornery.

He’s crazy! interrupted Pop Cage. I’ve seen what he’s done to towns. When he finishes plunderin’ ’em, he usually leaves ’em in flames. All that’s left are the shells of buildin’s with the guts burned out of ’em.

From what I hear, he has a special dislike for sheriffs too, chimed in Swede Gannon.

So I’ve been told, Chaco responded.

That’s not a rumor, that’s a fact. Sam was insistent. Everyone knows that. They do their raidin’ in Arizona, but they always come back to Lordsburg ’cause they know they’ll be protected there. They need a place to buy their supplies an’ a place to do their drinkin’, gamblin’, an’ womanizin’.

Guess it’s time they find themselves another town, Chaco said shortly.

Another town! Sam’s voice was incredulous. You don’t understand. The people in Lordsburg likes ’em. They bring in money, they don’t bother the decent folks, an’ when they finish havin’ their fun, they leave.

I can’t believe they all feel that way, Chaco protested.

Could be you’re right, but it’s been said that there’s some fifty men in the gang and that’s enough guns to control any town.

Maybe so, but I was hired, so there must be some decent citizens who want law and order who’ll support a sheriff.

You could be right, but maybe, they jus’ hired a sheriff to put on a good front.

You mean to look respectable to the resta the world.

Ya got it, said Tom, sitting down.

Well now, that’s something to sleep on, concluded Chaco, crawling into his blanket.

3

Chaco was a day and a half out from saying his goodbyes to the Bar F riders when he came up on the lynching. He was topping a hill when he heard the yelling. He reined in his horse.

Below, in a grove of cottonwoods, he saw a young Mexican rider sitting on a brown sorrel. He was holding a rope around a magnificent, white stallion. Four horsemen, armed with rifles, had him surrounded. A short, grubby looking man with a black beard and mustache was yelling at one of the other men. Chaco figured him to weigh close to three hundred pounds. The man he was yelling at was half scared of him and Chaco overhead him call the heavy man Grizzly. Chaco didn’t like Grizzly. He didn’t like him at all. Grizzly was throwing questions at the young man on the sorrel.

Where’d ya steal that stallion, Mexican?

I didn’t steal him, and I can prove it! the Mexican exclaimed loudly.

Prove it, hell! Ya stole that horse!

I’ve got a bill of sale, said the Mexican, reaching in his pocket.

Lemme see that, Grizzly demanded, reaching over and grabbing the paper. What’s a greaser like you doin’ with a piece of horseflesh like this?

That’s my business! the young man retorted defiantly.

Well, I’m makin’ it my business, an’ I say ya forged this bill’a sale an’ you’re a horsethief an’ should be strung up.

Hearing this, Chaco pulled his rifle from its scabbard and waited. He didn’t like mob rule and this came as dose to it as he had ever seen.

Grizzly yelled some orders at a short, skinny rider he called Muley.

Muley grabbed his lariat and rode under one of the cottonwoods. He threw his rope over a branch. A third man, carrying a very large knife in his waistband and wearing a tied-down gun, rode over to the sorrel grabbed the reins and lead him under the cottonwood to the dangling rope. He was tall, mean, and looked like a snake. Chaco knew that he wasn’t someone you wanted to turn your back on. Muley, grabbed the rope and reached to place it over the Mexican’s head. The Mexican let go of the white stallion and dug his spurs into the side of the sorrel. The horse jumped forward, but the man with the knife was expecting something like that and was able to hold the mount Muley, again, tried to put the rope around the victim’s head, but he was interrupted by a round of shots at the feet of the horses. Startled, the skittish horses began jumping around. Once under control, the men looked up to where the shot came from and saw Chaco with his rifle aimed at them.

Let the man go! Chaco commanded.

The men hesitated to see what Grizzly would do.

The name’s B’ar. Grizzly B’ar, shouted Grizzly at Chaco, an’ we caught us a horsethief.

Funny, I must be losin’ my hearin’. I swear I heard the man tell you he had a bill’a sale. Seems to me, you men have your sights set on a hangin’.

Where would a Mexican get a horse like this? It had to cost a lotta money. He hadda steal it.

Maybe. Chaco was bristling. But I don’t like vigilantes an’ that’s what I’m lookin’ at Now, one more time, let the man go!

Chaco was keeping his eyes on the knifeman. He knew if there were trouble, it would be he who would start it. The Mexican, still holding the reins of the sorrel, spurred him hard. The suddenness of the move made the horse bolt, breaking the hold the knife man had on the bridle. Once free, the young man grabbed his grazing stallion and headed toward Chaco.

Seeing the prized horse being taken from him, Grizzly started shouting, Stop ’im! Stop ’im! Don’t let ’im get away!

The knife man pulled his revolver and took a quick shot at the fleeing man, hitting a rock just in front of him. The Mexican turned to see where the next bullet would be coming from. He saw the knife man taking careful aim with all the assurance of not missing again, and, in anticipation, the man in flight tightened up, ready to take the slug. Before the knife man could pull the trigger, a shot rang out. He was hit in the shoulder and knocked off his horse. The Mexican looked up and saw Chaco recocking his rifle. His next shot winged Grizzly who dropped his gun. This seemed to take the fight out of the other men and they headed for the protection of the cottonwoods.

Coming up the side of the hill, the young Mexican pushed the sorrel to its limits, pulling the stallion behind him. Chaco aimed one more shot toward Muley. The bullet creased the rump of his horse who started bucking and running into the other horses, causing pandemonium. Chaco turned his horse and called to the Mexican as he topped the hill. Let’s get outta here. He didn’t have to say it twice. Both men went barreling down the mesa, wanting to get as much daylight as possible between them and their adversaries. Once they were a good distance from the fight, the two slowed their horses to let them cool down.

Senor, said the Mexican, I don’t know where you came from, but I would be one dead hombre right now if you hadn’t shown up.

Think nothin’ of it. I hate lynchin’s.

I don’t like them myself. Especially when I’m the one they want to lynch.

Chaco pulled Buck to a halt. Let’s stop a minute an’ give the horses a rest.

Si, said the Mexican. The two men got off their horses and led them as they walked.

What’s your name, senor? asked Chaco.

My name is Carlos.

Chaco Banyon. The two men shook hands.

That’s a beautiful white stallion you got there, said Chaco.

Gracias. Those men said I stole it, but I didn’t. I bought it.

I know, said Chaco matter-of-factly.

How do you know that? asked Carlos quizzically.

If you’d stolen it, you wouldn’t a’ been travelin’ this area. You’d a gone through the badlands where you wouldn’t be seen. ’Sides, you don’t look like a horsethief.

Gracias, senor for your observation. Now, may I ask which way you are heading?

I’m headin’ west to Lordsburg.

To Lordsburg?

Yes, I’m the sheriff there.

Carlos stopped and climbed on his horse. Well, I’m going south, and I’m late. Many are waiting for me.

I understand, said Chaco. Vaya con Dios.

Vaya con Dios to you, my friend, said Carlos. Turning his horse south, Carlos rode off. The prized white stallion moved spiritedly behind him.

4

@@@Gage is a quiet, sleepy little village located in the southern part of New Mexico. Gage was a welcome sight to Chaco. He was looking forward to a bath and a shave. It had been a long time since he’d had a stove-cooked meal served on a checkered table cloth. It was a place to rest a few days, to relax and sleep in a real feather bed. Three weeks on the trail, sleeping on hard ground had left him with sore, aching bones. He knew he had two weeks before he had to be in Lordsburg and it was only a week’s ride from Gage. Arriving in town, he headed for the livery stable where he found a dean stall for Buck. He had the stable boy give the horse a rubdown and get him an extra helping of oats. Once the horse was taken care of, Chaco walked over to the hotel and got himself a room. Settled in, he went across the street to get something to eat at the Beanery. Finishing, he went and got himself a bath and a shave.

It was nine o’clock at night when, rested, Chaco left his room and strolled over to the saloon. He was looking forward to some welcome company and the taste of a cold beer. As he walked through the swinging doors, the first thing that met his eyes were two Mexican caballeros playing their guitars. A senorita was doing a dance to their music. Over in the corner, a poker game was in progress. Five stoic players were huddled over their cards in deep concentration, while three others stood behind them, watching. Standing at the bar were six men leaning over their drinks, minding their own business. In another corner, four men were sitting at a table in serious conversation. From their dress, Chaco figured them to be farmers from the Midwest. He suspected that they were part of the wagon train he’d seen as he came into town. Chaco moved over to the bar and ordered a beer. Downing half of it, he set the glass down and turned his attention to the music, letting the feel of the room surround him. Working on his second beer, he heard a loud noise coming from the poker game. A tall, skinny, steely-eyed man was yelling, through brown-stained teeth, at the player across from him. He had a thin mustache and oily, black hair which hung out from under a dirt and grime-embedded black hat He wore a dirty, tom, brown shirt that was half-tucked in his soiled trousers. The right side of his mouth started quivering as he accused the player of cheating. Chaco could see that he was building up a head of steam. He also noticed that the agitated player was losing a lot of money. The gent across from him had a stack of chips that indicated he was definitely the winner. The other players, seeing trouble brewing, got up and moved to the bar. The gent typified a professional gambler. He was dressed in a neatly pressed suit, spotless white shirt and a well-fitted vest. A pocket watch was riding in the right vest pocket. He was recently shaved and carried his six-foot frame with confidence. He weighed about 180 pounds and had light brown hair. There was a hardness in his face that usually is found on a man much older than the thirty years Chaco figured this gent to be. Chaco had to admire him because he didn’t seem shaken by his accuser. In fact, Chaco had the feeling that the gent had been there before. Both men sat there staring at each other. Then Steely-Eye started laughing at the gent, as if the two were in a poker game and he had an ace hidden up his sleeve and he was getting ready to use it. The sudden change in his accuser’s mood didn’t faze the gent, but it surprised Chaco. Instinct told him something was wrong and he started getting suspicious. Surveying the room, he noticed that two of the men standing behind the gamblers were slowly positioning themselves so that they would eventually be behind the gent. Chaco checked the rest of the people to see if anyone else might be part of the mismatch. Not seeing anyone who looked like he might be part of the confrontation, Chaco sauntered over to the man standing closest to him. When he could touch him, he pulled out his gun and gently poked it in the gunman’s side. Surprised, the gunman turned abruptly to Chaco.

Just hold it right there, Chaco whispered, taking the gun out of the man’s holster. Pointing with his gun, he directed the gunman to where the other gunman was standing. When they got near him, the second man realized what was going on and went for his gun. In the same instant, Chaco threw the first man into the second, knocking him off balance. Before the second man could catch his balance, Chaco hit him in the side of the head with his gun and knocked him out. The first gunman was still lying face down on the floor. Chaco reached down and pressed the barrel against the man’s head.

Save yourself a headache. Just lay there. The disturbance lasted only a few seconds and before anyone could react, it was over. Sorry for the interruption, said Chaco. Let’s make this a fair fight.

Whereas earlier the steely-eyed gambler had exuded confidence, now, realizing that his holding card was gone, he started sweating and his bottom lip began to quiver. He bit down on it to stop it Everyone in the saloon stared at the two men at the poker table. It got deathly quiet. For the first time, Chaco noticed how hot it was in the room. The heat from the afternoon sun was still permeating from the walls. He could smell the stench coming from the wooden floor. Years of spilt beer, whiskey, and spittle from tobacco juice that missed the spittoons had soaked into the grain of the wood. Between the heat and the stench, Chaco remembered why he liked the outdoors. The two men at the table brought his thoughts back to the present. The steely-eyed gambler, by now sweating profusely, knowing there was no backing down, reached under the table for the gun in his holster. Before he could pull it free, the gent, a split second faster, pulled his Colt 45 from his side and shot the man in the chest. The gambler stood up, tried to pull the tilting revolver straight, but the life left him and he slumped to the floor.

The noise from the gun brought the crowd closer to the table. The gent just sat there holding the gun he had just fired. Across from him was a man lying face down, dead. This is what the town sheriff saw when he came scooting into the bar.

What happened in here? demanded the sheriff, turning to the crowd. People started talking all at once.

Hold it! roared the sheriff. One at a time.

Excuse me, said Chaco, walking up to the sheriff, I saw it all.

Who’re you? questioned the sheriff. You’re not from here.

Name’s Banyon, Chaco Banyon. The dead man drew first. His luck ran out. He had two aces in the hole. Problem is he didn’t get a chance to use ’em.

That’s the way I saw it too, interrupted a short, stocky man. He was lookin’ for trouble an ’e found it.

Anyone here has a different story? asked the sheriff, directing his question at the crowd. Everybody started shaking his head. The sheriff, having finished his inquiry, instructed two men to take the corpse to the undertaker.

Chaco, seeing the sheriff had everything under control, turned his attention back to his beer at the bar.

Could I buy you a drink?

Chaco turned to see the gent standing by him. That won’t be necessary.

But I would like to, insisted the gambler. It would mean a lot to me.

Chaco looked the man up and down. Sure. I’ll have a beer.

Good! exclaimed the gent Bartender, bring two beers over here.

The bartender placed two mugs in front of the men.

Name’s Phelps Russell, but my men call me Poke.

Poke, stated Chaco, setting down his beer. Let me guess. That’s short for poker, a name rightly given to you cause you’re a gambler by trade.

Could be, or it could because I poke my nose in where it’s not wanted.

Chaco nodded his head. I would think that in your profession, that would be a common occurrence. People don’t like to lose their money, and my guess is that with you around, people lose often.

Everybody loses some time. That’s what life is all about.

Does everybody cheat sometime? asked Chaco.

Maybe, but I don’t, said Poke, taken aback by the remark. Mister, I came to thank you for your help. I’ve done that, so I’ll leave you with your thoughts.

You can’t leave yet, stated Chaco. I owe you a beer.

You don’t owe me a thing, said Poke, walking away.

Hold it! insisted Chaco. I’m sorry, but a man was killed an’ that always sticks in my craw.

Listen, said Poke, turning abruptly, I don’t cheat! I don’t have to. Especially against that man. He should have stuck with rustling and left gambling alone. As for killing him, he brought it on himself. If I hadn’t killed him, you can bet he’d have gunned me down.

Do you bet on everything? asked Chaco, surprised by Poke’s outburst.

No, only what I can win at, and that’s poker.

Chaco ordered a couple more beers and rested his elbow on the bar. Seems I’ve struck a nerve, he said.

It’s a personal thing with me, replied Poke. I take what I do very seriously.

I get the feelin’ that it’s more than jus’ that. I riled you pretty good. You took issue with me when I mentioned cheatin’.

"Cheating, like stealing, is part of your makeup. Either you do it or you don’t. I choose not to.