Thieves Landing was filled with the usual rough kind of people that it always was filled with on a Friday night, men looking for a woman while his wife was away, or a blackjack dealer shuffling wrong or a bartended spitting in glasses when he thought no one was looking. It was always raining here, that's what Jack Marston thought when he hitched his horse up by the outdoor stairway to his apartment. He walked over to the saloon, remembering the huge brawl that had made front page news in the Blackwater Ledger a few months before. His good friend, Colt McQueen, had been shot in that fight. He was here to find the man that did it.
When the small doors swung open few people paid any attention to him, as he strolled over to the bar and motioned to one of the large bottles of whiskey on display, he bought it and took it to the small table in the corner. He took a swig then brought from his pocket the folded Wanted poster, with the man's face and name on it.
"Patrick Cormac McLeod- Wanted Dead or Alive for the murder on 3 counts" His face was dusted with a small five o'clock shadow and unruly hair hung limply down from his head and came down to his chin. He had a murderous look in his eye, the kind you usually saw on serial killers. Jack placed his hand on the butt of his holstered Schofield to reassure himself. He hadn't taken a life in almost six months, and he was slightly out of practice. He had been hunting but the elk were moving on now and he found deer too easy and bears too dangerous, so even that had been put on hold for around two months.
In an attempt to remain inconspicuous he had only brought with him the small revolver, there was a Bolt Action Rifle in his apartment, along with pistol and another revolver, locked in a chest beneath the bed. He wished he had them now. A man at the bar looked over at Jack and tipped hat to him, Jack did the same and went back to examining the picture. He was engrossed in the poster when the man from the bar pulled up a chair opposite him and light up his cigarette. He offered on to Jack, who declined.
'What cha lookin' at there son?' The man asked, blowing smoke into the air and swinging back in his chair.
'Nothin'.' Jack replied, taking another swig, then folding up the paper and offering the man some of the whiskey. He took the bottle and drank a large gulp.
'You hear about the fight last week?' Jack asked, as nonchalantly as his growing nerves would allow.
'Did anybody in West Elizabeth not hear about it? I was talking to a savage out at Tanner's Reach a couple days ago, and even he'd heard of it, it's pretty big news. All over a hitching spot.' He stubbed out his cigarette and started smoking another one.
'Such is the nature of men. A friend of mine got shot in the midst of it all. You know a man by the name of Patrick? Patrick McLeod?' The man looked into the sky, as though remembering, then shook his head,
'Can't say that I do son, sorry.' He stood up, flicking his cigarette out of the window and bowing his head once more, 'Well, I should go, I got a bed waiting up in Blackwater with my name on it.'
'Don't we all friend?' Jack asked himself, as he watched the man leave and walk across the road. There was something off about him, he seemed strange, so Jack followed him.
He walked out of the bar and watched the man disappear into the small alley next to the Tailor's Shop. Jack walked briskly across the road and stuck his head into the gap between the two buildings. The man from the bar was whispering to someone, another man. It was McLeod.
'Well, well, well, look who it is. You're coming with me McLeod.'
'I think not!' McLeod was Irish, and he was drunk, this was going to be easier than he thought. The man from the bar ran, but McLeod stood his ground, whipping out a small pistol and firing it at Jack. It just missed him, giving McLeod time to run. He followed him around, behind the building, all the way to Dixon's Crossing.
'Well then? Come on Mr Marston, do it! DO IT!' He opened his arms, leaving his chest wide open. 'Na, you won't, you're too much of a cock-sucking yellow-bellied—'The sound of the gun came just before the sound of McLeod grunting, Then the sound of water splashing as his body floated downstream, where some poor bastard would find him stuck in the rocks near the Wreck of The Serendipity , or on the shore of the lake at Blackwater. Jack rode back to Beecher's Hope, where he sat on his bed and stared at the ceiling, a million thoughts running through his mind. He felt himself slipping slowly to sleep when there was a heavy, threatening knock at the door.