“Just hold it right there and don’t move a muscle, or I’ll shoot you down right where you stand.”
The voice came from the shadows at the corner of the kitchen shack. Jordan immediately tensed, but he did as he was ordered. In the next second, two men emerged. With three rifles on him, he had little choice but to give in. He wasn’t even wearing his pistol.
“Well, now, if it ain’t Mr. Jordan Gray. I figured you for better sense than to show your murderin’ face around here again.”
It had been more than a year, but Jordan easily recognized the voice of the new sheriff of Deadwood, and immediately heard the sound of three rifles being cocked. “I’m not wearin’ a gun,” he said.
“Step out more in the moonlight, so I can see for myself. Get his rifle outta the sling, Whitey.”
Jordan stood passive while Whitey confiscated his rifle and lifted his pistol belt from the saddle horn. “So now what, Ben? Another hangin’ like you and your boys did with Ned Booth?”
“Why, no, we ain’t gonna hang you. We’re a lot more progressive in Deadwood now. We’re gonna give you a trial, and then we’re gonna hang you.”