The silver dollar rattled as it slid to a stop on the bar top. “‘Nother round, Sam!” Zing Fuller ordered, speech slurred.
Sam pulled the whiskey bottle out of the rack and filled the glasses. He frowned as he slid the bottle back into the rack. “That’s it,” he said. “You boys have had enough.”
Zing’s thin lips turned down. “Did I hear you right bartender? You tellin’ me no more drinks?”
“Fraid so, Zing. You’re both packin’ and you’re pretty darn roostered up. So I’m cuttin’ you off. Maybe they’ll serve you down at Faraday’s,” Sam said, as his hand moved nervously over the shiny bar top. Libby glanced over at the men from a nearby table where she was entertaining some friends.
Fuller’s head fell backwards as he quickly downed the last drink and slammed the small glass on the bar. “Now damn it, give me another drink!” The nattily dressed gunman’s face was contorted, red with anger. He grabbed the black handle on his six gun and took it out of its holster. The cold metal barrel crammed into Sam’s neck. Fuller leaned forward pushing the gun barrel harder against Sam’s neck.
“Now bartender, now!”
Sam looked over and saw Jon and Camp, just back from Jed Orton’s place, enter the Barbee. Jon raised his hand, Camp stopped. The two men stood quietly listening just inside the batwing doors.
Libby’s chair slid out, she rose up quickly. Attempting to calm the situation, she spoke to the wily gunman, “Mr. Fuller, surely--!” Before the lovely saloon owner could finish she was rudely interrupted by Clive Cook.
“I beg your pardon Madame, but we certainly don’t need a common bar girl dressing us down, now do we?” The pompous Brit’s face broke into a cruel grin.
The angry Fuller’s eyes were locked on Sam; he didn’t notice big Jon as he came in the room. Clive Cook glanced to the right and saw the angry Sheriff. He reached over and squeezed Fuller’s shoulder from the back. Trying to warn the surly gunman, the petulant Fuller pulled away, still focused on Sam.
“I’m tellin’ you for the--!” the angry Zing shouted.
Before he could finish, Jon spoke up. “Draw down, Zing!” Fuller’s eyes shot right at the sound of Jon’s voice. Jon kicked a chair off to the side, as he spread his legs apart. Facing Fuller directly, Jon looked huge and menacing in his dark leather vest and brim-down hat. Camp was slightly behind, out of the line of fire. Jon’s head tipped to the side, signaling Camp to get out of the way. Camp reluctantly moved over to the end of the bar.
“No problem Sheriff, we’re just having a drink,” Clive Cook said sardonically, still smarting from the beating Jon had given at the mansion some days earlier.
Jon was still, his eyes narrow and angry. His arms hung at his side, ready to draw at a second’s notice. “Butt out, Cook!” Jon ordered. “I’ll deal with you later.” His attention went back to Zing Fuller. “I said draw down!”
The vicious Fuller eased the barrel away from Sam’s neck; he slid it carefully back into his holster.
“What’s the problem here, Sam?” Jon asked.
“I shut ’em off a little while ago and Zing here took exception,” Sam replied as he rubbed his neck.
“My friend here shuts you off and you cram iron in his neck? Is that what I’m hearing?”
“You guessed right, Sheriff,” the smart aleck Fuller replied, emboldened by the whiskey and Cook’s presence.
“First Malone and now Sam. You’re always trying to hurt my friends, Fuller!”
Beads of sweat were forming on Fuller’s forehead as he turned away from the bar and faced the famed gunman. “I asked this man for a drink and he refused. I ain’t leavin’ till he gives it to me,” Fuller said, as an evil smile broke out his face.
Jon could see Cook out of the corner of his eye. “What about you Cook, you want another drink?” Jon’s eyes looked hard at the Englishman.
“No need for gun play here Sheriff,” Cook replied, he turned away from the bar toward Jon. His shooting hand hung loose at his side. Nearby patrons began to mumble and move away.
“You snakes listen close. You aren’t ever going to take over this town. This town belongs to the people and I’m the law around here!” Jon was very angry, his mood darkened as he spoke. “Worse yet, you’ve insulted the woman I love!”
Cook’s eyes were as big as saucers, unaware that Jon had heard his comment to Libby. Perspiring heavily, he pushed his back against the bar and slowly slid sideways away from Fuller. The frightened Brit carefully folded his arms on his chest. Fuller couldn’t see Cook.
Sam threw his towel in the sink and moved down to the end of the bar. Libby and her friends moved quickly to the back of the saloon, isolating the three men.
Fuller stepped away from the bar; the evil gunman spit on the floor as he spoke, “That whore girl worth dyin’ for, Sheriff?”
Jon’s eyes went black at the drunken man’s comment. “You’re dead meat, Fuller, the talking’s over!”
Fuller’s eyes narrowed, his legs spread apart. “Consider this payback for Black Rock Creek,” the horrid man threatened. Soaked with whiskey, he showed no fear.
Jon stared right through the nasty gunman.
Fuller stared back; his thin face was full of hate. Suddenly his bony hand reached for his gun. He drew.
Jon’s hands went to his Colts like lightning; the guns flew out of their holsters. He pulled both triggers, the bullets blasted into Fuller’s gut. The crowd screamed in shock at the gory sight.
“Ugggh! Gawd, I’m hit!” Fuller shrieked. His body slammed against the bar. Blood squirted from the holes in his gut and splashed on his shiny boots. His face was white, eyes full of terror. “Damn you!” he yelled. “Damn you!” He staggered around and fell head first on the floor. His head cracked as it hit hardwood. His six gun blasted harmlessly into the air. His body jerked violently a couple times and fell still, smoke spewed from the ugly belly holes.
Jon hurried over, his foot pushed against the dead man’s body. Fuller rolled over on his back; his lanky arms fell limp to the side. The crowd gasped.
Jon turned left toward Cook, he rushed toward the snobby Englishman. Cook’s hands raised in submission as Jon approached.
“Common bargirl, huh?” His gun’s warm barrel, still smoking, pressed against Cook’s neck. Jon wanted to rip this man apart, but he held back. His fingers wrapped around Clive’s shoestring tie. He yanked Cook away from the bar and pushed him toward the swinging doors.
“How ’bout some fresh air, Clive?” Jon said as he put his six gun away. Cook stumbled and fought to stay on his feet as Jon pushed him backward. Full of rage, Jon slammed the big man through the swinging door. Cook’s big body stumbled down the rickety steps and crashed onto the dirt road. Jon reached down and yanked the man to his feet again. Cook’s feet pushed against the dirt street as he struggled to get up. With a Herculean effort, Jon lifted the large man up, carried him over and threw him into a nearby water trough. Water splashed over the sides, as he pushed the nasty Brit under the water. Jon pulled him up, Clive’s head popped out of the water. He was gasping for breath; the devil was driving Jon now. He saw injustice with these men; the darkness was coming. He screamed at Clive Cook, “You in the habit of insulting ladies, Cook?” Beads of sweat were dripping from Jon’s forehead. “Answer me Cook! NOW!”
Drops of water fell off of the beaten man’s oval face. Eyes wide, he whispered almost inaudibly. “No?”
“SAY YOU’RE SORRY!” Jon screamed, his big arms pulling violently on the shoe string tie. Cook’s veins were bulging on his neck; his eyes were popping out of his head as he tried to speak. “I’m S...s...sorry.” He barely choked it out.
Jon leaned hard backward, his boots pushed against the bottom of the trough. With a powerful effort he yanked the big Brit out of the water. Jon pushed the big man, he stumbled toward his horse. “Get the hell outa here Cook, before I kill you!”
The beaten man staggered over to his waiting mount and struggled into the saddle. He hung to the side of the horse’s neck as he rode slowly out of town.
Jon’s arm hung at his side as he stepped back from the trough in a trance. Libby rushed onto the street and over to her man, her small delicate fingers squeezed his bicep.
“It’s okay Jon,” Libby said tenderly as her lithe body moved up against him. He could feel her warm heart beating rapidly against his chest; his arms moved around her tiny waist, as the two lovers embraced. Only Libby knew the pain Jon was feeling; she squeezed him tightly.
“Thank you, darlin’,” Jon said softly. “I needed that!”
“Bravo Sheriff, you really let that Fuller have it,” a voice from the gathering crowd shouted. Several people pushed around the couple, as they patted Jon on the back. He grabbed Libby’s shoulders and gently pushed her back. “I better greet the folks,” he said.
Libby smiled. “I guess so,” she replied as she slipped away through the pressing crowd. Jon turned to face the crowd.
“‘Preciate it, folks,” Jon said humbly. “This man was a menace and I did what I had to do. But now it’s over, so let’s all go on home.”
Camp pushed through to the opening in front of Jon. “You okay Boss?’
“Guess so Camp,” Jon replied as picked up his gun and dropped it in the holster. “Go tell the coroner to pick up the body. I’ll meet you at the jail.” Jon frowned. “I think we’re going to have some visitors shortly.”
Camp nodded.
Another killing; when will it all stop? Jon thought. The agony on the dying man’s face kept running through Jon’s mind as he walked toward the jail.