“Oh, the toll,” Matt said. “Well, there’s the problem. I decided not to pay the toll.”
“You
“It doesn’t look to me like you and I are going to be friends,” Matt replied. “So I see no reason to tell you my name.”
“Draw, mist—”
That was as far as the little man got, because though he was quick, Matt was quicker. The difference was, Matt, who by now was standing right in front of him, didn’t reach for his own gun. Instead, he brought his right hand around in a backhanded blow that swept the little man off the porch and onto the ground, where he landed in a rather substantial pile of horse apples. The blow had not only stunned the little man, it knocked the pistol from his hand. Matt reached down, picked the pistol up from the porch, then went inside as if nothing had happened. Stepping up to the bar, he swung open the cylinder of the little man’s pistol, punched out all the cartridges, then handed the empty revolver to the bartender.
“This belongs to that little fella who was standing out on the front porch,” Matt said. “I expect he is going to be coming in here asking for it in a moment or two.”
“My God, mister, is this Ollie Butrum’s gun?” the bartender asked.
The bartender’s question got the attention of everyone in the room, and all conversation came to a halt as they looked toward the tall stranger who had just come in.
One of the most interested of the saloon patrons was sitting in the very back of the room, nursing a drink. He had piercing dark eyes, a hook nose, and a protruding chin, which he was now rubbing absent-mindedly as he studied Matt Jensen.
“I don’t know the little fella’s name,” Matt said. “He didn’t give it to me.”
“How did you come by his gun?”
“He drew it against me, so I took it away from him,” Matt said.
“You took it away from him? Mister, Ollie Butrum has killed at least ten men that I know of. He’s little, but he’s as quick as a rattlesnake and twice as evil.”
“Yes, well, I didn’t exactly get the idea that he was a Sunday School teacher.”
The bartender and the others in the saloon laughed.
“Sunday School teacher. That’s a good one,” the bartender said.
“How about a beer?” Matt asked.
“Sure thing, mister,” the bartender said, picking up a mug and stepping over to the beer barrel. “And this first one is on the house. Anyone who can take a gun away from Ollie Butrum deserves it.”
“Hell, Paul, you always give a free beer to someone who comes into the saloon for the first time,” one of the saloon patrons said.
“Now, don’t go givin’ away my secrets, Stan,” Paul said, and the others laughed. Paul drew a beer then handed it to Matt.
“What brings you to Fullerton, Mister …” The bartender paused in mid-sentence, waiting for Matt to supply his name.
Matt took a swallow, wondering how he should answer. Already in Colorado, Wyoming, Arizona, and New Mexico, his name was well enough known that he often got a reaction when he said it. He thought that whatever he had to do here, he could do it best if he kept a low profile, but he also had not spent any time in this part of the country, so it was entirely possible that he could say his name without generating any reaction. He decided to risk it.
He lowered his glass. “The name is Jensen. Matt Jensen. I came to Fullerton to take a job. I’m going to be working for the newspaper.”
“Is that a fact? John Bryce hire you, did he?” Stan asked.
“Yes.”
“What will you be doing?” Paul asked.
“I expect I’ll do whatever he needs done—keep the office and the printing press clean, run errands, sell advertising, maybe write an article now and then for him.”
Paul laughed out loud.
“What’s so funny?”
“A handyman. You took Butrum’s gun away from him, but you are going to be a handyman. This is rich. Yes, sir, this is really rich.”
“It’s honest work,” Matt said. “You don’t have anything against honest work, do you?”
“No, I don’t mean that,” Paul said. “It’s just that—look out, mister!” Paul suddenly shouted.
Paul’s shout wasn’t necessary because the innate awareness Matt had developed over the years of putting his life on the line had already warned him. Spinning toward the door, Matt saw Ollie Butrum charging through it with a gun in his hand. Butrum pulled the trigger and the bullet slammed into the bar right next to Matt.
“You son of a bitch! Nobody does that to me!” the gunman shouted. He thumbed the hammer back for a second shot, but before he could pull the trigger, Matt dropped his beer, drew his own pistol, and fired. The .44 slug from Matt’s pistol caught the little man in the heart. When the bullet came out through the back, it brought half his shoulder blade with it, leaving an exit wound the size of a twenty-dollar gold piece.
Butrum staggered backward, crashing through the batwing doors and landing flat on his back on the front porch. His body was still jerking a bit, but his eyes were open and unseeing. He was already dead; only the muscles
