“Jackson …” Grant soothed, putting his hand on the taller man’s shoulder. With a grunt, Jackson shrugged it off.
“No, I think it’s about time I hit the road,” the stranger said as he began to stand up. “How much?” he asked.
“Two bucks,” Franco said. The stranger took a two-dollar coin from his pocket and set it on the counter.
“But it’s so dark out,” Jackson warned derisively. “There could be wolves out there!”
“I think the wolves will make better company,” the stranger said with a grim smile.
The room fell silent — so quiet that Franco could hear the faint buzz of the lights overhead.
“What was that?” Jackson demanded.
“Oh, I think you heard me just fine,” the stranger said, turning to walk away. “Cheers, boys.”
Still sitting down, Jackson reached out with his left hand, grabbing the stranger’s left shoulder.
“Stay,” he growled.
The stranger stopped.
“Let go now,” he said, “and I’ll call us even.”
“That right?” Jackson said, rising from his stool. He towered over the bearded man.
Franco mouthed “No” at the stranger, while making a throat-slash gesture. No one got into a fight with “Stone Fist Jackson” and escaped without a broken bone or two.
A wry smirk stretched across the stranger’s face. Does he know something I don’t? Franco wondered.
“It’d be a shame if you wasted that genuine Kentucky bourbon on a scrub like me,” the stranger said. “Wouldn’t it?”
Jackson glanced at the bottle in his hand.
“It’s all just moose piss anyway,” Jackson said. With an angry roar, he swung the bottle over his head, toward the stranger’s skull.
Franco cringed, anticipating the sound of shattering glass.
It arrived — just a little later than expected.
The stranger reached back and clasped Jackson’s wrist — the one resting on his shoulder. Bending forward, he yanked on Jackson’s arm. Then with superhuman strength, the stranger threw Jackson over his head, effortlessly swinging the man’s body through the air like a pickax.
A pop sounded as Jackson’s shoulder dislocated. He cried out in pain. Then the stranger released Jackson’s arm, letting the giant man’s body slam against the floor. Shards of glass scattered about as the whiskey bottle exploded from the force of impact.
Franco’s eyes shot wide open — What the Desolation was that?
The two men on the short end of the counter must’ve been thinking the same thing — Jackson had landed right at their feet. They glanced at each other, then tossed a few coins on the counter and hightailed it out of Franco’s Saloon faster than two deer running from a wildfire.
With a groan, Jackson sat up, slowly getting to his feet. He stumbled around, woozy from his encounter with the floorboards. His left arm hung limp at his side. With his right hand, he reached for the firearm in his holster.
Grant — still seated behind the stranger — dove to the floor.
“I wouldn’t recommend that,” the stranger warned Jackson.
Jackson ignored the advice. He pulled out his pistol and cracked the air with a wild shot. The bullet whizzed past the stranger, lodging itself in a bear trophy mounted on the wall.
The stranger raised an eyebrow, then without taking his eyes off Jackson he whipped his six-shooter out from its holster, spinning it around his finger as he extended his arm.
Then his thumb cocked the hammer. His finger pulled the trigger. The bullet screamed out. And Jackson’s body fell forward, victim of a gunshot wound between the eyes.
Franco stared at the scene. His brain couldn’t process what his eyes had just witnessed. He’d seen death strike before, yet never with such speed and surgical precision.
With a whimper, Grant fumbled for his pistol. The stranger spun around and approached the panicking man with deliberate steps. He slid his revolver back into its holster then clenched Grant’s shirt collar with both hands.
“Hammersnap!” the stranger shouted, hoisting Grant into the air. “You wanna die, too?”
Sheepishly, Grant shook his head back and forth.
“Good. Have a safe flight,” said the stranger. With a growl, he chucked Grant across the room, as though the man weighed only as much as a sack of potatoes. The air in Grant’s lungs rushed out in a loud “Oof” as he crashed against the rear wall and fell to the ground.
Who is this guy? Franco wondered. The stranger fought like a robot, programmed to neutralize all obstacles. Maybe he was good with a mop, too.
“You gonna help me clean up this mess?” Franco asked.
“I’d love to, but I think we’d be getting a little ahead of ourselves,” the stranger replied, raising his hands in the air. His eyes were focused on something behind the counter.
“What’re you talking about?” Franco said, sneaking a peek behind himself. All he could see were a bunch of liquor bottles and a mirror.
“Sorry,” the stranger called out. “Did I shoot your boyfriend?”
“Hey now,” Franco cried out. “Why, I’m straighter than a — ”
“Boyfriend?” A woman’s voice cut in. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Aristotle! Franco had forgotten about her. She was still sitting at the corner table, the massive revolver having replaced the book in her hands.
“What’s a little thing like you doing with a large bore gun like that anyway?” the stranger asked. “The kick must nearly snap your arms off.”
Aristotle narrowed her eyes at the stranger.
“You know why you got a gun on your back?” she asked.
“No, but it’s not the first time and it won’t be the last,” the stranger replied.
Aristotle rolled her eyes. “Both those men must outweigh you by fifty pounds. You tossed them around like rag dolls. Explain yourself.”
“Every man has his secrets,” the stranger said.
“Yeah? Every man also has his price,” Aristotle said, cocking her revolver.
“Shoot me now and you’ll never find out,” the stranger said. “Besides, I was acting in s — ”
“Self-defense?” Aristotle finished his sentence. “Say a little farm dog nips at a wolf. If the wolf rips out the dog’s throat, is that self-defense?”
The stranger paused, seemingly caught off guard by the question.
She’s said more in the last minute than she has all month! Franco thought to himself. He had a unique vantage point. The stranger and Aristotle had to look at each other through the mirror; he could see both of their faces directly.
A moment later, the stranger offered a shrug.
“I’ve never thought about it,” he said.
“Then you’d best start thinking about it,” Aristotle said. “Cause you obviously got more power than you know what do to with.”
“Well, if it’s no trouble to you, I’d like to know the name of my judge, jury, and executioner,” the stranger requested. If he was afraid of imminent death, his voice didn’t show it.
“Oh, I’m not gonna shoot you,” Aristotle said. “Killing you’d be a waste of talent.”
The stranger didn’t reply for a moment, waiting for Aristotle to say more.
“What’d you have in mind?” he finally said.
“I’m putting you on probation,” Aristotle answered.
“You some sort of cop?”
“No, but if you break my terms, you’re gonna wish I was.”
“Terms?” the stranger with disgust. “I don’t live by — ”
“I don’t think you’re in any position to bargain,” Aristotle cut him off. “Now listen up. I got eyes and ears all over. If I catch wind of you causing trouble, you’re liable to find yourself on the wrong end of my revolver again.”
“That’s it?” the stranger asked, surprised.
“Well, I’d tell you to get cleaned up and make yourself useful, but it ain’t my place to play babysitter — you gotta find your own way,” Aristotle said. “Now, you’d best march right outta here. Keep your back to me.”
Still holding his hands above his head, the stranger cautiously sidestepped toward the exit, maneuvering around Jackson’s dead body then coming to the door. After picking up his pack and swinging it onto his back, he put his hand on the doorknob.