Nothing for you today 3.5 readers.
The zombies are finally coming. And I think the werewolves are about to get rowdy.
It’s getting more difficult as choices have to be made and there is what I want to happen vs. what is logistically possible to happen.
“Aw hell,” Gunther said. “Take a walk, boys. Slade won fair and square.”
“I don’t care,” Rufus said, pointing at Jack’s corpse. “That man was my brother. And my cousin. He was my brother-cousin.”
“Who gives a shit?” Gunther asked. “Jack certainly didn’t give one about any of you. Hell, everybody knows he sold out Artie Buchanan’s whereabouts to Wyatt Earp for fifty dollars and a jug of moonshine.”
“That’s a goddamn lie!” Rufus said.
“Yeah,” Frank added. “It was two jugs of moonshine!”
“I got this,” Slade said.
“No you do not,” Gunther said. “Three against one! That’s not fair at all.”
“Get out of here,” Slade said.
Gunther didn’t budge. Doc, on the other hand, hightailed it back to Annabelle.
“What are you doing?” Annabelle asked. “Slade needs you!”
“Oh,” Doc said. “Do you think so?”
“Yes!” Annabelle said. “You taught him everything he knows!”
“Indeed I did,” Doc said. “But you heard the man, my dear. He wishes to bravely face this challenge on his own and who am I to step between a man and his destiny?”
Annabelle shoved Doc. “Get out there!”
Doc returned to the duo. “Ahem,” he said. “Yes, it seems I should very much like to back you up, Mr. Slade.”
“Atta boy Doc,” Gunther said.
“Don’t need it,” Slade said. “Don’t need either of you. Get lost.”
“Nothin’ doin’,” Gunther said. “There’s never been a day that I didn’t have a marshal’s back and I aint about to start now.”
“Yes, well,” Doc said. “I don’t recall ever being officially deputized so, good day gentlemen.”
Doc looked at Annabelle’s disappointed face and stayed put.
“Woman making you feel guilty, huh?” Gunther asked.
“Yes,” Doctor said. “She’s positively vile in the boudoir. I theorize she may be my soulmate.”
The crowd backed off to give the men room. The Buchanans fanned out in a line, each one ready to draw. Slade and his allies did the same. Doc faced Frank. Slade faced Rufus. Gunther faced Buck.
Every man drew and Doc produced his revolvers by flicking his wrists. The ancillary Buchanans weren’t half the gunslinger that Jack was. Slade and Gunther’s opponents were dead on the ground before they could even squeeze off a shot.
Doc’s shot missed its mark but pierced Frank’s hand, forcing him to drop his pistol. Frank and Doc stared each other down.
“Yield, sir,” Doc said.
With blood gushing out of his right hand, Frank eyeballed his gun as it laid on the ground. Doc fired a warning shot at Frank’s feet.
“Yield, sir!”
Frank dove for it. Doc fired and missed.
“Aw fuck this Queensbury rules bullshit,” Gunther said as he pumped a round into Frank before he could get his hands on the gun.
The crowd went wild. Cheers, applause, hoots and hollers.
Annabelle threw herself at Doc. “My hero!”
“Yes indeed,” Doc said. “Well what would this world be if men of impeccable character such of myself did nothing in the face of evil?”
“I told you I didn’t need you,” Slade said.
“I know,” Gunther said. “Maybe some of us need you. Maybe some of us might miss you if you were gone. You ever think of that?”
Slade struck a match and lit his cigar. “Thanks.”
“Holy shit,” Gunther said. “Rainer Slade thanking somebody. I might keel over from the surprise.”
The church door opened a crack. Sarah poked her head out. Relieved to see her groom alive, she rushed out to hug him. Slade removed his smoke to accept a long, passionate kiss.
It was followed by a slap across his face. “Don’t ever do that to me again!” Sarah cried.
With no woman to congratulate him, Gunther approached the bodies. Four men. Motionless. Lying there in pools of their own blood.
Slade rubbed the sore spot on his cheek.
“Are you trying to worry me to death, Rain?” Sarah asked.
“No,” Slade replied.
“You’re going to hang those guns up as soon as we get home and they’re never coming down again! Do you hear me?”
Slade grunted.
Gunther only had the one eye, but it usually worked well. He worried maybe it was starting to fail him when he saw Jack’s foot twitch.
“No!” Sarah shouted. “No grunts! I want an answer!”
Defeated, Slade hanged his head down. “Yes ma’am.”
“Good,” Sarah said. “And put that cigar out! You know I hate those things.”
Slade sighed and threw his smoke to the ground.
“Don’t you sigh at me,” Sarah said.
“Yes ma’am,” Slade said.
Gunther saw Jack’s foot move again. He was sure of it.
“Hey Doc,” Gunther said.
Doc and Annabelle were indisposed, whispering horrible, horrible things to each other.
Jack’s foot twitched again. People in the crowd began to notice.
“Hey!” Gunther shouted. “Doc!”
“Yes?” Doc joined Gunther.
“You ever see something like that?” Gunther asked.
Doc watched as Jack’s foot shook all over.
“It’s not uncommon,” Doc said. “Before rigor mortis sets in, the muscles have been known to move in a reflexive manner.”
An eerie groan came out of Jack. “Ungghhhhh…”
“That however,” Doc said, “Is most unusual.”
Slade ducked out of his lecture to see what the fuss was all about.
Sarah followed. “Don’t you walk away from me, Rain! I’m not going to be a widow twice in my life! I am not!”
Jack’s entire arm raised up into the air. Then the other one. All the yahoos who had been checking out Jack’s body backed off in terror.
Slade pulled his pistols. “What the…
“Unghhhh…gack….ack…”
Jack sat up. His eyes had gone blank. He growled and snarled. His jaw chomped up and down.
Rufus moved. Then Buck. Then Frank.
Slade finished his thought. “…fuck.”
“Gentlemen, place your bets!”
Over a hundred people came out to watch Slade square off against Smelly Jack. They lined up along both sides of the street, looking for a good spot to watch the fight. Blake saw an opportunity to make some dough. He waved a stack of bills in the air.
“What’s the action?” Townsend asked.
“Jack’s a shoo-in,” Blake said. “But the odds of Slade living through this are a thousand to one!”
Townsend forked over a ten spot. “Put it on Jack.”
“You got it,” Blake said. “Place your bets! Place your bets!”
Blake worked his way through the crowd, accepting money from all the would be gamblers. Slade’s action didn’t get many takers, but there were a few who believed in him enough to stake their money on him.
The impromptu bookie found himself next to Gunther, who stood outside the church next to Doc and Annabelle.
“Place your bets?” Blake asked.
“You best get to steppin’ before I whup your ass,” Gunther said.
“Yes,” Doc said. “Quite right! Have you no decency, sir? Lives are at stake! Shoo! Shoo! Away with you lest I box your ears!”
Blake walked on. Doc followed him until he was out of Gunther’s earshot. The self-described genius tucked a hundred dollars into Blake’s hand.
“All of it on Mr. Buchanan,” Doc said.
“You got it,” Blake said.
“And this never happened, sir.”
Doc turned around to find a displeased Annabelle had followed him.
“I thought you and Slade were friends,” Annabelle said.
“We most assuredly are, my dear,” Doc said. “Thick as thieves you might say. But business is business and if I’m able to turn a profit that would certainly cushion the blow of losing my dear, dear friend.”
“You don’t think Slade will win?” Annabelle asked.
“Oh no,” Doc said. “Not at all. You see, basic principles of mathematics suggest the best course of action is to go with the odds and well, when it comes down to it, Mr. Buchanan has sent more people to their graves than Slade.”
“You have got to be the smartest man alive,” Annabelle said.
“Oh I don’t know about that, my dear,” Doc said. “I’m in the top five, certainly. Right next to Edison, who I consider one of my few intellectual peers.”
Smelly Jack and Slade took their positions, roughly fifty paces from one another. Both men hovered their hands over their hardware.
“ANY LAST WORDS SLADE?” Jack shouted.
“Yup,” Slade said.
Jack and his boys laughed. “Yeah?” Jack said. “What is it?”
Slade pulled the cigar out of his mouth, doused it out with his thumb then tucked it into his pocket to save for later.
“Your mother must be the only woman who ever popped thirty assholes out of her pussy.”
The crowd erupted in a collective gasp, but Jack held it together. He squinted his eyes at Slade. Slade squinted back. Beads of sweat dripped off of Jack’s forehead. Slade’s remained dry.
And then it all happened within seconds. Each man drew at the exact same time. Who shot first? No one may never know. Slade felt the wake of Jack’s bullet as it sailed just inches past his head. Jack, on the other hand, really felt Slade’s bullet as it exploded his chest. Blood spewed from the gaping wound.
The outlaw’s lifeless body hit the ground. The crowd went into an uproar. No one could believe it. Smelly Jack Buchanan, one of the worst criminals in the west, was dead.
Gunther beamed a grin typically reserved for the face of a proud father. He ran out, grabbed Slade’s hand and raised it high in the air. Even Slade flashed a rare smile.
The crowd cheered. A pissed off Blake unleashed a torrent of obscenity over all the money he’d have to pay out to the handful of people who had bet on Slade.
“Are you sore you lost your scratch?” Annabelle said.
“Oh no,” Doc said. “It’s only money, my dear. Easy come, easy go.”
The good doctor joined the duo and shook Slade’s hand. “Bravo, sir! Bravo! I believed in you whole heartedly!”
Frank and Buck Buchanan stood over their leader’s body. Rufus ran his hand over Jack’s face, closing the eyes. The trio stepped forward. A hush silence fell over the crowd.
“This isn’t over, Slade,” Rufus said.
“What is the meaning of this?!” the Reverend asked.
Jack walked right up to the couple. Slade burned with rage. Sarah held a hand over her nose and mouth to hold back the stench.
“I object on account of this no-good chicken shit yella’ belly has the NERVE to show his face around town and not think I’d have something to say about it.”
The vein in Slade’s forehead looked like it was going to pop any second and spew blood all over.
“Boys,” Gunther said. “You’re in a house of God on a wedding day. This is bad form if you ask me.”
“NOBODY ASKED YOU YA OLD BASTARD!!!” Jack said. “This here is between me and this pussy.”
Sarah trembled. “Rain, what’s going on?”
“Oh, I’ll tell you what’s going on, girly,” Jack said. “You’re about to marry a lily livered son of a bitch that lets Injuns do his fighting for him!”
Slade’s gut instinct told him to gun down Jack and his boys right there. But as Gunther said, he was in a church…on his wedding day.
“Leave,” Slade said with the highest amount of rasp he’d ever produced.
“I’m callin’ you out, Slade!” Jack said.
“Not interested,” Slade replied.
“Oh,” Jack said. “I see how it is. When there isn’t an Injun to hide behind you aren’t so tough. When there’s a fancy lawyer to hide behind you feel free to sucker punch a man and knock his teeth out. Did it make you feel like a real big man when you put my brother-uncle Dave on the end of a rope?”
Slade lost it. “I did and I enjoyed every bit of it,” Slade said. “The way his eyes bugged out of his head while he gasped for air and choked to death, calling out for your slut of a mother while he shit his pants. Funniest thing I ever saw.”
With those words, Sarah saw a new side to Slade, one that startled her.
“MY MA WAS A SAINT!”
Jack hauled his arm back, ready to punch Slade but his boys caught him and held him back.
“Come on,” Rufus said. “Not in here.”
“OUTSIDE!” Jack yelled as he struggled free of his brother-cousins’ grasp. “YOU AND ME! WE’RE GONNA SETTLE THIS SHIT ONCE AND FOR ALL!”
“Can’t wait,” Slade said.
The Buchanan Boys made their exit, slamming the doors behind them. Slade walked down the aisle. Sarah, now openly weeping, grabbed him.
“Rain!” she said. “No!”
Slade hugged his bride close to his chest. He kissed the top of her head then looked in her eyes.
“Listen to me,” Slade said.
“No!” Sarah repeated. “You’re not going out there!”
“Listen,” Slade said. “I’m going to be right back.”
Slade turned and walked out the door. Seeing that the bride was shaking all over, Gunther offered her his arm and helped her to a seat.
“Sorry, Miss Sarah,” Gunther said. “Dueling is unfortunately one of our worst traditions out this way and why, once a situation like this gets uncorked its impossible to put it back in the bottle.”
“But he’s going to die!!!” Sarah said.
“Oh no,” Gunther said. “No, not at all. Your man is the best shot in the West and Smelly Jack couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn even if he launched his bullet with a catapult.
“Really?” Sarah asked.
“Absolutely!” Gunther said. “Now don’t you fret none. I swear to you, your groom is not going to die.”
Ophelia took a seat next to Sarah and offered the bride a shoulder to cry on.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, ladies,” Gunther said. “I’d best go offer my moral support.”
Gunther walked out of the church. Outside, Jack was delivering an insulting speech about Slade to a gathering crowd.
The old man grabbed Slade just before he stepped off the porch.
“Son, you are going to die!”
“Get off me,” Slade said, pushing Gunther’s hand away.
“You are playing right into Jack’s hands,” Gunther said. “Even an inbred piece of shit like Jack Buchanan knows he’ll go down in history as the worst scum of the earth if he guns down a man in a church at his own wedding. So he’s goading you to come outside and throw down and you’re taking the bait like a fat fish.”
“What do you know?” Slade asked. “You always want to run away from everything, you damn coward.”
Ouch. Gunther felt that one. But he didn’t let it stop him. “It’s not cowardly to refuse to die for no good reason! It’s using the brains that the good Lord saw fit to give you!”
Slade walked off. Gunther grabbed him again. “Why do you think Jack brought three of his kinfolk with him? You know those boys don’t play fair. The second you lay Jack out they’ll come at you. Maybe you can get one. Maybe two. But three? Use your head.”
The groom checked out the extraneous Buchanans as they worked the crowd, drumming up cheers for Jack. All three of them were armed.
“Do you even see this is your chance, boy?” Gunther asked.
“What?” Slade asked.
“Run,” Gunther said. “Get on your horse and get the hell out of here. Shit, grab Miss Bonnie on the way out of town. Go somewhere, anywhere and start a new life with the woman you’re obviously pining for and then after a month, write a letter to Miss Sarah and tell her you’re sorry but you were scared and you couldn’t bare to saddle her with the burden of being the wife of a man who runs away from a fight.”
“I’m not scared,” Slade said.
“You should be,” Gunther said.
“I’d never tell anyone if I was,” Slade said.
“It’s just words,” Gunther said. “They don’t mean anything.”
Slade gritted his teeth. “They…mean…everything.”
“God damn it, boy,” Gunther said. “The only person a man ever needs to seek approval from is the one staring back at him in the mirror. Who gives a shit what anyone else has to say?”
“I DO!” Slade shouted. It was the first time Gunther had ever heard his ex-boss raise his voice.
“I do,” Slade repeated.
With Reverend Cavanaugh between them, Slade and Sarah faced one another. Sarah gazed longingly at her man. Slade did his best to appear interested but in his mind he was mapping out the best possible escape route as if he were about to rob a bank and make a run for it.
“Dearly beloved,” the Reverend said. “We gather today to join this man, Rainier Slade and this woman, Sarah Farquhar in the bonds of holy matrimony.”
The Reverend opened up his bible, peeped at a card with some notes scribbled on it, then carried on. “For as Enoch said unto Elijah on the road to Damascus, ‘There is surely no act more pleasing to our righteous God than for a man to lie with the same woman day after day, month after month, year after year, decade after decade, until the end of time comes and the glorious rapture returns all who are pure to their much deserved glory.”
In the pews, Doc swilled back his medicine.
“Gimmie some of that,” Annabelle whispered. “I didn’t know this was going to be so preachy.” She took a big gulp then handed the bottle back to Doc.
“And ye, it must be known to all,” the Reverend said. “That marriage is truly the noblest of institutions…”
“My Mavis used to say anyone who wants to get married should be in an institution,” Gunther whispered to Ophelia. She frowned and shook her head disapprovingly.
“In fact, it was Aaron who said unto Jeremiah who in turn, spread the message to the Sumerians, ‘When a man lies with a woman not his wife, or a woman lies with a man not her husband it is considered an egregious sin in the eyes of our Lord and don’t even get me started on when two men or two women lie with one another…”
Blake and Townsend sat in the back, mostly to trade snide comments about Slade but also in the hopes of free eats.
“You told me there would be sandwiches,” Blake said.
“I don’t know,” Townsend said. “Every wedding I been to they usually put out a little something. Usually not until after the ceremony though.”
“Shit,” Blake said. “I bet Slade’s too cheap to shell out for sandwiches.”
Townsend started a thought. “Well if he’s half a good a host as he was a marshal…”
Blake finished it for him. “…I’ll starve to death.”
The Reverend kept preaching away. “I’ve had the good fortune to perform many wedding ceremonies in my day and the one piece of advice I never fail to offer to a couple is this. ‘Be true to one another.’”
Slade audibly gulped.
“Yes, ” the Reverend said. “Husbands and wives must be honest with one another at all times for a marriage built upon a foundation of lies will never provide a happy home but rather, serve as a sanctuary for the devil.”
Slade’s heart beat faster.
“No matter how painful it may be for a couple to share their deepest, darkest secrets with each other, they MUST do so, for even the smallest, most seemingly insignificant fib is still a falsehood with the potential to boil over into tremendous sorrow.”
“Shit,” Slade thought. “If this is going to piss off God maybe I HAVE to say something.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Reverend said. “It is my understanding that the couple has written some vows that they wish to share with each other.”
“We have?” Rain thought.
“Sarah,” the Reverend said.
Sarah took Slade’s hands into hers. “Rain, all my life my choices have been made for me. First by my father, then by Josiah. In effect, I’ve never had a choice about anything at all until today. I choose you because I love you. When you hold me I feel safe. All my cares wash away and it is as if you and I are the only two people left in the world…”
“No one told me I was suppose to say anything,” Slade thought.
“…and should I die tomorrow,” Sarah continued. “My life will be complete, for having known the joy of being your wife. I vow to spend all my days thinking of new ways to make you as happy as you have made me.”
Annabelle was so touched she cried. Doc took another swig of his Cure-All then handed it to his new love interest.
“It will calm your menstruations, my dear,” he whispered.
Slade may have been madly in love with Miss Bonnie, but as far as he was concerned, what Sarah had just said was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him. God would have to be disappointed with his lack of honesty.
Sarah looked at her groom with big brown eyes.
“Shit,” Slade said. “When she was babbling away on the ride in. That’s probably when she said to have something to say. Damn it.”
The guests grew silent. Slade coughed.
“You’re special,” Slade said.
Slade looked around. Everyone waited for more.
“And pretty,” Slade said.
People were still waiting. What did they want?
“And I promise to be a good husband and wipe the shit off my boots before I come in the house.”
Silence. Sarah cried tears of joy. Even Gunther had a little moisture in his good eye.
“That was beautiful,” the old man said.
“Such lovely words,” the Reverend said. “Before we carry on, I ask now, if any one should object to this union, I bid you to speak now or forever hold your peace.”
The church doors swung open, a gust of wind blew in and the whole room got a whole lot…smellier.
Smelly Jack stomped down the aisle with his brother-cousins behind him.
“I OBJECT!!!”
On the front steps of the church, Slade, Sarah, Gunther, and Ophelia Hutchins stood, staring in awe at what was in front of them.
“Is this thing going to kill me?” Gunther asked. The ex-deputy was looking more dapper than usual. His hair was pulled back in a pony tail and he sported a suit that looked like it had seen better days, but was an improvement just the same.
“Perhaps we shouldn’t talk, Mr. Beauregard,” Ophelia said. Busybody that she was, the overweight housewife had snookered her way in as Sarah’s Maid of Honor earlier in the day.
“No,” Gunther said. “I really want to know. Is this thing going to kill me? If that thing is going to explode and shoot flames at me I have a right to know.”
Mr. O’Brien pulled his head out from the heavy black curtain attached to his camera and addressed Gunther.
“It’s perfectly safe,” O’Brien said.
“Impossible,” Gunther said. “I read in the paper one of those things blew up at a hoedown in Kentucky and set a hundred people on fire.”
“It was only a dozen people,” O’Brien said. “And besides, that was a decade ago. The technology has improved greatly since then.”
“Do we not know what we all look like?” Gunther said as he stared at the flash standing on a pole next to O’Brien. “Do we really have to risk being burnt to a crisp just to commemorate what we already know?”
“Mr. Beauregard,” O’Brien said. “Photography is quickly becoming a part of life. Why, the top experts in the field have theorized that one day cameras will become so simple and compact that ordinary laymen will be able to carry these miraculous devices with them and document everything they see.”
“Why in the hell would anyone want to do that?” Gunther asked.
“I don’t know,” O’Brien said. “People might like to share their experiences with one another. If you see something interesting you could take a picture of it and show your friends.”
“I could just tell people what it looked like,” Gunther said. “And don’t people know what everything looks like already? If I see a tree, can’t I just tell you I saw a tree? Do you need to see a picture of the tree?”
“People could take pictures of each other,” O’Brien said.
“What kind of narcissistic jackasses would want to sit around taking pictures of each other all day?” Gunther asked. “And then what would they do? Show the pictures of themselves to each other? Sounds boring as all get out.”
“One day people might even be able to take pictures of themselves,” O’Brien said.
“Well now you’re just talking crazy,” Gunther said.
O’Brien returned under his curtain. “Now everyone please stay perfectly still for the next minute. Starting…now.”
“A whole minute?” Gunther asked.
“Let’s try it again,” O’Brien said. “Starting now.”
The wedding party remained solemn faced and perfectly still for sixty whole seconds. Sparks flew out of the flash. Gunther drew his sidearm and pointed it at the pole then seeing no danger, holstered his weapon.
“Sorry,” Gunther said. “Reflex.”
O’Brien popped out from under the blanket. “Yes,” the photographer said. “I do believe that will be lovely folks. I’ll have it ready in a month.”
“This world’s going to hell,” Gunther said.
In his room, Blythe sat Indian-style, levitating three feet above the floor. His eyes were closed as he was in deep meditation.
A knock on the door. One eye opened.
“Boss?”
The other eye opened. “Enter.”
Hewitt and Becker walked in.
“We just overheard those shit heads downstairs,” Hewitt said. “Jack and some of his boys are gunning for Slade.”
“Interesting,” Blythe said. He revolved his body around to face his henchmen.
“You want us to break it up?” Becker asked. “They could set things off too early.”
Blythe sighed. “I had so hoped to delay the festivities until our friends arrive.”
“They’ll be here by midnight,” Hewitt said. “Last I heard.”
“Close enough,” Blythe said. “No, let Mr. Buchanan have his fun. With any luck, he’ll kill Slade for me and free me of the board’s predilections.”
Blythe put his feet down on the floor and stood up. “Gentlemen, allow me a moment to adjourn to my quarters on the Marvel, then dispatch all the Buchanans remaining here.”
“Finally,” Hewitt said. “Can’t stand those hayseeds.”
“I notice there’s no boy with you,” Blythe said.
“He’s long gone,” Becker said. “Gotta be.”
“Very well,” Blythe replied. “If Freeman makes a move, terminate him immediately.”
“With pleasure,” Hewitt said.
“Oh and gentlemen,” Blythe said. “Miss Lassiter and Miss Farquhar are to remain alive. That is imperative. I cannot overstate the importance of this order.”
“Got it,” Becker said.
“When you are done downstairs, search for them and bring them to me.”
Hewitt and Becker left. Blythe put on his suit jacket and packed his things.
“I swear, the board’s incompetence will be this plan’s undoing.”
Ahem. The next draft will feature a revision in which the train is named earlier as “The Marvel of the Rails.”
So don’t be surprised now that it will be referred to as such.
Thank you 3.5 readers.
I know I keep throwing out names of Buchanan Boys. Keep in mind they are like superfluous minions, except less yellow and more inbred. That I keep coming up with new names of Buchanan Boys is meant to be a joke in and of itself. Remember, Smelly Jack was apprehended in the beginning with over 30 of his brother-cousins, so I can spew out names all day.
“Slade…”
Smelly Jack had been hearing that name bandied about amongst the barflies all day long. He repeated it in anger as he squeezed his beer mug until it shattered, sending glass pieces and brew all over his brother-cousins.
“Damn it, Jack!” said Frank Buchanan. “You got your suds all over me!”
Jack stood up and flipped the table over, sending cards and poker chips scattering to the floor.
“I WANT SLADE DEAD!”
“Aw hell, come on Jack,” said Rufus Buchanan. We’ve got a pretty sweet deal as railroad security agents here.”
“Yeah,” said Buck Buchanan. “This is our shot at going legit and living the sweet life.”
“FUCK THAT!” Smelly Jack bellowed. “That crooked schiester has kept us cooped up in this joint for two days and we haven’t seen so much as a dime or a job! All the while that chicken shit law man is strutting around like the cock of the walk, probably telling everyone how he got one over on me!”
“Calm down Jack,” Rufus said.
“A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do!” Jack said. “And putting Slade six feet under is what this man’s gotta do!”
Frank, Rufus, and Buck eyeballed each other.
“Shit,” Frank said. “You sure we can’t talk you out of this, Jack?”
“NO!!!” was Jack’s reply.
“He is the boss,” Rufus said.
“We got your back, Jack,” Buck asked.
The quartet walked out of the saloon, proudly shouting about Slade’s imminent demise, just in time to be overhead by Hewitt and Becker as they returned from an unsuccessful day’s hunt.
Bookshelf Battle 