The Gunman

I don't own these characters. I just like to spend time with them. No other profit to be had than that.

AN: This was co-plotted with me by my brother-in-law Jimmy. It's closer to a late 1960's or early 1970's episode than anything. The best ideas are Jimmy's and I want to thank him very much.

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He sat tall in the saddle as he rode down Front Street, feeling every day of his 60 some years, every step the horse took sending jabs of pain up his backside. But he gave no indication of any pain or discomfort. He would have to be dead before anyone would ever see any softness in him. He had survived all these years by his wits and strength and the knowledge that others found no weakness in his steely gaze and rock solid stance.

Most men shied away from even his shadow when they saw him. Most women didn't. In fact, most women found him quite pleasing to the eye. And he did like the ladies as well, at least those who weren't obvious. He felt it was the man's place to court the woman, not the other way around. A woman, who practically gave herself away, was distasteful to him. Not to say he wouldn't partake if it was offered, and he was feeling the need, but generally he liked a woman who knew her own value and could take care of herself without throwing her wares at the first man who approached. A man such as him.

Passing by a store window, he took note of the figure he cut as he slowly paraded down the street. Tall, with a full head of iron gray hair, small goatee, well groomed mustache, deep blue eyes, square shouldered with a broad chest and solidly built, he presented the image of a man not to be trifled with but to be admired. The silver encrusted Spanish saddle on his solid black horse, Cochise, only added to his visual image. But there was a great deal more to this man other than looks.

He was smart in the ways of men and the times. He'd had to be in order to survive. He was tough and rough when called for, stern when he needed to be and soft when he could be, though he wasn't often allowed that option. Educated, quick witted, charming, he had his moments of somberness but wasn't taciturn as a general rule.

He wasn't a religious man, but he was God fearing and he knew the bible perhaps better than some preachers he'd met. He didn't like cussing, though he was prone to a colorful vocabulary himself under the right circumstances. But he did know his manners and usually displayed them around ladies and children and the old or those he respected. He was gallant and chivalrous but he wasn't a dupe.

He feared no mortal man and thought most were fools. But he did respect a man of courage, intelligence and morals. He seldom asked for help from anyone, but would accept it, under the right circumstances, from such a man.

He feared not much else, save being made sport of by anyone in either life or death. That was something he would not tolerate. It was part of the reason why he hated newspaper writers and those saps that turned out the penny dreadful's by the box load. Muckrakers, he deemed them, people who would use his name and reputation to further themselves or puff themselves up. They were not worth the salt that went into their bread, in his estimation.

He felt the same about those who gossiped or spread tales. Worthless human beings who had not a real life of their own so they spent countless hours speculating about the lives of others. They claimed to be fascinated by the very people they denigrated but were in fact seeking to make their dreary lives better by lessening the lives of those they gossiped about. He gave them short shrift and a wide berth.

'Well,' he thought to himself as he finally came to a stop outside of Doc Adams' office. 'They'll have plenty to gossip about now, unless I'm wrong. And I surely hope, I'm wrong.'

As the man dismounted and quickly ascended the stairs to Doc's office, he didn't hear the whispers behind cupped hands of the many people who'd watched him ride down Front Street. But he wouldn't have been surprised at them if he had.

Since the age of 16 he'd built himself a reputation as a fast gun and one that could be had if the money and cause were good. That reputation, along with his silver saddle and black horse told everyone that Duke Riley was in town without his having to say a word.

"I'm gonna tell the Marshal." Louie said when he heard who it was that had stopped at Doc's office and gone inside. He didn't know that Matt was on his way back to Dodge but hadn't yet arrived.

As he ran down the street to the jail, coattails flying out behind him in his haste, many others stopped what they were doing and stared at the man as he disappeared behind the closed door of Doc's office.

"That's Duke Riley." Was whispered loudly by many. "I heard tell he's killed near a hundred men." One said.

"More likely two hundred." Another said. "He is fearless and ruthless, I'll tell you."

The ever louder whispers spread inexorably down the street and reached the ears of most of the Dodge City denizens within minutes of Riley's arrival. They even stretched into businesses like the Lady Gay saloon where they fell upon the ears of one young man named Jay Don Mitchell.

All of twenty one, thin, with gray eyes and lank brown hair, he wasn't much and he knew it but he wanted to be. When he heard that the infamous Duke Walker Riley had come to town, he saw his chance. Though he currently made his living punching cows when he could get the work, he saw an opportunity to change his career to that of gunman and make a name for himself for killing the aging yet still legendary and formidable gunslinger.

With a small smile, he drank the last of the whiskey in his glass and made his unsteady way to the alley by Doc's office to wait for his chance to be famous.

TBC