Bart was having a pretty good day at the table. Despite the intentional slow start, the moment he was able to read the table he couldn’t lose. The best part was once some of the players started to leave the table, others were eager to cash in and take their place. More players meant more money being dumped into the table, and that was exactly what Bart wanted to see happen as the day went on. Nothing made him more pleased than to watch as new players strolled up to their table, eager to get into the game and try to show off their skills. It was this kind of cockiness that often led to Bart leaving the table at the end of the day with a pocket full of cold, hard, cash. Yet as his chip stack started to dwarf the other players, Bart stopped tossing in winning hands and started calling more bluffs, forcing players to show what they had and would bully the table the longer the day went on. It had gotten to the point where some players didn’t appreciate Bart using his chip advantage to favor himself and started to get lippy about it. Losing didn’t sit well with them but it was something they’d all have to get used to while Bart was sitting there. One of them had gotten so upset that he stood up to draw his gun on the cocky gambler but before he could even get his hand on the grip of his pistol, Bart had already drawn two guns and had them both pointing at the man, both cocked and ready to unload.
“Hand your guns in at the bar,” Bart ordered, “Or your game is over for the day.”
While most outlaws would blow the man out of his boots for even daring to draw at the table, Bart preferred not to shoot anyone at the table until he had already won all of their money first. It was a kind of unwritten rule to steal from them legally rather than at gun point since the Sheriff and his deputies kind of looked down on those kind of robberies occurring in the middle of saloons in broad daylight. Bart preferred to win his booty, rather than just steal if outright. The game was more fun anyway, but the next time someone tried to draw on him, an example might have to be set to make sure it didn’t become a habit. Once the man had given both of his guns to the barkeep, Bart put his smoke wagons away and the game quietly resumed as if nothing had ever happened.
“You’re not even mad?” the man asked as he sat back down at the table.
“I’m mad you interrupted a good game,” Bart replied, “But I can assure you that is the last time you will ever attempt to draw on me. If you ever try it again, I will repaint the walls with your blood. We clear on that, mister?”
“Yes, we are.” The man said, as he believed every word that was spoken. He had already learned from playing the game for the last few hours that Bart hardly ever bluffed, and odds are he was never bluffing and was ready to help a gambler meet their maker if they dared interrupted the game again. It was no bluff, as the next man to make a move would be dead and removed from the game for good.
Another few hours passed and then someone else came into the bar and decided it was their turn to interrupt the game. He was carrying a message in his hand and was dead set on making sure the person who it was intended for was delivered.
“Excuse me,” The young man called out, “I’m looking for Bart Jackson.”
Not many people budged, let alone replied to the man’s request. It was as if he were the only person in the saloon, but it was arrogance that was the cause of the silence rather than the actual reason for people to ignore him.
“I have a very important message,” The boy called out again.
“What kind of message?” a voice called out.
“I can’t say,” the boy answered, “It must be delivered as soon as possible. I was told that Mr. Jackson was in here.”
Bart responded by throwing in his hand, while decent, wasn’t enough to make him want to play any further.
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“Over here, kid.” Bart called out, as he stood up. “Cash me out.”
A few of the players at the table groaned as they felt like their only chance to win their money back was leaving too soon for them to recover.
“Here you go, Sir.” The boy said, handing him the telegram. “I apologize for interrupting, but the message itself said it was an urgent matter.”
Bart took the telegram and then started to read it, and as he did the people watched as his face started to turn a shade of red as his anger was slowly mounting. He squished the message tightly in his hand and took a deep breath, before turning to the table and cleaning out all his winnings.
“Gentlemen,” he said, trying to act polite. “I’m going to be out of town for a few days. I shall return with in a week or so to pillage the rest of your fortunes. If you wish to avoid that, I suggest you use the time to improve your game. Until then, ta ta.”
The people watched in shock as Bart walked right out of the saloon in the middle of the day, which was the first time he hadn’t stayed there until closing. Whatever was in that telegram, upset the gambler so much that he cashed out and called it a day immediately. Instead of walking back to the hotel where he was staying, Bart walked over to the post office where the telegram was likely delivered to. He stormed into the room and walked right up to the counter. The man in the post office had translated the message so he knew exactly why Bart was there and was already sweating when he saw the angered scowl on the outlaw’s face.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Jackson?” The postman asked.
“I need you to reply to the message,” Bart snarled, his anger coming through and metaphorically slapping him in the face.
“Yes, Sir.” The postman said as he pulled out a pad and paper. “What reply would you like to send?”
“Tell the person who messaged me that I am leaving today,” Bart started as the postman was writing it all down. “That I will be back in Montana in a few days. Tell them that if the children are not located and safely returned by the time I arrive, I am going to burn that entire town to the ground and kill every last one of them.”
“Excuse me,” The postman said as he stopped writing.
“You heard me,” Bart said, his voice not stuttering. “If the children are not returned by the time I get there, I’m going to kill them all.”
“Oh my god,” the postman said, his voice wavering.
“If you don’t send my message,” Bart said as he drew his gun, and pointed it at the Postman’s head, “Then you die first. Understood?”
“I’m sorry, Sir.” The Postman said, “I’m not using sending out these kind of messages. You’re threatening to kill people.”
“I’m sending a warning,” Bart corrected him. “If these people value their lives, they will heed it and return what is mine or face the consequences. I think that’s pretty fair to give them a week to figure things out, don’t you?”
“Actually,” the postman said, gulping rather loudly, “That does sound rather fair.”
“Sending the message,” Bart said, cocking his pistol. “Right now.”
Bart watched as the Postman did as he was told and sent his requested message back from where the other originated. He didn’t even bother to wait for a response as he walked out of the post office and back to where he started his day, at the local hotel. Daisy was stilling bed and relaxing as Bart stormed back in and began to pack. She watched him with surprised as all of this was unexpected.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” she asked him.
“Montana,” Bart said as he packed lightly, as he didn’t want to put too much weight on his horse. “I’ve paid for this room for the next two weeks, so you can stay here if you like. I hope to return before that runs out. If I don’t, you’ll know why.”
“What’s going on in Montana?” Daisy asked.
“There are a lot of stupid people that need to be taught a lesson,” Bart said as he packed every gun that he had in the room.
“And what might that be?” Daisy inquired.
“That you don’t fuck with Bart Jackson,” Bart said, with a mean scowl on his face. “And you don’t mess with my family.”
“Oh shit,” Daisy said, slightly surprised, “Your family? Do you need me to come along?”
“I appreciate the thought,” Bart said, tipping his hat to her, “But I might have to kill a lot of people, and you don’t have the stomach for it.”
“Good luck them, gambler.” Daisy said, hoping he would return. He was good customer and a polite one as well. She hated to see him go.
“Not today, little lady.” Bart said, “They messed with the bull, and now it’s time to give them the horns.”
“Be safe, Bart.” Daisy said.
Bart leaned over and kissed her forehead. “I’ll try my best, little lady.”
She watched him as he picked up his bag and stormed out of the room. Compared to how he moseyed out the door earlier that day, she could tell there was a dedication in his steps now as he was on his way to do something significant and important. He was now a man on a mission, and heaven help the people who got in Bart Jackson’s way.