Jim dropped the bail of hay in front of the horses. Looking out over the ranch, he felt a sense of optimism that he could make a life for himself and his family. Jim watched as his son Jack played with their dog Boomer. The loveable mutt would chase after those sticks all day—his tail wagging excitedly before every throw.
Reaching into his jeans, Jim pulled out a pack of cigarettes and some matches. Lighting up, he took a deep draw as he felt the warm Texas sun on his face.
“Paw, there’s someone at the gate,” said Jack, pointing to the front of the property.
“Get inside,” commanded Jim, as he jogged back to the house.
Unlocking the gun cabinet he removed his rifle and a pistol.
“You go get your mother and hand her this. Tell her we’ve got company and that I asked her to keep an eye out, alright.”
“Yes sir,” replied Jack, as he took the pistol from his father.
Stepping back out of the house, Jim saw the two men in suits slowly walk their way up to the house. He looked to the gate where he saw a third man standing next to their horses.
“You Jim Ryan?” asked the first man.
“You’re on my property so I ask the questions. Who are you?” demanded Jim, as he pointed the rifle at the man’s chest.
Unintimidated the man’s face drew a thin smile as he turned to his partner.
“My name is Tom Henderson, I’m a U.S. Marshall.”
Jim gritted his teeth as his finger tensed on the trigger.
The Marshall held a hand up seeing the hardening of Jim’s stance.
“Calm down cowboy. I’m here to offer you and your family a lifeline.”
“Why would I need a lifeline from the likes of you?”
“Because you’re a no-good dirty thieving scumbag.”
Tom took a step closer as he stared Jim in the eye.
“Now you listen to me boy or me and my deputies will come back with twenty men and we will gun down you, your life, and that little brat. Now lower the rifle.”
Jim looked from one Marshall to the other and then slowly lower the gun.
“I’ll be honest with you Jim, you’re a small fish. What I’m interested in is catching big fish. The big fish I want is Wild Bill Hamilton.”
“I ain’t got nothing to do with him no more,” replied Jim.
“Oh, but you ran in his gang for a long time. You know all his friends and allies. The places he’ll go to hide. You know how he thinks.”
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“Like I said, I ain’t seen him in years.”
“Well, your old boss hit a bank in Blackstone, killed a lot of innocent folks. One of the women shot dead was the sister of Andrew Cornwall’s wife. He’s paying top dollar for Wild Bill’s scalp, a scalp you are going to get for me.”
“And if I say no?”
“I know where you got the money for this ranch, Mr. Ryan. If you do not comply with my orders I will take everything from you. Do you understand me?”
There was an awkward silence as the men sized each other up.
“Get off my property,” demanded Jim, through gritted teeth.
“I’m giving you forty-eight hours to report to my office in town. Be ready to hunt down your old buddy, I’ll brief you on what we know to get you started. If you don’t show up, my advice would be to get out of Texas, because the next time I see you will be when I put a bullet through your skull,” threatened the Marshall, as he turned to walk back to the gate.
Bill scratched at his stubble as he took a seat at the bar.
“What can I get ya?” asked the bartender.
“Whiskey,” replied Bill, as he placed money on the counter. “Leave the bottle.”
The bartender grabbed a bottle from a shelf and placed a glass down in front of Bill.
“This ain’t the kind of place we tolerant trouble,” said the old man, as he poured Bill his whiskey.
“Trouble? Do I look like trouble to you?”
“I been working in saloons most my life. I seen and dealt with every kind of folk over the years. After a while, you get to know people, how they act, their body language, and the look in their eyes. No offense, but you look like a man in a whole lot of trouble.”
Bill signed and nodded as he downed the whiskey.
“Kinda quiet in here,” said Bill, as he poured himself another.
“Small town, the regulars come in after work for a few drinks then things tend to thin out.”
As the bartender was talking, a man entered the saloon and stood in the doorway.
Bill turned on his stool to get a look at the Sheriff.
The man walked slowly toward the bar, placing both hands on the copper railing.
“What’ll be Sheriff?”
“Oh, I think I’ll have a scotch, Sam.”
The Sheriff tipped his hat back on his head as he leaned onto the bar.
Bill finished pouring his third drink as he turned to look at the Sheriff.
“Welcome to or town stranger,” said the Sherrif, as the two men made eye contact.
“Very kind of you sir. I’m just passing through, thought I’d take the opportunity to wet my whistle.”
“That’s a couple of large and heavy-looking saddlebags you got there.”
There was awkward silence—Bill noticed the bartender make his way toward the far end of the bar.
“Must be some important stuff you got in there to be lugging all that around with you,” said the Sheriff, turning himself to face Bill.
Bill blinked as he slowly placed his glass on the counter.
He ran his tongue over his teeth, tasting the remnants of the smokey whiskey on his tongue.
The Sheriff swallowed hard.
In the blink of an eye, Bill spun on his stool and fired a shot into the center of the Sheriff's chest. The man’s eyes went wide as he stumbled backward. His hand clutched his pistol which remained in its holster.
The bartender escaped into the backroom as the Sheriff's body made a sickening thump on the floor.
Bill calmly put his gun away, poured himself another whiskey, and dropped a tip on the bar. Picking up his saddlebags, he looked to the back of the room where two men were pretending to still be playing cards.
Standing over the Sheriff’s body, he reached into his jacket pocket and removed a cigar and matches. Lighting up, he flicked the spent match onto the dead man’s body as he turned to leave the saloon.