Vance Restin was impatiently waiting in the Drinkwater Saloon when his foreman, Ray Owens, came in.
“Any word?” Restin asked.
“No,” Owens said, “none.”
Restin slammed his fist down on the table.
“Peterson was supposed to send word when it was done!” he growled.
“Mr. Restin, the Gunsmith may have just killed them all,” Owens said.
“There were four of them!”
“I know, sir, but … he is the Gunsmith.”
Restin poured himself a glass of whiskey and downed it, never offering his foreman a drink.
“Ray,” he said, “you have to find me more gunmen.”
“But why?” Owens asked. “If Adams gets Terry to Sacramento—”
“If Adams killed them,” Restin said, “then he knows they came after him on my orders.”
“How could he know that?”
“One, he’s not an idiot,” Restin said, “and two, one of them might have told him before they died. If so, he’s coming back here. And if he’s doing that, I need more men.” He glared at Owens. “And why am I explaining this all to you? Get out and get me some more men!”
“Yeah, sure, boss,” Owens said, and left the saloon.
It was only about ten minutes later when the sheriff came walking in.
“What do you want?” Restin asked, without giving the man a chance to speak.
Unlike Owens, Sheriff Moreland pulled out a chair and sat down.
“I don’t want you to make a big mistake, Vance.”
“When have I ever made a mistake, Moreland?” Restin asked. “And when have I ever needed your advice about anything?”
Moreland shrugged and said, “Well, maybe startin’ now.”
Buck came walking over with a cold beer and started to set it down.
“Don’t give the sheriff a beer,” Restin said. “He’s just leaving.”
Moreland stood up and grabbed the beer from Buck before he could retreat. He sipped it, then handed it to the bartender.
“Now I’m leavin’,” he said.
Restin entered his house and shouted, “Everett!”
His houseman came running out.
“Sir?”
“I want you to start wearing a gun.”
“A gun?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“All the time.”
The man stared at him. He was in his fifties, and guns were a thing of his past.
“I know, I know,” Restin said, “that’s not why I hired you, but—”
“Is this about Clint Adams?”
“It is.”
“Is he coming back?”
“Probably.”
“And Mr. Peterson and his men?”
“They probably aren’t coming back.”
“I see.”
“Everett,” Restin said, “I hate to ask this of you—”
“Forget it,” Everett said. “It’s been a while since I strapped on a gun, but I think I can find one.”
“Good,” Restin said, “because I’m going to start wearing one in the house, too.”
“And will you be replacing Mr. Peterson and his men?”
“As soon as I can.”
“Right.”
“I’ll be in my office,” Restin said. “If Ray comes, send him in. And if anybody brings a telegram—”
“—I’ll bring it right to you.”
“Thank you.”
“Sir.”
Restin walked down the hall to his office.
Mike Everett went to his own room, to a chest he kept in a corner. Inside the chest were the items he held most important in his life. He opened the chest, dug down beneath some clothes, an old bedroll and blanket, saddlebags, and came up with something wrapped in cloth. He unwrapped it and held it in his hand. The gun felt right, even though he hadn’t held it in years.
He reached further down, came up with a leather shoulder rig and holster that had been made especially for this gun. When he strapped it on he stretched his arms out. The rig felt comfortable, natural, made him wonder why he had ever taken it off?
He put a jacket on over the rig, left his room to go back to work.