Chapter Two
John Hardin didn’t like violence, but he didn’t shy away from it when it became necessary.
He didn’t want to waste too much time or energy on these idiots, though, so it was best to settle this quickly and move on.
“I’ll say it one more time. Release the lady. Otherwise, things will get…exceedingly unpleasant…for you three.”
The man who gripped the woman’s wrist frowned. “What the hell does exceedingly mean?”
“I think it means…well, I dunno,” one of his buddies responded. Confusion registered in his dull eyes.
John shook his head in exasperation. “It means I’m about to settle this score. Let her go. Now.”
The man did, but it was only so he could throw a haymaker right at John.
Or try to throw a haymaker.
John saw it coming and easily dodged the blow. At the same time as he dipped his head low, feeling the swoosh of the bounty hunter’s fist above him, he buried his own fist in the man’s gut.
Then, springing up quickly, he reared back and brought his forehead down right on the ugly fella’s nose. With a screeching howl, the bounty hunter threw his hands over it, but there was no stopping the copious amount of blood that now flowed.
He was out of the fight, but John still reached into the man’s holster as he was falling, pulled out the gun, and tucked it in his own waistband. The last thing he needed was for someone to start shooting up the place in their rage. John had been involved in his fair share of gunplay over the years, but he didn’t relish it. And he sure didn’t want to kill anyone. It was best if bullets were kept out of the mix.
Thankfully, no one else seemed ready to draw and shoot…yet. They were still throwing punches, though, and with two men swinging angry fists at him, John was in danger of being knocked out.
Then luck and quick reflexes intervened.
He ducked at just the right moment. The two attackers on both of his sides had swung, expecting to connect with their target’s head just above the ears, but now connected with each other, instead. The impact of their fists smashing into one another was loud and John was pretty sure they both had broken hands.
This was helpful on several fronts. Not only would they be hindered in their fighting, but they’d most likely swung with their dominant hands, meaning their preferred gun hands were damaged.
Good, he thought with a wry smile.
Maybe he could end this quickly.
While he was still low, he drove a fist into the stomach of the guy on his left. The bounty hunter doubled over as a loud whoosh emitted from his throat, all the air clearly knocked out of him by the punch.
John instantly shifted his focus to the one on the right, but that guy saw what was coming and stepped backward, putting himself out of punching range.
So John just bolted forward, tackled the man at the legs, and yanked him down hard. The bounty hunter hit his head on a nearby table on his way down and was out cold by the time he landed on the floor with a loud thud.
The fight was over.
“Thank you! Thank you!” the woman cheered, approaching John.
He staggered to his feet, put his hand out to halt her progress, and, with his other, drew his gun. He swept it around at the men who lay on the floor. As much as he would love to have that woman physically show her appreciation and throw her arms around him in a tight hug, there were numerous reasons why that wasn’t a good idea. Chief among them was self-preservation. And protecting her. If they got distracted in a moment of affection, well, one of those guys might recover enough to attack once again.
“Will there be any more trouble out of you three?” he demanded.
The tackled one was still knocked out cold. There had been no reason to ask him.
But the leader, who still didn’t seem to have his wits about him, groaned and then manage to breathlessly say, “We have a right…to take…her in. She’s…wanted.”
“That doesn’t give you the right to abuse her,” John said sternly. “And I know you, Butch Morehead. You have a track record. You belong in prison, if you ask me. But I reckon you did your time. No papers out on you right now. Least none that I’m aware of.”
The bounty hunter groaned again, spit out a little blood, and shook his head as if trying to clear the cobwebs. “Damnit. I knew you seemed familiar. You’re…John Hardin.” He spit out the name like he’d done the blood, as if it tasted sour. He shook his head again. “There won’t…be any trouble. You have my word.”
John smiled. He was glad to hear it, but a man like Butch Morehead’s word wasn’t worth much. But he’d be out of there soon enough. The fracas and trouble between him and the three men was most likely over.
But something told him his real trouble was just beginning.
“Here,” John said, taking Butch’s gun from his waistband and unloading it, letting the cartridges fall to the floor with a metallic thud. “Give this back to him when we’re clear of here.” He tossed the weapon across the room. The barkeep caught it, nodded, and stuck it under the counter.
The process was repeated two more times as John relieved the other men of their pistols.
Once that was done, the woman tried to rush toward him again, seemingly eager to be close. She’d most likely change her tune in a moment, he thought.
“You okay?” he asked her.
“Yes, sir. Thank you!” she cried.
“Alright. Come with me.”
“But…I’m waiting on the stage.”
He reached in his pocket and pulled out his badge. He’d taken to not wearing it, especially in Indian Territory, where it just made him a target for all those outlaws who were hiding out in the Nations.
“No, Mary Dunn,” he said. “You’re under arrest. Deputy United States Marshal.”
Just as he’d suspected, her smile disappeared. The affection drained from her eyes. Suddenly, he could tell that she no longer wanted to hug him.