Looking toward the notch at the left side of the pass, he saw the flash of a mirror, signaling that he had been seen, and that he would be allowed to come in. Returning the rifle to its holster, he slapped his legs against the side of his horse, urging it into a trot.
Riding up through the notch, he knew that he was being watched. Although he couldn’t see anyone, he could feel several eyes on him. Not until he reached the place where a trail turned hard left did he see anyone. This was the entry guard, and he stood there with his right leg on a stone, the butt of his rifle resting on his leg as he watched Teasdale ride up the trail. At the end of the trail was a small cabin. The cabin had actually once been a line shack on Teasdale’s ranch, but was moved from the ranch to this place.
When Teasdale dismounted in front of the cabin, he was met by Sam Logan. Sam Logan was wiry, just under six feet tall, with a pockmarked complexion and a sweeping, very dark handlebar mustache that seemed to hang on to a hooked nose. His dark eyes were set deep in their sockets. His hair was as dark as his mustache.
“Well, now, Mr. Teasdale. Come to pay us a visit, have you?” Logan asked.
Teasdale dismounted, then rubbed his behind. He didn’t like riding horses. Normally, he went everywhere by buckboard, carriage, or coach. But a wheeled vehicle was useless here.
“What brings you here?”
“Have you ever heard of a man by the name of Matt Jensen?” Teasdale asked.
“Yeah, sure. Who hasn’t heard of him?” Logan asked.
“Then you mean he is real?”
“You damn right he is real.”
“You are sure now,” Teasdale said. “You aren’t talking about some dime-novel cowboy, are you? Because that is the only place I’ve ever heard of him.”
“Well, the books they write about him are all full of shit,” Logan said, “But Matt Jensen is real. Why are you askin’?”
“Moreton Frewen says that he has hired Matt Jensen to come to his assistance.”
“Yeah? Well, if Frewen really has hired him, that ain’t goin’ to be no good for us. A man like Matt Jensen is nothing but trouble. My advice to you is to get someone to take care of him, and do it quick.”
“Get someone to take care of him? What do you mean by get someone? I thought it was your job to take care of the seamier side of our partnership.”
Logan shook his head. “Yeah, well, I ain’t goin’ to go up against Matt Jensen, that’s for sure. Not unless I get forced into it. I’ve got too good a thing goin’ here, and I ain’t goin’ to risk it by gettin’ tangled up with Matt Jensen. Leastwise, not unless I have at least half of my men with me. If I was you, I would hire someone to take care of him, and I would do it pronto.”
“Do you have any suggestions as to who I might get to take care of him?”
“I don’t know, Jensen is ... wait, yeah, maybe I do have an idea. I know a man who just might be able to do it. He’s faster ’n greased lightning, and I know for a fact he has been wanting to face Jensen down. I expect if you paid him enough, he would do it.”
“Who is this man, and how do I get in contact with him?”
“His name is Kyle Houston. And he is my cousin. I’ll get in touch with him for you.”
“You may be good, but I’m pretty damn good myself,” Andy Masters said.
“And I’m even better than he is,” Andy’s brother Aaron added.
“So my advice to you is, clear on out of Trabling now, while you’re still breathing,” Andy said.
The two brothers owned the Ace High Saloon in the little town of Braggadocio, Wyoming, which was about thirty miles east of Sussex. They had just ordered Kyle Houston out of town.
“I’m not sure you boys want to do that,” Houston replied. Houston was a small man, with small, almost delicate hands. In a world without guns, he would be so insignificant as to be overlooked. But there was a reason that the word “equalizer” had been applied to Sam Colt’s products. The small man who would be unable to stand up to any challenge in physical match was more than adequate to the task when it came to the use of pistols.
Kyle Houston was not only exceptionally proficient with a pistol, he enjoyed using it and had developed a very thin skin. That was a deadly combination, and had Houston been one to carve notches on the handle of his gun, it would be filled with them.
Earlier this morning, in a dispute in a card game, Houston had run three cowboys out of the saloon, telling them that if they came back, they had better come back armed. The Masters brothers, upon hearing about it, made the same demand of Kyle Houston.
“As far as I’m concerned, you are nothing but a visitor here,” Andy said. “And a not very welcome visitor at that. Those boys you ran away are good customers of ours. We can’t have someone like you saying who and who cannot come into our saloon. That means you have to leave.”
During the entire challenge, Houston had stood still, with a half-smile on his face as he looked at the two brothers. The physical contrast between them was dramatic. Andy and Aaron Masters were both big men, with broad shoulders and powerful arms. Either of them could have brushed Houston aside as one would a fly.
And yet here was Kyle Houston, not only standing up to the two men, but actually relishing the challenge.
“Boys, before we go any futher,” Houston said, “I want to hear you say aloud, in front of these witnesses, that I ain’t the one that’s provoking this fight.”
“Why do you need us to say that?” Aaron asked.
“Because I’m going to kill both of you,” Houston said, speaking the words as calmly as if he had just ordered a beer. “And I want these witnesses to tell the law that I tried to avoid this fight.”
“You don’t have to worry about tellin’ the law nothin’,” Andy said. “Because unless you walk through that door, right now, you are going to be dead.”
Houston sighed. “I tried,” he said. He held his hands out in front of him, turning his palms up. “I guess it’s all up to you, now.”
“Draw!” Andy shouted, his hand darting toward his pistol. Aaron started his draw as well.
Although the action seemed instantaneous to those who were watching, and even to Andy and Aaron, Kyle Houston had the unique ability to slow everything down in his mind. He analyzed the situation before him. Andy was the one who had called draw, which meant he had already started his draw when he shouted. Aaron, who didn’t start his draw until Andy initiated the sequence of events, was a fraction of a second behind.
That enabled Houston to make his target selection: Andy first, then Aaron. And though Houston fired two times, the shots were so close together that they sounded like one shot.
Andy pulled the trigger on his gun, but by the time he pulled the trigger, he had already been fatally wounded by a bullet to his heart. And though Aaron managed to clear the holster with his pistol, he went down before he was able to get off a shot.
With the two owners of the saloon now lying on the floor, both dead, a stunned silence fell over the saloon patrons. They were awed by the demonstration they had just seen, and spoke, when they did speak, in whispers, lest they say something to anger the little man who was dressed all in black.
Houston looked around the saloon to make certain there were no further challenges, then he put his pistol, which was literally still smoking, back into its holster.
“I think I’ll have a whiskey,” he said to the bartender.
“I—I don’t know,” the bartender said.
“What is it you don’t know?”
“You just killed the two men who owned this saloon. What happens now?”
“How long have you been working here?” Houston asked.
“Four years, ever since they opened it.”