It had started to rain by the time the crowd of men and one boy were riding toward Virginia City the next day. The hired gun in black led the way, followed closely by the Cartwright family and Lucas and Mark McCain. It had been Adam's suggestion that they pick up the sheriff and a deputy to go with them. Though he wasn't thrilled with the idea, Paladin had agreed, hoping that the sheriff would be decent enough to give him the reward when they caught up with Jones.
The sheriff was more than willing to accompany the group, but instead of bringing a deputy along he deputized all the Cartwrights. Their integrity was well known.
"If anything happens to me, Ben, you take over this posse." Agreeing solemnly, Ben added,
"But nothing's going to happen to you, Roy."
"Not if we can help it," piped up Little Joe. With a smile the sheriff placed a grateful hand on Little Joe's shoulder and headed out the door. The group mounted their horses and churned the ground into mud as they galloped out of town.
When Bret and Bart Maverick rode into Reno that morning, with the rain pouring down on them, they were quick to find the first open saloon and duck inside.
"Whewee, it's raining cats and dogs out there," commented Bret as he and his brother approached the bar. The bartender nodded his head, saying,
"You're sure right about that, Mister. Them streets ain't nothin' but mud now, and I sure don't envy the stagecoach drivers on a day like this."
"I'll bet they wish they had a nice, dry job like you." With a smile, the bartender answered,
"I don't know how dry it is, but at least it ain't out in the rain." Both Maverick brothers grinned at this comment and Bart said,
"Say, I'm glad to hear it, because I'd pay just about anything for a cold drink right now." Bret quickly inserted,
"Hey, now, he doesn't really mean that. He's a cheapskate who only buys drinks he can easily afford. So am I, by the way." The bartender laughed and poured some beer into glasses for them.
"Here you are, gents." While Bart took a long drink from his glass, Bret took a small sip and set his glass back down on the counter.
"Hey, maybe you can answer a question for me, Mr. Bartender."
"I will if I can," the bartender responded amiably. Bret took another drink from his glass, then said,
"I'm looking for a man called Jesse Jones. Now, you wouldn't happen to know where he is, would you?" The bartender gave a chuckle.
"You mean the wanted man whose poster is up in every sheriff's office and hotel from here to Texas? Yes, sir, you and every other bounty hunter have been asking about him." Bret set his drink back down slowly.
"You still haven't answered my question. Have you seen him around anywhere?" The bartender hesitated, scratching his head. Finally, after thinking it over for a few moments, he answered,
"Oh, all right. Since I like you a little more than most of the saddle tramps that blow in here, I'll tell you something: Last night a stranger came riding like a bat out of you-know-where into town, and he looked a whole lot like that description of Jesse Jones. I don't know where he is now, but if I were a betting man I'd stake a whole lot of money that he's still here." A big smile lit up Bret's face as he said,
"Well, I happen to be one, Mr. Bartender, and I'll bet you fifty dollars that I've got that murderer behind bars by tonight." With one last gulp of beer, Bret slammed his glass back on the counter and slapped his brother on the back, causing him to choke on his drink. "Let's get going, Brother Bart!"
"Marshall, you'll take it easy on Jones when we catch up with him, won't you?" The scout of the wagon train threw a worried glance across at the lawman, but it relaxed as the lawman answered evenly,
"I will as long as he doesn't give me any trouble. I promise, I'll give him every chance to prove his innocence."
"Yeah," Festus threw in, "Matthew's one of the fairest and caring-est Marshalls you'll ever meet. He won't never take a man in without giving him a fair shake." Flint heaved a sigh of relief.
"I'm glad to hear that, because I won't lie to you: I like Jones. He never struck me as a criminal or a murderer."
"If he's not then he's got nothing to worry about from me." All three dismounted and tied their horses to the hitching post in front of the Reno saloon. As they entered they weren't surprised to see a huge crowd inside. The heavy downpour had forced everyone to a place of shelter, and many of the men in town had taken refuge in this place. The Marshall and his deputy along with the scout walked up to the bar. As they did so, they passed a young man with blonde hair who was sitting at a table. He was in a poker game, but it was clear by his constant glances around the room that he was not paying attention to the cards on the table. The other participants were making their bets, but when it came to his turn he didn't notice. It wasn't until one of the men said,
"Look, Mister, if you're here to play, play, but if not, get out of the game." Brought back to the present, Heath mumbled a distant,
"Sorry," and threw down a bet, not even bothering to see what cards were in his hand. It wasn't until he heard one of the men say,
"Y'know, that reminds me of the man who stayed in my livery stable last night. Said he didn't want to stay in the hotel but preferred to stay with his horse, so I told him that was fine by me. He had that same distracted look, though, like you do, Mister. He obviously had something on his mind." Heath was suddenly intensely interested in what the man had to say, and he leaned forward.
"What did this man look like?" The man looked back at Heath curiously, but obliged him with an answer.
"Well, he was young, probably about your age, with dark hair and blue eyes, good-looking, though looking like life had dealt him a bad hand. He seemed polite enough, but like I said, he had other things on his mind." Without any warning Heath pushed back his chair and stood up. "What's the matter?" the man asked.
"Oh, uh, nothing, I just thought of something I need to take care of. Deal me out." With that Heath left the men staring after him in confusion as he strode out of the saloon and into the downpour outside.
He made his determined way to the livery stable, hoping more than he had ever hoped for anything that the wanted man would still be inside. He paid no attention to the rain that soaked into his clothes and rolled down his face. All the hate that he felt for Jesse Jones was boiling up inside of him, and the only thing he wanted to do was put a bullet into the man that had killed his friend. His fists clenched into balls of rage and his fingernails dug into his palms. If Jones had managed to get away he felt that he just couldn't take it.
The door leading into the stable was open as Heath approached, and he thanked his good luck that he might be able to sneak in without being heard. Creeping up to the doorway, he paused before entering and cautiously looked inside. Several horses stamped in their stalls. He observed them closely, seeing if he could recognize one as Jesse's. Sure enough, after he had looked for a few minutes, he saw a chestnut in the back with a small star that had to be the wanted man's horse.
Slowly, Heath began to edge his way into the barn. Each step he took was carefully placed. He knew the element of surprise was the only thing that would allow him to get the drop on Jess. As he edged closer and closer to the stall, he felt a wild thrill rise up within him at the thought of revenging himself on this man that he hated. The thrill increased with every step, until he could hardly control himself.
Finally, he took one more step and inched his head up over the stall door. There lay the wanted man, sound asleep in the hay, and Heath couldn't keep a grin from spreading across his face. He raised his pistol and cocked it. The small sound was all it took to rouse the wanted man, who jumped up and reached for his gun.
"Hold it right there, Jones." Jess froze as his hand reached his pistol and he saw Heath Barkley bearing down on him. For a moment no words were spoken, until Jess said quietly,
"I should have known you'd hunt me down, Barkley." Heath still wore his grin as he returned,
"You think I'd let you kill Paul and then just forget about it?" Jess shook his head.
"No matter how many times I tell you, you'll never believe that Paul pushed me into that fight, will ya?" A little chuckle escaped from Heath.
"Not a chance. You were spoiling for a fight from the moment you came to the ranch."
"I just wanted to do my job and be left alone, but Paul wouldn't let me. Seems he couldn't get past the fact that I fought for the South in the war. He wouldn't let it rest." At this point Heath started to stand up, still training his pistol on Jess.
"I think it was the other way around. All you Southerners have a chip on your shoulder since you lost the war, and you're willing to take it out on anyone you run into who didn't fight under your colors." Jess's face had turned into a snarl now, and he growled,
"Now you're sounding just like Paul. You Yankees must feel pretty proud of yourselves, and you don't care who you trample on in the meantime." Fury leapt into Heath's face, and before he knew what he was doing he had pulled the trigger on his gun. The bullet exploded and lodged itself into Jess's chest, knocking him back against the wall. His horse reared and neighed wildly as he slid to the floor and lay still.
Suddenly Heath didn't feel so righteous. In fact, he was scared. He hadn't really meant to gun down this man, no matter how much he hated him. It had all happened so suddenly, and now Heath Barkley was ashamed and badly shaken by this turn of events. He looked around him, wondering if anyone had heard the shot. Then he turned and hurried out of the livery stable, too shocked to think clearly. As he walked quickly down the street to where his horse was tied, he pictured the still form of the wanted man on the floor of the stall, and no matter how hard he tried to reignite those feelings of righteous anger, he only managed to feel a tightness in the pit of his stomach.