"It's gettin' pretty near 24 hours since that gambler gave you his warning," Bart said anxiously to his brother as they reined up their horses outside of Reno.
"I know," Bret agreed soberly. "And we're no closer to getting that $5,000 than we were yesterday." He shook his head.
"I guess we'd better head back into town and make one more try for that Jones fella," Bart suggested. However, before they could turn their horses around, a shot came from the rocky outcroppings beside the road and hit the dirt at the feet of Bret's horse. Bart and Bret jumped from their horse and found cover behind the rocks on the other side.
"Looks like we just reached the end of that 24 hours," Bret commented. Another shot issued from the rocks and ricocheted off of a rock next to Bret's shoulder.
"Yeah, and we might not have another one," added Bart. They fired a few shots of their own at the hidden assailant, and were met with several more, increasingly more accurate. Bret felt a piece of chipped rock graze his cheek and hot blood began to trickle down. Angrily he jerked his pistol up and pulled the trigger, but a horrific click told him that he had run out of bullets. Even as he began to believe that these might be his last moments, the sounds of galloping horses reached his ears and a crowd of men appeared over the hill. The stranger in the hills sent a few shots at them, then could be seen running to his horse and spurring him into a gallop. But the crowd of newcomers were almost upon him, and even as he rode away they fired a shot that hit its mark, and the unsatisfied gambler fell from his horse and lay still on the ground. Once the men had ascertained that he was dead, they led their horses over to the place where the two Maverick brothers were.
"Boy, are we grateful you all came along when you did," Bret called out to them. All the men dismounted, and one wearing a badge answered,
"Glad to help. I'm Roy Coffee, sheriff in Virginia City." He extended his hand and Bret took it.
"I'm Bret Maverick, and this is my brother Bart." Bart nodded with a smile.
"This is Ben Cartwright and his boys, Adam, Hoss, and Little Joe, Lucas and Mark McCain, and this is Paladin." Bret grinned at all of them.
"Well isn't this a party! What are all of you fellas doing out here?"
"We're heading to Reno to find a wanted man named Jones," put in Paladin.
"Jones?" Bart echoed in disbelief. "That's who we were after! Seems like everyone this side of the Mississippi is looking for him." Bret's eyes lit up with an idea.
"Say, if you fellas let me and my brother join in with you, we can take you to Jones. We almost had him in our grip, but just the two of us weren't any match for his friends. We can show you where he is, and with all of us together there's no doubt that we could take him." Sheriff Coffee looked at Ben, then looked at Paladin and Lucas. A silent agreement passed between all of them, and the sheriff took Bret up on his idea. As they all rode into town, little did they know that the evening would bring a showdown such as had never been seen in Reno since its beginning.
If anyone ever said that a saloon was never quiet, that man was a liar. As soon as the rain let up, the place began to empty, until the only people left were Marshall Dillon, Festus, Flint, and an old drunk who continued to sit at his table and stare at nothing. Flint surveyed the suddenly vacant building, then turned back around to the bar and asked the bartender for another beer.
"When do you think we'll start looking for Jones?" Flint asked the marshall.
"I don't think we'll have to look for him," Matt answered. "If we stick around here long enough we're bound to find out something." He turned to his deputy. "Festus, you take the horses to the stable and strike up a conversation with the owner, see if you can learn anything." Festus nodded and left to do as he was told.
Just then, the drunk at the table suddenly had a moment of clarity and shook himself from his trance. Rising from the seat, he began to stagger towards the bar. The Marshall and the scout didn't pay him any mind until he fell into the counter next to them.
"Wow, old man, you better watch where you're going, or stop drinking so much," said Flint jovially as he caught the old man to keep him from falling.
"You get yer hands off of me, you whippersnapper!" The old man cried, whipping out a hunting knife and waving it around crazily. Immediately Flint grabbed his hand and made him release the weapon, but not before it had struck a deep gash in his forearm. With a hiss Flint grabbed his arm while Marshall Dillon quickly pulled his pistol and held it on the old man.
"Why, you crazy old fool!" Flint cried.
"Don't think about making another move," added Marshall Dillon. Looking down at Flint, he asked, "How is it, McCullough?" The scout cradled his arm, but answered,
"It isn't too bad." Turning to the old man, Flint asked angrily,
"What's the matter with you?" The drunk had started to shake, and he stuttered,
"I, I, I didn't mean to…" The rest of his sentence was stifled by the sobs that started to shake him even more. Flint shook his head in disgust and looked down at his wound.
"You should see a doctor," the marshall prodded. Flint was about to protest, but then decided against it and merely nodded his head.
"Sure, I'll do that. Can you keep an eye on this-" He looked at the old man and seemed to think of many words he could use before he finally finished, "-drunk by yourself?" Marshall Dillon smiled.
"I think I can manage." Flint sent him a smile of his own and walked out of the saloon still cradling his arm. He didn't even try to avoid the mud in the street, as there was no way to do so. He sloshed through the mess that the rain had left and was glad to finally step up on the wooden walkway on the other side.
When he stopped in front of the doctor's door, he took one more look at his wound, tempted to turn back around and leave, but decided he'd better have it bandaged to make sure no infection set in. He knocked, and was surprised at the amount of time it took the doctor to open the door. He could have sworn he'd heard some shuffling and moving around inside in the meantime, but he pushed the thought aside and greeted the doctor when he appeared.
"Hi, Doc, I've got a little scratch here on my arm and would be obliged if you'd take a look at it." The doctor took a quick look at his injury, threw a glance back at the room behind him, then said with a sigh,
"Come on in, Mister. It doesn't look too bad. I should be able to patch it up in no time." Flint followed him in, surprised to see three other men sitting inside. Two looked like drovers, and the third sat napping in the corner with his hat pulled over his face. The two drovers eyed him warily as the doctor led him in.
"I've got a seat right here for you, Mister." Flint lowered himself into the chair slowly, clearly feeling the eyes of the drovers still watching him. He suddenly noticed the closed door leading into the operating room, and immediately he began to be suspicious of the whole situation. Even though the doctor seemed friendly enough, there was a hint of reservation in his manner that made Flint think that he was hiding something.
As the doctor made his way back to Flint with his tools in hand, Flint decided to strike up a casual conversation. "Looks like you're pretty busy today, Doc."
"Sure am." Flint let his eyes flick over to the drovers to see if they made any reaction. The older one seemed to have lost interest in him, but the younger drover continued to stare at him intensely.
"I'll bet you get a lot of patients in here, Doc, what with the number of outlaws and wanted men that ride through here." Flint noticed the older drover sit up in his seat a little more, and the fiery boy looked as if he were about to jump out of his chair. The wiser drover reached across and placed a hand on the boy's arm, but Flint doubted whether it would do any good.
"Sure do," the Doc answered again. By this time he had cleaned the gash on Flint's arm and was wrapping the bandage around it. Flint decided to make a bold move.
"Say, Doc, you heard of a man around here called Jesse Jones?" Abruptly the doctor halted his bandaging, while the young drover, letting his hot temper take over, jumped up and grabbed his pistol, shouting,
"You looking for trouble, Mister?"
"Rowdy!" barked his trail boss, but he rose and pulled his own pistol in begrudging support of his ramrod. Flint continued to sit in his chair and looked up at the two men calmly.
"I'm not looking for any trouble, just a friend who got himself in some." Gil and Rowdy still held their guns on him, not sure whether he was telling the truth or not. After a few moments, Gil motioned to Flint and ordered,
"Finish bandaging him up, Doc." The doctor did as he was told. As he did so, Flint said,
"Is Jones in that room back there?" No one answered him, but new anger flared up in Rowdy's eyes, which was all the answer the scout needed. "I'm here in town with the marshall and his deputy. If you're friends of Jones, it would be a good idea to give him up to us so we can keep him safe. Half the territory wants to claim that reward, and most don't care how they get it."
By this time the doctor had tied up the bandage, so Flint rose from his seat. He looked both drovers in the eyes and said, "If you don't give Jones up, we'll have to come for him, and some of you just might get killed."
"That's only if we let you go, Mister," growled Rowdy. Gil stood beside him and added,
"If you're really a friend of his you would just walk away and not mention this place to anyone." Throwing another glance at the door, Flint answered,
"I told you: We've got to take him to protect him from all those bounty hunters that will kill him without a second thought."
"We'll protect him," Gil threw back at the scout. Flint placed his hat on his head and boldly walked to the door. Rowdy raised his pistol to shoot, but Gil stayed his hand and said,
"We're letting you leave, Mister, but you better not try to come back, because we'll be ready." The scout turned before leaving to say, "You can't protect Jones forever. If you change your mind, we'll be in the saloon across the street. Think it over." With that he opened the door and walked outside. Rowdy and Gil holstered their pistols, and Josh finally pushed his hat back on his head and sat up.
"He's right, y'know." All three turned to look at the quiet bounty hunter.
"You figure we don't have a chance guarding Harper?" asked Gil honestly. Josh shook his head with a tight smile.
"Not a chance." Looking over at the door that concealed the wounded man, Gil sighed and shook his head wearily. Even Rowdy had lost his anger and only looked worried.
"I should check on him," the doctor interrupted, and all three watched as he entered the room. Only part of the wanted man's form could be seen on the bed, but it looked as if he hadn't moved since the last time they'd seen him. When he finally came out and closed the door behind him, his face was troubled.
"Even though I took that bullet out, it seems that all the excitement of the last few hours have really done some damage. He opened up that wound again and has lost a lot of blood. I'm doing what I can, but taking a bullet that close to the heart…" He ended by gesturing helplessly, then dropped into the chair that Flint had just vacated.
Gil looked across at his ramrod with sympathy, knowing that the boy would take it hard if he lost one of his close friends from the war. Indeed, Rowdy was trying hard to cover up his dreadful worry, but his trail boss had known him too long to be fooled. Placing a hand on Rowdy's shoulder, Gil said encouragingly,
"Your friend's strong, Rowdy. If anyone can make it, he will." Rowdy didn't look at his trail boss, but said through gritted teeth,
"He's got to make it, Mr. Favor. He just has to."