Chapter 6 – My Problem

Hard to believe only a single day had passed since Vic Hansboro had turned up in the Belle Union Saloon, more or less stalking the Maverick family – at least the Beauregard Maverick branch of the family. And now it appeared that that particular branch was stalking Vic Hansboro back.

Every time he turned around one of them was following him. Beauregard, patriarch of the clan, was right behind him all morning. Bentley, Beau's younger brother, was there come afternoon. Bret and Bart, the look-alike son and his younger brother, shadowed him all night. Come daylight, Beauregard was back again.

Now the onus was on him, and it appeared he had only two choices. Go back to scratching and clawing just to make enough of a living to get by, or carry out his original plan and claim the revenge he'd believed himself entitled to for so many years.

He'd spent most of the night drinking whiskey and playing Faro, and come morning he'd made up his mind – he fully intended to kill one or more of the Mavericks. Who or how many it would be depended entirely on fate. He knew he couldn't accomplish that goal in the inebriated state he was in, and headed back towards his hotel.

He was in no hurry to finish the task at hand, knowing that if he was lucky enough to make a clean escape he'd have a long ride in front of him. He slept most of the day and decided around five o'clock to find something to eat, unaware of the fact that his room was being watched. Beauregard's oldest 'boy' Bret had stood guard most of the late afternoon and early evening, and even now was waiting for his brother Bart to relieve him. Neither was concerned for their own welfare – it had been years since they'd seen their father as disturbed by the turn of events as he'd been earlier in the day, and they were determined that Pappy not be faced with the prospect of committing murder.

Of course, Vic Hansboro knew none of this. Part of him believed that everything he'd heard from Beau Maverick was a lie, and part of him believed Tyler Wilkes had been telling tales. It was easier to accept Beau as the perjurer, simply because he'd believed it far longer. He left his room, locking it behind him, just as the younger Maverick brother arrived to assume his turn as watchdog.

Both men were secreted around a corner of the hallway and weren't visible as Hansboro left and headed down the stairs. "Follow him?" the younger one asked.

"You betcha," his brother answered. "Gotta keep him away from Pappy."

There was a small café outside the hotel and across the street, and that's where Hansboro headed. It didn't serve the best food in the world, but it was edible and cheap, and after he'd lost out on the windfall he was hoping to collect, it was all he could afford. The brothers followed him discreetly and headed around the back of the café, where they waited until he'd finished his meal and paid for it. He left the café and headed for the Belle Union Saloon, and they stayed far enough behind him that they weren't seen.

Twenty minutes later all hell had broken loose in the poker room of the Belle Union, and the Maverick brothers were sure that Beauregard Jefferson Maverick, otherwise known as Pappy, was dead.

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Beau had been playing five-card draw all afternoon and evening; that and drinking coffee were about all he was capable of. The four Maverick men had put their heads together and decided the best thing they could do was bird-dog Hansboro until he either gave up or made his move. They took turns following him, but Beauregard was so tied up in knots that sleep was the last thing he was able to accomplish. Thus poker and the black liquid that kept him from drinking anything stronger.

Right after five o'clock, Bentley joined him at the poker table, and it didn't take long for them to 'beat' the rest of the table into submission. When the last man had left the game and there were only the two of them sitting there, Bentley ordered a sandwich to be split between them and convinced his brother to at least try eating.

"Will you quit nagging me if I do?" Beau asked petulantly.

"Yes, I will, Beauregard. But you have to eat the dang thing, not just sit and stare at it. Deal?"

"Deal," came the reluctant answer.

And, to their amazement, both of them managed to consume what was placed before them. Ben had just stood up and pushed his chair away from the table when Bret and Bart hurried in the back entrance to the saloon.

"He's on his way over here," Bret announced in a hushed tone of voice.

"Nope, he's here," Bart added as Hansboro walked in.

Beau stood up from the table, with Bret and Ben to his right and Bart to his left. "Back up, boys," he told all three of them, and they obeyed the command and took two steps backward. "Keep your hands away from your guns. This is my fight, not yours."

"Don't you think the odds are a little lop-sided?" Vic asked.

"You're the one threatenin' to kill my sons. We never were gun hands, and you know it." Beau stared at Vic, waiting for that split-second move, that poker-tell that would give Hansboro away and allow Beauregard an advantage; any kind of advantage – but none came.

Vic drew and fired, and Beau dropped to the floor. There was no sound, no movement, and the three remaining Mavericks believed Beauregard dead. Hansboro continued shooting, determined to take as many of the family as possible into the promised land, but after the first well-aimed shot he was wild and erratic. The remaining men were not fast; not gunslingers by any means, but they were all accurate, and three separate bullets struck their mark. Hansboro's eyes opened wide in surprise and his pistols fell from his hands; he slumped forward and lay still.

Bret dropped to his knees and cradled his father in his arms, a single tear running down his face. Bart removed the pistol from Pappy's right hand and held the hand with his own. Ben crashed to the ground and wailed like an animal.

The marshal appeared from nowhere and tried to make sense of the chaos. "What happened?" he demanded. "What happened?"

The bartender was the only one that answered. "The guy over there in the black vest drew on the gambler and shot him, then tried to take out the other three. He was a fool, marshal, and they killed him."

There was a slight moan from the body in Bret's arms, and the marshal yelled, "Get Doc Sellers. This man's alive!"

"Get him off the floor, Bret," Bart directed, and the soon-to-be twenty-two-year-old did as told. He picked up an arm full of father and laid him down gently on the poker table.

"Pappy," Bret whispered, and kissed his father on the forehead.

A small man, old and tired looking, pushed through the crowd of on-lookers and began to give orders. "Get out of the way. Where's he hit? Let me see. Here, hold this rag right there. Relatives, eh? Can somebody carry . . . that's it, boy. Follow me."

Bret and Bart picked their father up and carried him out of the Belle Union. The marshal gathered Ben off the ground and helped him out of the saloon, and the bartender threw a towel over Vic Hansboro and let him lay on the floor.

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Over an hour later Doc dropped the slug into a cup and looked up from the table. "Real lucky, gentlemen. Mr. Maverick's real lucky. If that pocket watch hadn't been where it could deflect the bullet, we wouldn't have been discussing how long it's going to take for him to heal. You'd have been burying him up on the hill you told me about."

"Oohhh, ouch," was the next thing heard from the exam table. "Where's the damn mule?"

"The one that kicked you in the gut, Pappy?" Bret asked him.

"That's him," Beauregard mumbled.

"The last time we saw him he was layin' on the floor at the Belle Union," Bart explained.

"Breathin'?"

"Uh, no."

"Good," Pappy sighed. "Who got him?"

"Me," Ben affirmed.

"And me," Bret added.

"Me, too," Bart finished.

"I'll tell you the truth when I get the body here," Doc explained. "But it wouldn't surprise me if they were all right. By the way, I'm Doc Sellers, Mr. Maverick. You're gonna need a new watch."

"Don't care. Everybody alright?"

"Except for you. But I'm pleased to announce you'll get over it."

Beauregard closed his eyes and smiled. "Good . . . men."

The door opened and the marshal started to walk in. "Out, Yankee," the doctor stopped him with a hand to the chest.

"But Doc . . . "

"No butts, marshal. This man almost died and he deserves some peace and quiet."

"But what about them?" the marshal asked with a sweeping gesture of the hand.

"They're his problem."

Another smile appeared on the patriarch's face. "My problem. My . . . problem."

TBC