The Thirteenth Township

They rode into town one fine evening the sky was indigo the wind bashful and the sun setting in the west behind the peaks. Town name was Second Try. A road. Buildings. A group of tents and wagons where people on their way to the mountains rested.

The two men stopped in front of the saloon, got off their horses, shook and slapped their legs to get some blood back flowing into them. Stopped a boy and told him to carry them to the stables and see to it they were going to be fed and scrubbed down and treated nicely.

'Whiskey?' said the first man. His name was Ezekiel Leatherbarrow. People called him Zeke if they knew him well, but there weren't many of them around. A private person, he was.

'Sure, Zeke.' Second man knew him. They had been riding together two months now, and a previous time they had shared the trail one week and three months. He scratched his beard. 'Hope there's a barber here. Thing's itching something horrible.' His name was Joey Belfort. He was younger and taller but thinner of waist and narrow of shoulders so he didn't cut a figure as imposing and menacing as Zeke did.

They shook the dust off their coats and kicked against a post until some of the dirt caked to their boots flaked off.

Saloon was busy with cowboys and prospectors and girls in bright colored dresses and a negro in a bowler hat was playing an accordion and another in a straw hat and green suspenders plucked a banjo. People took a look at them and then went on about their business. Bartender had a shiny dome of a head with no hair, and a stencil moustache over thin lips.

'Two whiskeys,' Zeke said. He put two short bits on the counter and licked his lips as he watched the bartender fill two shot glasses that looked clean by any standard he was used to. He put down a buck, making it clink loud. 'Keep them coming until we're not good for them anymore.'

'Sure thing, cowboy.'

'Ain't a cowboy, bartender.' He opened the fold of his jacket, tin star glittered.

'Marshal.' Bartender smiled. 'Beer on the house, helps you wash down that rotgut and does good for the thirst.'

' 'preciate it, bartender. We both do.'

Bartender leaned against the counter with his elbow. There the cloth of his shirt was threadbare. He used the back of his hand to wipe the sweat off his brow. 'You here to stay, Marshal? Place could use some law and order proper.'

'Ain't you got a sheriff?'

'That we do. Fat, lazy and old.'

'Sorry, we just passin' by, unless you got who we looking for.'

'And that would be?'

He took a piece of paper from a pocket and opened it, stretching it on the counter with a care like it was more precious than it looked to be. Youthful face had been printed there. Youthful but angry and mean. 'Name's Big Iron Sam,' he told the man.

'Big Iron?'

'On account of the fact he uses a rifle instead of a gun,' Joey explained. 'Shoots from afar and it's mighty useful when you aim for a man's back.'

'Man's a murderer. Judge Hankson wants two words with him before he gets hanged down in Houston,' Zeke continued.

Bartender opened his mouth and scratched a gold tooth and squinted his eyes and took ahold of the piece of paper and studied it with a peculiar expression until he clicked his tongue and shook his head. 'Sorry marshal, can't say I've seen this man.'

'A pity, wished we could've find him here. Mind if we ask around?'

'Marshal, you do your duty.'