As daylight was starting to creep into the eastern sky, the Marshall woke up with a start.
A noise had came from outside the office, the Marshall slipping on his boots, stuck his six gun in the holster, and went outside to investigate the noise. In the dim shadows he saw a figure laying half on the ground and half setting up against the building. It was ole Joe, drunk again, and looking for somewhere to sleep it off. The Marshall helped him to his feet, and got him into the sheriff’s office into the jail cell, and on a bunk, so he could sleep it off.
All the time the Marshall was getting Joe to the cell, Joe kept saying, “He’s here to get”, and that was all the Marshall could understand of Joe’s muttering. Guess he would have to wait until noon, when Joe woke up. Meanwhile it was the start of another day.
Daylight was here, the sky was cloudy, a north wind blowing, and making it seem colder than it was. Looks like rain, the Marshall said to himself as he started to fix the morning coffee. The fire in the pot bellied stove, was down to just red coals, but a few sticks of wood and a nice blaze was going. Sure feels good the Marshall thought, as he put the coffee pot on the stove.
It was 7:30 am; the town was coming alive with people getting their day started. Sally’s Beanery was open and it was time for the Marshall’s breakfast. He picked up his hat and started across the street to Sally’s. As he walked he was checking the street for anything that was different from the day before. In front of the saloon was a paint horse, he had never seen before. All dressed out with a Mexican silver saddle and bridle. Poor horse, he thought, carrying around all that extra weight along with the rider, should be a law again that.
As he stepped into Sally’s, he was greeted by the usual folks who stopped and talk each day. What will it be this morning? Asked Sally as the Marshall sat down, at his usual table with his back to the wall. The usual Sally, old habits are hard to break he said. I know, was Sally’s reply
With a full up feeling and several cups of coffee the Marshall walked around town talking to folks like he had done for the last 10 years. Seeing what was new at the hardware, to check if the new 45’s were in yet, have been waiting to look at one of them new guns for weeks now, don’t reckon I could ever afford one, but it don’t cost nothing to look at one he said as Silas was unlocking the gun case. Well Marshall, I know you are good for the cost, so if you decide you want one let me know said Silas.
The first half of the day was passing rather quickly. The Marshall headed down to the blacksmith shop, to check if anyone new had stopped in. As he walked into the stable, in the second stall was the paint horse; he had seen this morning on Main Street. It had been brushed and wiped down and was happily eating some oats. At least, the owner does take good care of his horse, he thought. As the Marshall walked into the back part of the blacksmith shop, he could see barney fixing a wagon wheel for someone. Anything new, he asked as he walked over to where Barney was working. “No” was the reply from Barney. “ Who owns the paint horse out front?”the Marshall asked.
Don’t know, was in there when I came in, they left two dollars for the oats, hay and a stall. But I haven’t seen no one, was the reply.
The Marshall thought it was time to check on Joe back at the jail. As he headed back up the street, here came Joe, running as fast as he could, towards the Marshall waving his arms as if to help him run faster. “He’s here, He’s here”, said Joe, gasping for air. Slow down old-timer and catch your breath. It seemed like half an hour before Joe was breathing properly again. But it was only about five minutes. “Now, said the Marshall, Who is here?” That Mexican you out shot last time. “He said he was going to take you down a couple of notches before he left town.”
You had better go away for a couple of days, said Joe. I can’t leave town just because some one is here looking for trouble, said the Marshall I guess I had better check this out, and see what’s on this fellows mind, said the Marshall.
As the Marshall walked toward the saloon, he was thinking the best way to avoid trouble was to meet it head on, as he stepped into the saloon it took a few seconds for his eyes to focus due to the darkness inside. Not a person was in there except for the bar keep, who was cleaning the glasses and putting them away. “Morning Marshall”, said
the bar keep, “How’s everything today?” Just fine was the reply. Get me a beer will you; a cold one, if you have any, said the Marshall, as he sat down at a table, so his back was against the wall. Setting there sipping on his beer, a half hour passed, then the swinging doors opened, a short stocky man came in. A gold laced sombrero on his head, a neat black suit trimmed in gold thread, with gold conchos down the side of the pant legs, shiny black boots, white shirt and black tie, gun belt wore low on the right side, nickeled .45 setting in the holster. The Marshall slid his chair back so the table would not interfere with a fast draw, if it was needed. The stranger looked around, seen the Marshall and walked straight up to him, hands held well above the gun, so a draw would be impossible to make.
“Afternoon, Marshall”, the man said. I hope I haven’t got here at a bad time. You must be the owner of the paint horse, over in the livery, answered the Marshall. I seen it out front early this morning. Yes, that’s my horse you seen. I got into town just before day break this morning, rode a long way just to see you, Marshall.
I got some thing on my mind, said the Mexican. “What’s that”, said the Marshall. Last time you out shoot me and I said I would be back, well here I am, I think I can out gun you now, said the Mexican. “Only time will tell”, was the
reply from the Marshall.
The Marshall got up and walked out into the street, and across to his office, got out all the wanted posters for the last couple of years and was looking though them, but no one looked like the Mexican, so there was no reason to worry about it. But he said, he was here to out gun me. So I had better be ready, thought the Marshall.
As the Marshall cleaned and oiled his six-gun, and loading new cartages, just to be sure every thing would be prefect, if needed. As he was cleaning and saddle-soaped his belt and holster, he was trying to remember who this hombre
was, and when he had out shot him. Thinking back two years was a long time ago, to try to remember, names
and faces of someone that you have seen only once. Just then the door of the office opened and in stepped the Mexican. “You don’t remember me”, said the stranger. No I don’t think so, was the reply. Well, Marshall, Smith
is the name, we met in Tombstone in ’85, and you out shot me bad. And now it’s my time to get even, we will be shooting for high stakes this time, winner takes all, said Smith. I’ll meet you on Main Street tomorrow at noon, for a showdown, he said, as he closed the door behind him.
The night was long and restless for the Marshall, but daylight finally arrived. As the Marshall sat looking at the bottom of his empty coffee cup, he was deep in thought, who was this Smith hombre, can’t seem to place him in my mind, or memory in the last two years, and don’t like to be pushed into a shoot out against someone I can’t remember.
The Marshall got up, and walked across the office, sat down at his desk, and was shuffling around some papers, when a paper fell to the floor, as he bent over to pick it up a poster appeared from under the desk, must have fallen here some time back, he thought, as he pulled the poster out. There was a picture of Smith, fastest gun wins shoot-out in Tombstone in ’84. Johnson Smith wins all the money, was the headline on the poster.
I must have beat him in ’85, and now he wants revenge, now I know who, why, and when, thought the Marshall, as he tilted back in his chair, and propped his feet on the desk, he drifted off to sleep.
It was 10:00o’clock when the Marshall woke from his nap. Two hours till showdown, he thought. There were folks coming into town, as they had already heard about the shoot out. All the folks were gathering on main street, so they could see better and tell the story later. Ten minutes to twelve, the Marshall checked his gun, shells, and tightened the leg strap, so the holster would not slide up, when the gun was drawn. The Marshall stepped out in the street, to see Smith, walking towards him. The targets were set and ready. The Marshall and Smith stepped up, hands ready to draw, the signal given, flame came from the muzzle of
their .45’s, but there is only one winner. I guess you done it again, Marshall,
said Smith. Let’s go over to
Sally’s and have them high steaks that I got to buy.
A noise had came from outside the office, the Marshall slipping on his boots, stuck his six gun in the holster, and went outside to investigate the noise. In the dim shadows he saw a figure laying half on the ground and half setting up against the building. It was ole Joe, drunk again, and looking for somewhere to sleep it off. The Marshall helped him to his feet, and got him into the sheriff’s office into the jail cell, and on a bunk, so he could sleep it off.
All the time the Marshall was getting Joe to the cell, Joe kept saying, “He’s here to get”, and that was all the Marshall could understand of Joe’s muttering. Guess he would have to wait until noon, when Joe woke up. Meanwhile it was the start of another day.
Daylight was here, the sky was cloudy, a north wind blowing, and making it seem colder than it was. Looks like rain, the Marshall said to himself as he started to fix the morning coffee. The fire in the pot bellied stove, was down to just red coals, but a few sticks of wood and a nice blaze was going. Sure feels good the Marshall thought, as he put the coffee pot on the stove.
It was 7:30 am; the town was coming alive with people getting their day started. Sally’s Beanery was open and it was time for the Marshall’s breakfast. He picked up his hat and started across the street to Sally’s. As he walked he was checking the street for anything that was different from the day before. In front of the saloon was a paint horse, he had never seen before. All dressed out with a Mexican silver saddle and bridle. Poor horse, he thought, carrying around all that extra weight along with the rider, should be a law again that.
As he stepped into Sally’s, he was greeted by the usual folks who stopped and talk each day. What will it be this morning? Asked Sally as the Marshall sat down, at his usual table with his back to the wall. The usual Sally, old habits are hard to break he said. I know, was Sally’s reply
With a full up feeling and several cups of coffee the Marshall walked around town talking to folks like he had done for the last 10 years. Seeing what was new at the hardware, to check if the new 45’s were in yet, have been waiting to look at one of them new guns for weeks now, don’t reckon I could ever afford one, but it don’t cost nothing to look at one he said as Silas was unlocking the gun case. Well Marshall, I know you are good for the cost, so if you decide you want one let me know said Silas.
The first half of the day was passing rather quickly. The Marshall headed down to the blacksmith shop, to check if anyone new had stopped in. As he walked into the stable, in the second stall was the paint horse; he had seen this morning on Main Street. It had been brushed and wiped down and was happily eating some oats. At least, the owner does take good care of his horse, he thought. As the Marshall walked into the back part of the blacksmith shop, he could see barney fixing a wagon wheel for someone. Anything new, he asked as he walked over to where Barney was working. “No” was the reply from Barney. “ Who owns the paint horse out front?”the Marshall asked.
Don’t know, was in there when I came in, they left two dollars for the oats, hay and a stall. But I haven’t seen no one, was the reply.
The Marshall thought it was time to check on Joe back at the jail. As he headed back up the street, here came Joe, running as fast as he could, towards the Marshall waving his arms as if to help him run faster. “He’s here, He’s here”, said Joe, gasping for air. Slow down old-timer and catch your breath. It seemed like half an hour before Joe was breathing properly again. But it was only about five minutes. “Now, said the Marshall, Who is here?” That Mexican you out shot last time. “He said he was going to take you down a couple of notches before he left town.”
You had better go away for a couple of days, said Joe. I can’t leave town just because some one is here looking for trouble, said the Marshall I guess I had better check this out, and see what’s on this fellows mind, said the Marshall.
As the Marshall walked toward the saloon, he was thinking the best way to avoid trouble was to meet it head on, as he stepped into the saloon it took a few seconds for his eyes to focus due to the darkness inside. Not a person was in there except for the bar keep, who was cleaning the glasses and putting them away. “Morning Marshall”, said
the bar keep, “How’s everything today?” Just fine was the reply. Get me a beer will you; a cold one, if you have any, said the Marshall, as he sat down at a table, so his back was against the wall. Setting there sipping on his beer, a half hour passed, then the swinging doors opened, a short stocky man came in. A gold laced sombrero on his head, a neat black suit trimmed in gold thread, with gold conchos down the side of the pant legs, shiny black boots, white shirt and black tie, gun belt wore low on the right side, nickeled .45 setting in the holster. The Marshall slid his chair back so the table would not interfere with a fast draw, if it was needed. The stranger looked around, seen the Marshall and walked straight up to him, hands held well above the gun, so a draw would be impossible to make.
“Afternoon, Marshall”, the man said. I hope I haven’t got here at a bad time. You must be the owner of the paint horse, over in the livery, answered the Marshall. I seen it out front early this morning. Yes, that’s my horse you seen. I got into town just before day break this morning, rode a long way just to see you, Marshall.
I got some thing on my mind, said the Mexican. “What’s that”, said the Marshall. Last time you out shoot me and I said I would be back, well here I am, I think I can out gun you now, said the Mexican. “Only time will tell”, was the
reply from the Marshall.
The Marshall got up and walked out into the street, and across to his office, got out all the wanted posters for the last couple of years and was looking though them, but no one looked like the Mexican, so there was no reason to worry about it. But he said, he was here to out gun me. So I had better be ready, thought the Marshall.
As the Marshall cleaned and oiled his six-gun, and loading new cartages, just to be sure every thing would be prefect, if needed. As he was cleaning and saddle-soaped his belt and holster, he was trying to remember who this hombre
was, and when he had out shot him. Thinking back two years was a long time ago, to try to remember, names
and faces of someone that you have seen only once. Just then the door of the office opened and in stepped the Mexican. “You don’t remember me”, said the stranger. No I don’t think so, was the reply. Well, Marshall, Smith
is the name, we met in Tombstone in ’85, and you out shot me bad. And now it’s my time to get even, we will be shooting for high stakes this time, winner takes all, said Smith. I’ll meet you on Main Street tomorrow at noon, for a showdown, he said, as he closed the door behind him.
The night was long and restless for the Marshall, but daylight finally arrived. As the Marshall sat looking at the bottom of his empty coffee cup, he was deep in thought, who was this Smith hombre, can’t seem to place him in my mind, or memory in the last two years, and don’t like to be pushed into a shoot out against someone I can’t remember.
The Marshall got up, and walked across the office, sat down at his desk, and was shuffling around some papers, when a paper fell to the floor, as he bent over to pick it up a poster appeared from under the desk, must have fallen here some time back, he thought, as he pulled the poster out. There was a picture of Smith, fastest gun wins shoot-out in Tombstone in ’84. Johnson Smith wins all the money, was the headline on the poster.
I must have beat him in ’85, and now he wants revenge, now I know who, why, and when, thought the Marshall, as he tilted back in his chair, and propped his feet on the desk, he drifted off to sleep.
It was 10:00o’clock when the Marshall woke from his nap. Two hours till showdown, he thought. There were folks coming into town, as they had already heard about the shoot out. All the folks were gathering on main street, so they could see better and tell the story later. Ten minutes to twelve, the Marshall checked his gun, shells, and tightened the leg strap, so the holster would not slide up, when the gun was drawn. The Marshall stepped out in the street, to see Smith, walking towards him. The targets were set and ready. The Marshall and Smith stepped up, hands ready to draw, the signal given, flame came from the muzzle of
their .45’s, but there is only one winner. I guess you done it again, Marshall,
said Smith. Let’s go over to
Sally’s and have them high steaks that I got to buy.
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