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:
Matt had been in Trinidad, Colorado, when the letter caught up with him toward the end of last week, and because he had nothing else planned, he decided he would drop in to see Marcus. A colorful profusion of late-spring wildflowers, along with agreeable weather, had made the ride up from Trinidad quite pleasant.
When Matt dismounted in front of the Hungry Miner, he saw several people hurrying into the saloon. He surmised from the flurry of activity that the shot he had heard had come from the saloon. And for some reason that he could not explain, he suddenly had the feeling that somehow his friend might be involved.
Matt tied off his horse, Spirit, then joined the throngs moving in through the batwing doors.
You all seen it!” someone was shouting. Holding a pistol in his hand, he was waving it around as he shouted, causing the others to duck or move to get out of his way. “Is there anyone in here who didn’t see him draw agin’ me first?”
Looking over toward the bar, Matt saw Lee Marcus sitting on the floor, leaning back against the bar. The front of his shirt was covered with blood and though Marcus was still alive, Matt had watched enough men die to know that Marcus had but a moment or two of life left.
“Lee!” Matt called out. He hurried over to him, then knelt beside his friend.
“Hello, Matt,” Marcus said. “Too bad you wasn’t here a few minutes earlier. You missed all the excitement.”
“What happened?”
“Me and this little feller here got into a bit of an argument,” Marcus said.
Matt looked up at the small man.
“You do this?” he asked.
“Yeah, I did it. You plannin’ on doin’ somethin’ about it?” the little man asked pugnaciously.
“Matt Jensen, this is Pogue Willis,” the bartender said.
“You’re—you’re Matt Jensen?” Willis asked.
When he heard Matt’s name, the little man’s demeanor changed quickly. Instead of being arrogantly challenging, Pogue Willis suddenly became defensive. Quickly, he put his pistol back in its holster.
“It was a fair fight, Jensen, it was a fair fight,” Willis said. “He drew first. You can ask anyone in here, your friend drew first.”
“Is that true, Lee?” Matt asked.
“Yeah,” Lee replied. He coughed, and blood came from his mouth. “I just got tired of listenin’ to the feller go on so.”
“See, I told you,” Willis said. “Look there, he said it his ownself, he drew first.”
“Shut up, Willis,” Matt said.
“What? Now, see here, you can’t talk to me like that,” Willis said. “I don’t care who you are, you—”
That was as far as Willis got, because Matt stood up and backhanded him across the face, hitting so hard that both his nose and lip began bleeding. Willis staggered back against the bar and his hand moved toward his pistol.
“Do it,” Matt said calmly. “Please, pull your gun.”
Without a saying another word, Willis stopped his hand just above his pistol, then moved instead to grab one of the bar towels.
“I wasn’t goin’ for my gun, I was reachin’ for a towel,” Willis said. He began dabbing at the blood. At that moment, without a gun in his hand, there was nothing at all frightening about the little man.
