Manning continued to stare at Tyree, his anger showing clearly in his face. By contrast, the expression on Tyree’s face had not changed.
“I just don’t like being insulted by some sawed-off runt of a man who doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut,” Manning said. “And I don’t care if he’s the famous Falcon MacCallister or not.”
“Let it go,” the bartender said.
“Yeah, sonny, let it go, before you get so scared you piss in your pants,” Tyree taunted.
“That’s it, mister! I’m going to mop the floor with your sorry hide!” Manning said. He put up his fists.
Tyree smiled, a smile without mirth. “If we’re going to fight, why don’t we make it permanent?” he asked. He stepped away from the bar, then turned, exposing a pistol that he wore low and kicked out, in the way of a gunfighter.
“Hold on there, mister,” the bartender said to Tyree. “There’s no need to carry this any further.”
“Yeah, there is,” Tyree said. “This young fella here has brought me to the ball and now I reckon he owes me a dance.”
Manning suddenly realized that he had been suckered into this, and he stopped, then opened his fists and held his hands palm out in front of him.
“Why are you pushing this?” he asked. “What do you want?”
“I want to settle this little dispute between us permanently,” Tyree said.
“No, there’s no need for all this. This little disagreement isn’t worth either one of us dying over.”
“Oh, it won’t be
“I’m not a gunfighter, mister. I don’t have any intention of drawing on you. If you shoot me, you are going to have to shoot me in cold blood, and in front of these witnesses.”
“What witnesses?” Tyree asked, looking toward the table where the cardplayers had interrupted their game to watch the unfolding drama. “I don’t see any witnesses.”
Taking their cue, all four men got up from the table, two of them standing so quickly that their chairs fell over. The chairs struck the floor with two pops, as loud as gunshots, and Manning jumped. The four cardplayers hurried out the front door.
Tyree turned toward the bartender. “You plannin’ on takin’ part in this?” he asked.
“Don’t do this, mister,” the bartender said. “The boy didn’t mean nothin’.”
“Either get a gun and take part in this, or go outside with the others,” Tyree ordered.
A line of perspiration beads broke out on the bartender’s upper lip. He looked over at Manning with an expression of pity in his face.
“I’m sorry, boy,” he said. “I—I—” He couldn’t finish.
“Go ahead, Mr. Bartender,” Manning said, his voice tight with fear. “I’m just sorry I got you into this. I know this ain’t your fight.”
The bartender remained a second longer, then, with a sigh, headed for the door.
The saloon was now empty except for Manning and Tyree. Manning’s knees grew so weak that he could barely stand, and he felt nauseous.
“Anytime, sonny,” Tyree said with an evil smile.
Suddenly, Manning made a ragged, desperate grab for his pistol. He cleared the holster with it. Then, as if changing his mind in the middle, he turned and tried to run, doing so just as Tyree fired. As a result, Tyree’s bullet struck Manning in the back. Manning went down, took a few ragged gasps, and then died.
Tyree finished his drink, then walked over to look down at Manning’s body.
“Son of a bitch, boy,” he said. “You made Falcon MacCallister shoot you in the back. Wonder what your pa will think of that.”
Tyree was laughing as he walked by the saloon patrons and bartender, who were gathered just outside.
“I’ve heard of Falcon MacCallister,” someone said as they watched Tyree ride off. “Never knew he was an evil son of a bitch.”
“That wasn’t Falcon MacCallister, you damn fool,” the bartender said. “That was Jefferson Tyree.”
A few days later, and from another town, Tyree posted a letter.
Chapter Three
Rachael Kirby played the opening bars of the music as the curtain opened on stage. There, on stage, were Hugh and Mary Buffington, members of the troupe from the J. Garon production of the play
