The sheriff’s inquiry had been fast and nonthreatening. Gilbert testified that Cord had come into the bank and presented himself in a belligerent manner, demanding to see Trent Williams. Gilbert further testified that he was worried about Mr. Williams, and therefore kept a close eye on the door to the bank office. Then, he heard Williams call out, heard a shot, and when he entered the office he saw Cord lying on the floor and Williams standing over him, holding a smoking gun.
Trent Williams did not dissent from Gilbert’s account. He explained that Cord had come into the office, demanding that Williams empty the safe and give him all the money.
“Did he have a gun?” Williams was asked.
“Yes.”
“Was the gun in his holster, or was he holding it in his hand?”
“I don’t know,” Williams said.
“Come on, Sheriff, what are you askin’ Mr. Williams all these questions for?” Gilbert asked. “We’ve already told you what happened.”
The sheriff nodded. “All right, Mr. Williams, you’re free to go. There will be no charges.”
“Thank you,” Williams said.
Williams told himself that shooting Cord had been necessary, but he was unnerved. He wasn’t unnerved because he had had to shoot Cord. He was unnerved because Staley had failed to get the herd for him. Now what was he going to do?
At this very moment the answer to Williams’s dilemma was just down the street from the bank, playing a game of solitaire in the saloon. The man was dressed all in black, including his hat, though the starkness was offset by the glitter of the silver and turquoise hatband. This was Quince Pardeen, and though he would have preferred a game of poker, nobody would play with him because everyone was afraid of him. Pardeen’s reputation preceeded him now, even in the smallest towns.
Pardeen counted out three cards, but couldn’t find a play. The second card of the three was a black seven. There would have been a play had the black seven come up on top, but unfortunately, it was one card down and therefore useless to him. Pardeen glared at it for a moment, then, with a shrug, played it anyway.
The batwing doors swung open and a cowboy came in and walked over to the bar. He ordered a whiskey, then looked around and saw Pardeen sitting at the table, calmly playing cards.
“Ain’t you the one they call Pardeen?” the cowboy asked.
Pardeen didn’t answer.
“Yeah, that’s who you are, all right,” the cowboy said. “You’re Quince Pardeen.”
Though the cowboy wasn’t telling the people in the saloon anything they didn’t already know, everyone remained silent. The cowboy’s tone of voice was challenging, and everyone knew that Pardeen was not a man to be challenged.
“My name is Carl Logan,” the cowboy said. “My brother’s name was John Logan. I reckon you’ve heard that name.”
Pardeen made no response.
“John was a sheriff, an honest man whose only job was to protect the people of his town. But you shot him down in cold blood,” the cowboy continued.
“Mister, do you know who you are talkin’ to?” another man asked.
The cowboy looked at the questioner. “Yeah,” he replied, “I know who I’m talkin’ to. And I know who you are too, Corbett. You’re the little piece of dung that hangs on Pardeen’s ass all the time. They’s some that says you’re the one that helped Pardeen break out of jail where he was waitin’ to be hung for killin’ my brother.”
Finally, Pardeen looked up from his cards. The expression on his face was one of boredom, as if he shouldn’t have to deal with people like this belligerent cowboy.
“You talkin’ to me, friend?”
“Mister, I’m not your friend.”
Pardeen smiled coldly. “Oh, that’s too bad,” he said. “You see, I generally give my friends some leeway when they make a mistake. But seein’ as you aren’t my friend, then I don’t see much need in cuttin’ you any slack a’tall.”
“I ain’t askin’ for any slack from you, you low-assed son of a bitch,” the cowboy said.
The others in the saloon gasped at the audacity of Logan’s words.
“I’m tryin’ to get you riled enough to fight,” Logan said. He doubled his fists. “Because I aim to beat you to a pulp.”
Pardeen looked up from the cards again. This time the nonchalance was gone. Instead, his eyes were narrowed menacingly.
“If you got somethin’ stickin’ in your craw, cowboy, I think maybe you’d better just spit it out,” Pardeen said coldly.
“I done spit it out,” Logan said. “I told you, I aim to beat you to a pulp; then I’m goin’ to personally turn you over to the sheriff so you can get hung proper.”
Pardeen looked surprised. “A fistfight?” he asked. “Did I hear you right? You are challenging me to a fistfight?”
“Yeah,” Logan said. He looked over at Corbett. “I know there’s two of you and one of me. But I’d say that makes the odds about even. Come on, I think I’m goin’ to enjoy this.” He made his hands into fists, then held them out in front of his face, moving his right hand in tiny circles. “Come on,” he said. “I’m goin’ to put the lights out for both of you.”
Pardeen smiled, a low, evil smile. “Huh-uh,” he said. “If me’n you are goin’ to fight, mister, it’s goin’ to be
