Pogue Willis was not a very big man. In fact, he was only about five feet six inches tall and he weighed no more than 145 pounds. His hair was a dirty blond, and the skin on his face had a blotch of red, whether from a birthmark or a burn scar, nobody knew. In a normal world, Pogue Willis would live his life as unobtrusively as possible.
But this was not a normal world. This was a world where a man like Pogue Willis, who should be little more than dust under a better man’s boot, possessed two traits that lifted him from the obscure to the feared. He was fast and accurate with a pistol, but more significantly, he had no more compunction about killing a human being than the average person did about stepping on a cockroach.
Willis smiled, but instead of the smile ameliorating the situation, it exacerbated it, for the smile was not one of mirth or good cheer. It was an evil, sardonic smile that twisted the features of his face until it took on a demonic visage.
“You know what I think, Mr. Marcus,” Willis said, his sibilant voice so low that even those who were the nearest to him had to strain to hear. “I think maybe me and you ought to get this here little difference of opinion settled between us,” Willis said. “Otherwise, a thing like this, unresolved so to speak, is just goin’ to start a-festerin’ in my craw. And I don’t like it when things gets to festerin’ in my craw.”
Lee Marcus owned a small producing silver mine. It had not made him rich, but it was providing him with a comfortable living, and just a few moments earlier, he had cashed out the results of his last six months of diggings for a little over two thousand dollars. He had come from the bank right to the saloon, and the cash was still in his pocket when he came into the Hungry Miner for a celebratory drink.
Now, in less than a minute, his entire world had changed. Marcus had gone from being very happy with his lot, to being irritated and concerned over the fact that a man was hitting a woman, to the sudden frightening realization that he was rapidly being pushed into a life-and-death situation. He was being drawn into a fight he didn’t want.
Getting hold of himself, Marcus forced a smile, making it as genuine as he could under these frightening circumstances. “Now, just hold on here, Mr. Willis, wait a minute, please,” Marcus said. He spoke is as calm and friendly a voice as he could. “I think you would agree with me that it is pretty obvious that me and you have got ourselves off on the wrong foot here. I tell you what I’m goin’ to do. I’m goin’ to buy you a drink. Yes, sir, that’s the best thing to do. I really didn’t mean to say nothin’ to put you to anger like I done, so why don’t me and you just have us that drink I’m offerin’ an’ then we can start all over? Bartender, how ’bout you pour Mr. Willis another drink on me?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Marcus, I’d be glad to. Seems to me like that’d be about the best thing we could do, afore this here goes any further.” the bartender replied, going along with Marcus’s proposal. He poured another drink and set it in front of Willis. “There you go, Mr. Willis, compliments of Mr. Marcus.”
Willis, with the demonic smile still on his lips, picked up the drink, held it up as if in toast, then, suddenly and without warning, tossed the contents of the glass into Marcus’s face.
That sudden and unexpected action brought the rest of the saloon to total silence as every man and woman present looked toward the two men to see what would happen next.
Marcus had gasped in surprise, but checking his normal impulse to do or say anything that would make the situation any worse, he just reached down and pulled a towel from one of the towel rings on the bar, and wiped his face.
“Well, I guess I deserved that for buttin’ in where it was none of my concern,” Marcus said. He forced a chuckle as he continued to wipe his face. “Yes, sir, I got to hand it to you, you got me good with that little trick. So with all things bein’ considered, I reckon that makes me and you be just about even now.”
“We ain’t even,” Willis said.
“Sure we are,” Marcus replied.
“Are you callin’ me a liar, Mr. Marcus?” Willis challenged.
“What? No, I—why would I call you a liar?”
“Here’s the thing, Mr. Marcus. Me and you ain’t goin’ to be even till one of us is dead,” Willis said. His evil smile broadened. “And truth to tell, I got me this feelin’ that it ain’t goin’ to be me the one that winds up dead.”
“Wait a minute! Now, hold on here!” Marcus called out, holding his hands out in front of him. “This has gone far enough! Let’s quit this foolishness now!”
“Foolishness? Are you callin’ me a fool, Marcus?”
From somewhere, deep inside, Marcus felt a slow calming begin to come over him. He knew there was no way he was going to avoid this fight. He could not explain why, but with that realization the fear fell away to be replaced by a feeling of resignation and acceptance. There was going to be a gunfight, he was resigned to that fact. He knew also that he was going to be killed, and he was resigned to that fact as well. Finding a quiet courage that he did not know he possessed, he quit cajoling.
“You are right, mister,” Marcus said, his voice calm and well modulated now. “One of us is going to die.”
“That’s right,” Willis said. “And it ain’t goin’ to be me.”
“You dried-up little son of a bitch, I’ll be waitin’ for you at the gates of Hell,” Marcus said, his hand dipping toward his pistol even as he was talking.
Marcus broke leather before Willis even started his draw, and for a brief moment, he felt a sense of elation, a sense that he might actually win this fight.
But his hope was misplaced because in the wink of an eye, so fast that Marcus found himself wondering if somehow Willis hadn’t had the pistol in his hand all along, he saw the muzzle-flash of Willis’s .44. Before he could squeeze the trigger of his own gun, he felt a heavy blow in the middle of his chest. The impact of the bullet took his breath away and slammed him back against the bar. Even with the excruciating pain in his chest, he felt the blow of the bar against his back as he slid down to the floor, his gun hand by his side, his pistol lying, unfired, on the floor beside him.
Matt Jensen, fully recovered now from the gunshot wound he had received at the Crocker ranch two months earlier, was riding into town when he heard the sound of the gunshot. The single shot came from the other end of the street, and it put him on instant alert. Because Matt had lived an active and adventurous life, there were those who would like nothing better than to put a bullet in his head. He had managed to avoid that so far, not only by his own skill with pistols, rifles, and even knives, but also because of an acute power of awareness, the sixth sense that served men like Matt.
But he realized quickly that whatever the shot was, it wasn’t meant for him. Relaxing from the momentary tenseness, he continued riding down the street at a leisurely pace.
Matt had come to Fort Collins in response to a letter he had received a few days ago from a friend:
Dear Matt Jensen—
I take pen in hand to write you to tell you of the success I have had in this here mine that you sold me. When you sold me this silver mine two years ago, you said it would pay out iffen someone was willin to work hard at it. They was them who told me I was a fool to trust anyone who was sellin a mine, but there was something about you that give me trust. I am happy to say that you was right. This here mine aint made me rich or nothin like that, but I have worked it regular since I bought it and it has paid out a lot more than I put into it so I thank you for it. On Wednesday the 15thinstant I intend to be in Fort Collins cashin out my diggins from the winter previous. If you would care to meet me at the Hungry Miner saloon, I’d be that proud to buy you a drink then afterwards maybe you would let me buy you dinner at the finest café in town.