“Whiskey.” Neilson said.
“Comin, right up.” Leslie replied, setting a glass in front of him. “New in town?” he asked, as he poured.
“Yep.” said Neilson, paying for his drink.
Leslie was sizing him up. “Where you hail from, son?”
“Montana.” he replied, taking a drink. He knew that a lot of these characters had drifted all over the west, from Dodge City to San Francisco, but the Montana Territory was still fairly Wild and sparsely populated. There wasn’t much happening in Montana yet except for cattle ranching and farming in the western part of the territory, along the Bitterroot. And Indian trouble. Especially Indian trouble.
“Is that right?” said Leslie, with some surprise. “Montana Territory, eh? Where ole George Custer met his Maker?”
“Yep.”
“Ever meet ’im?”
“Nope. Heard all about him. though.”
He was one hell of a man.” said Leslie.
One hell of a stupid man, if you ask me.” said Neilson.
Leslie raised his eyebrows. “How old are you, son”
“Old enough.” said Neilson.
Leslie grinned as he wiped out a glass, amused by the arrogance of youth. “What brings you to Tombstone?”
Neilson shrugged. “Heard some bends of mine might be here. prospectin’.”
“That right? What are their names? Could be I know ’em.”
“Ben Summers, Josh Billings and Joe McEnery.”
Leslie’s grin faded. “Hell. I know ’em, all right Or knew ’em. I should say I’m right sorry to tell you, son, they’re dead All three of ’em.”
Neilson put down his glass and stared at him. It was what he’d feared. Only how did they die?
Before he could ask Leslie, shouting broke out behind him and he heard a chair crash to the floor.
“ You goddamn. cheatin’ tinhorn, son of a bitch!”
Neilson turned around. Out of the corner of his eye. he saw Leslie’s hand go down below the bar.
“Step aside, son.” Leslie said, softly, his eyes on the table where the altercation was taking place.
There were five men scaled at the table. One of them, a cowboy, had jumped up. sending his chair crashing to the floor. He had pulled a six-gun from beneath his coat and cocked it. The others were still sitting at the table, staring at him nervously. All except one man, who sat very still with his hands flat on the table.
He had his back to Neilson, but he was dressed like a gambler, in a dark, dandy’s suit. The cowboy with his gun out was standing at a right angle to Neilson, his left side toward him, about a dozen feet away. Neilson quietly stepped aside, knowing that Leslie had a gun beneath the bar. The entire room became suddenly, completely silent,
“Come on now, take it easy. Slim.” said one of the other men at the table.
That damn deck’s marked!” the cowboy named Slim furiously accused the man with his back to Neilson.
“I can assure you, sir, that it is not.” the gambler replied, in a calm and steady voice. “You are welcome to examine it. Any man here is welcome to examine it. I won that hand fair and square.”
“You lyin’ bastard, you did not! You pulled some cheap, tinhorn trick!”
Men were quickly edging away from the vicinity of the table. Leslie waited until his field of fire was clear, then pulled a sawed-off shotgun from beneath the bar.
“Put up that pistol, friend, right now.” said Leslie.
Neilson suddenly heard the ominous sound of a revolver being cocked.
“I don’t believe he will, barkeep.” another cowboy at the far end of the bar said. He had a gun aimed right at Leslie. “Now you put down that scattergun. Just rest it on the bar there, nice and easy, and step away.”
Leslie hesitated for a second. “You don’t want to do this, friend.”
“You shut your damn mouth and do as I said!”
Leslie complied.
Slim turned toward the bar, moving so that he could clearly see both the gambler and Leslie. “You tell him. Jack! We’ll show these cheatin’ sons of bitches! That pot is mine by rights!”
Nobody moved.
“You, boy.” said the man named Jack, talking to Neilson. He came around the end of the bar slowly. He aimed his gun at Neilson.
“Leave him out of this.” said Leslie.
“I said, shut your damn mouth! Boy, take that scattergun and slide it down the bar to me, real careful like.”
“Everybody just stay right where you are.” said Slim, “and keep your hands where I can see ’em.”
“Be smart, cowboy.” said the gambler, sitting perfectly still. You shoot anyone in here and you’ll never make it out of town.”
“Yeah? Well, you won’t be around to find out, one way or the other.
Neilson hadn’t moved. The situation was getting ugly and he didn’t want to chance being shot by a stray bullet. His mission was too important. Not to mention his life. If he slid that shotgun down the bar, Jack would have a better weapon with which to cover their escape after Slim had shot the gambler. And God only knew who else.
“ You, boy!” shouted Jack. “You tired of livin’? I said, slide that scatter gun down here!”
“Leave him alone.” said Leslie. “He’s just a kid.”
“You opened your damn mouth once too often!” Jack responded, moving his gun to fire at Leslie. And in that moment, Neilson moved.
His hand snaked down inside his coat as he drew and cocked the pistol in one smooth motion and fired at Jack, hitting him in the chest. Without pausing, he recocked the Colt as it rolled with the recoil, brought his arm around and fired at Slim, dropping him before Jack even hit the floor. It happened so fast that no one had a chance to react.
There was a moment’s stunned silence, then somebody exclaimed. “Jesus. Mary and Joseph! Did you see that?”
By God. I ain’t never seen anyone that fast!” The saloon erupted into activity as Neilson stood there. Still holding his smoking gun. Great, he thought. Now what do I do?
“Right through the heart!” said someone, bending over Slim. “Dead center!”
“I’ll be hog-tied!” said someone else. examining Jack’s body. “This one, too!”
“Hold it right there!” said a steely voice, cutting through the commotion. “Put down that pistol, kid, or I’ll shoot you where you stand!”
Fuck, thought Neilson, unable to see the speaker behind him. Whoever he was, he had the drop on him. He released his grip on the Colt, allowing it to dangle from his index finger in the trigger guard, then slowly brought it down on the bar and raised his hands.
“It’s all right. Virgil.” Leslie said. “The kid’s okay. He just stopped some killin’.”
“Appears to me like he just did some killin’.” said the tall, strapping man with the dark, reddish blond hair and bushy moustache who came around from behind Neilson. He was dressed in a dark suit, with a badge pinned to his vest. Virgil, thought Neilson. He recognized him from photographs he’d seen. It was Virgil Earp, eldest of the three “fighting Earp” brothers.
“It was killin’ that needed to be done,” Leslie replied. “The kid did the right thing.”
“I’ll say, he did.” said the gambler, getting up from the table “The kid just saved my bacon.”
“Is that so?” said Virgil. “What happened?”
Neilson stared as the good-looking gambler with the neatly trimmed black moustache came toward him. “Cowboy over there called me a cheat and threw down on me. The other one got the drop on Frank. And me without my guns.”
Those boys meant business, Virgil.” Leslie added. “I would have been shot dead, if it wasn’t for this here Montana kid.”
“I owe you a debt of gratith. cle,” the gambler said. “I’d like to shake your hand and stand you to a drink. The name’s Bat Masterson.”
Feeling rather numb. Neilson shook his hand.
“What’s your name, Montana kid?” asked Virgil.
“Neilson.” Scott replied instinctively, not thinking to give an alias. “Scott Neilson.”