Chapter 3- First Meeting

Jack Marston was leaning back in his chair at the corner table in Rathskeller Fork, nursing a glass of whiskey, when the man walked in. He was young, probably 17 or 18, and wearing a tattered duster over what was clearly the clothing of a farmer. A revolver sat in a holster strapped across his waist, not a bad spot for an expert, but this kid was clearly no expert.

The kid walked up to the bartender and showed him a piece of paper. The bartender looked at it for a minute, and looked at the kid, and Marston knew the bartender had just looked to his corner. He let the chair fall back and slid one hand onto the Schofield, keeping it obvious.

The kid walked up to his table and stood there, glancing at the Schofield and swallowing.

"You Jack Marston?" the boy asked, his voice shaky. Jack nodded slowly, his eyes steel. "I'm here to collect a bounty on you."

"You decided you'd tell me before you attempted to kill me? Thats bad practice friend." Jack said.

"More warning than you gave my brother I reckon." The boy replied, voice still shaky, but now with a fire of rage behind it. Jack winced, lightly. God, he knew how the kid felt.

"What was your brother's name?" Jack asked, softening his tone just a bit.

"Tom Babey. He was a rancher, and you shot him dead at Thieve's Landing."

"Tom Babey you said?" the boy nodded. "Kid, your brother was about to take a knife to a prostitute. He was gonna cut her face up."

"He was drunk! He weren't thinkin-"

"So I was supposed to let him do it?" Jack interrupted, angrily. "You're here on a fool errand. Get out."

The boy shook his head. "No. I don't give goddamned for your reasons, you killed my brother. And I'm gonna kill you." His hand began to move for the revolver.

Jack bolted to his feet and drew, firing into the kid's stomach, two solid, quick shots. The boy stumbled to the ground and all activity in the bar stopped. In the silence, Jack reloaded his Schofield, glancing around the saloon. Everything had stopped, the clatter of the empty shell casings ringing loudly. Finally, the piano man shrugged and went back to playing. Conversation resumed shortly after.

Jack walked to the saloon keeper, and dropped a stack of bank notes on the bar. "Get the kid a decent burial. I'll be looking for the grave, so you better do it right."

The man nodded and Jack walked out into the night, passing two men walking in. They wore suits and had fancy guns holstered. Colt 1911 pistols. Government men. Jack nodded to them and slightly increased his pace. He'd seen that kind of outfit before. And no one in that saloon had any loyalty to him. He was twenty feet away when the two men burst out after him, guns drawn. They were prepared and ready to shoot. Against almost anyone, that would have decided the fight right then.

Almost anyone.

Jack had the Schofield drawn and was halfway turned around when they came back. He fired a snap shot and dove. It went wide and the two men returned fire, aiming at where his muzzle flash had been. Jack hit the ground and hurried to his feet, firing a second time. He had a chance, but it wasn't huge. These were lawmen. Bureau men if his guess was right. They were trained, if not experienced, and they had the edge in firepower. Seven shots to his six wasn't good.

He scrambled towards some barrels to his left, the Bureau men walking towards him, firing and reloading. They knew how to do it, Jack could give them that. There was hardly a pause and there was never a case where both weren't shooting.

Jack reached back behind his belt, his hand closing around a wooden handle, and he darted out of cover, whipping the throwing the knife at the Bureau men. It hit one of them, handle first right onto the man's hand and he yelped, dropping his pistol on reflex. Jack lined him up and fired, the bullet hitting him square in the right shoulder, twisting him around and dropping him. The second man opened on him and Marston dropped onto his back, firing again, hitting him in the head below the left eye. The man dropped to the ground hard.

The first man scooped up his pistol in his left hand and opened fire. Jack scrambled up, could feel the bullets go by, felt one tug at his pants leg, and he moved back and to the stables, trying to let the darkness cover him up. He mounted his horse and left, the living Bureau man still firing behind him.

…

Eugene Hayes sighed and shook his head. "Decker got it huh?"

Himself, Hart, and Dupont were the only ones in the small saloon room in New Austin. No one else had come down south yet.

Dupont nodded, wincing at the motion. The people at Rathskeller folk had done their best for his shoulder, and he wouldn't lose anything, but it still hurt. "Yes sir. Marston opened up on us as soon as we came out for him. He hit my hand with a knife and go-"

"He hit you with a throwing knife in the dark?" Hart asked and Dupont nodded. Hart whistled lightly, impressed.

Dupont continued. "he got me in the shoulder, and then shot Decker in the face. After that he got out. Total time, probably a minute." He swore softly. "Son of a bitch was right there, had killed some kid just before we got there."

Hayes shook his head. "You shouldn't have gone after him. It was just two of you." He eyed Pope's shoulder. "When will you be ready?"

Dupont shrugged as best he could. "I can shoot alright with my left, but reloading and riding is a bitch. I'll be out of it for a while."

Hayes had expected it and nodded. "So now we're down two." he swore softly. "Alright. Mr. Hart, get the others down here. We'll start looking as soon as they rrive."

"Are we ready to go after him Mr. Hayes? Once we start, we won't be able to let up." Hart asked, quietly.

Hayes looked over at his table, the letter sitting there, Dear Mrs. Decker, I regret to inform you of your husband's death in the line of duty...

He nodded. "Yes Mr. Hart. We're ready."