Epilogue #2
Reb dropped his right hand to the pearl handle of his right Schofield revolver, removed the hammer loop, and lifted it a little before letting it drop.
This action ensured the revolver was loose in the holster.
Even a tiny bit of friction could spell the difference between shooting someone or getting shot in a gunfight.
A salty-looking old man in a felt hat leaned against the support as Reb climbed the two steps to the saloon porch.
“Hmm,” the gray-whiskered-faced man said as Reb approached. “Son, in case you haven’t heard, the War Between the States is over. You rebels lost.”
“Maybe, but I can still shoot a rude Yankee, if’n I want to,” Reb said.
The old man chuckled as he tossed his butt on the street. “Buy me a drink, and I’ll give you the lowdown on everyone in the saloon and which girls don’t have the French disease,” the old man said.
“Okay, but you push through the batwing doors first,” Reb replied.
“What, afraid of the reception you might get?” the old man asked.
“Yup, when you’ve sent as many men as I have to greet Satan, there is always a chance of meeting a relative.”
“Hmm, you don’t look like a lawman. I figure you are a lowdown, egg-sucking bounty hunter,” the old man said.
“I don’t suck eggs, but I am a bounty hunter. The name is Reb Johnson, formerly of John Mosley’s cavalry.”
“John Mosley. The Gray Ghost! So, you’re the infamous Ghost Rider,” the man said. “I reckon that was ten years ago, yet you still wear a resemblance of a cavalry Confederate uniform.”
“Yup.”
“No wonder folks call you the Ghost Rider. By the way, my name is Chester Longbottom. Folks who like me call me Chet, and those who don’t call me Chet, too,” Chet said and chuckled.
“So, how do you tell those that like you from those that don’t?” Reb asked.
“That’s easy. Folks who don’t like me put a curse word before my name, and the word varies from person to person.”
“Chet, you made me smile, so you earned a shot of whiskey. Head on into the saloon,” Reb said, shaking his head.
“I want the good stuff, not that watered-down horse piss that Randy, the bartender, usually serves me,” Chet said before walking toward the swinging doors.
“You got it, Pard.”
As Chet walked in front of him, Reb couldn’t help but notice the little Smith and Wesson Model .22 caliber revolver sticking out from under Chet’s belt on his left side. Chet had turned it backward so he could draw from across his body with his right hand.
He’s more than he seems, Reb thought as he followed Chet through the batwing doors.
Chet stepped to the left to allow Reb to enter the room.
Reb’s eyes scanned the tables like a hawk hunting for a dove.
He spotted a fellow resembling the picture on the wanted poster in his shirt pocket leaning against the bar, jawing with a big-bosomed, red-headed saloon girl.
As he watched, the red-haired girl slapped the man, turned, and walked away before the stunned outlaw could recover.
“The redhead is Kathy. Everyone calls her Cat because she is so damn feisty,” Chat said. “She owns the bar with Matt Jenkins. He’s the man in the black shirt sitting at the poker table,” Chet added.
“Do you know the fellow that Cat slapped?” Chet asked.
“Yeah, he's a bad one. His father, Wallace Miller, owns the biggest ranch in these parts. Dan has been in and out of trouble since he could straddle a horse. Rumors say he’s been in Albuquerque, New Mexico, for the past year. I can’t imagine him not getting up to his neck in trouble in New Mexico.
“He is in trouble. I’ve got a wanted poster on him in my shirt pocket,” Reb said, never taking his eyes off Dan.
“What did he do now?” Chet asked.
“He killed the mayor of Albuquerque during a poker game,” Reb said.
“Hell, I always thought Dan was bat shit crazy; this proves me right,” Chet said, shaking his head.
“Well, I better go and arrest him,” Reb said.
“Hold up! Since you offered to buy me a drink, I want to see you sucking air long enough to follow through. Do you see that table of five ranger riders near where Dan is standing at the bar?”
“Yup, I do.”
“They are all acquainted with Dan. They work on the Miller Ranch. The one in the bowler hat is Trigger Wilson. He’s fast on the draw and a childhood friend of Dan’s. You’ll arrest Dan over his carcass.”
“Thanks for the details. Now, let’s mosey up to the bar for some whiskey,” Reb said, heading across the room.
Reb couldn’t hear Chet following him over the piano music and loud voices. However, he knew the drunkard wouldn’t pass up a chance for a free shot of whiskey.
Seeing an empty spot near his bounty, Dan Miller, Reb wove his way through the tables until he reached the bar.
Dan had been jawing with the five men at the nearby table, but turned when Reb and Chet reached the bar.
“War’s over, Pard. It is shameful to wear the uniform of the side that got their asses kicked,” Dan said.
Reb shrugged, “I didn’t lose. I’m alive, and all the Yankees I met are long dead.” He nodded at the beanpole of a man standing behind the bar.
“Randy,” Chet said. “Give my friend and me a shot of whiskey.”
“Hell, Chet, you ain’t got a friend,” the bartender said, not moving.
“He’s a war buddy,” Chet said.
Randy sighed and shook his head. “Chet, you fought for the North!”
Chet shrugged, “Hell, Randy, what’s a few skirmishes among friends?”
“Drunk and crazy,” Randy said, still not making any effort to serve them whiskey.
“Beanpole, you heard my friend. Two shots of whiskey,” Reb said as his green eyes stared at the bartender.
“The name is Randy,” Randy said, slowly approaching them.
“Old Overholt, not some of the watered-down horse piss you usually serve me,” Chet said.
Randy frowned as he reached under the bar. When his hand appeared, it contained a bottle of Old Overholt.
Chet licked his lips as he watched Randy fill the two shot glasses; however, when Randy slid them across the bar, Chet didn’t reach for one. Instead, he glanced at Reb for permission.
“Go ahead,” Reb said as he reached for one of the glasses.
Reb had barely said go ahead before Chet tossed the shot of Old Overholt down his throat. The drunk smacked his lips. “Nothing better than a poke but Old Overholt,” he said. “I’ll take another, Reb, I really will,” Chet said, looking eagerly at Reb.
Reb nodded at Randy.
Dan Miller turned to look at Reb, “You shouldn’t encourage the town drunk, Mister.”
“Shut your pie hole, Dan. I ain’t forgotten everything I learned as an Arizona Ranger,” Chet said. “What kind of trouble did you get into in Albuquerque? I hope it’s something that gets you hung.”
“You damn drunk!” Dan said, dropping his hand to his Single Action Army Colt.
Before Dan could draw his revolver, Reb reached down with his left hand and grabbed Dan’s wrist. “Dan Miller, you are under arrest for the murder of Kevin Lee, the Mayor of Albuquerque!”
“What?” Dan said in surprise.
“What’s going on, Dan?” Trigger Wilson shouted.
“I’m Reb Johnson, a bounty hunter. I have a wanted poster in my shirt pocket for Dan Miller for murdering the Mayor of Albuquerque. I have the authority to take legal action against anyone who tries to interfere with me performing my legal duty. So, kindly go chase some steers.”
Trigger Wilson pushed his chair from the table and stood. “You ain’t going to take Dan Miller anywhere, mister.”
Reb raised his voice as he spoke. “You all see that this man is attempting to keep me from arresting an outlaw wanted for murder,” Reb said as he twisted Dan’s wrist from its grip on the handle of his Colt.
He quickly pulled the Army Colt out of Dan’s holster.
He turned Dan’s pistol and leveled it at Trigger.
“Take your seat, Mister Trigger, before I make a gelding out of you,” Reb said, lowering the barrel until it pointed at the man’s crotch.
The starch drained out of Trigger as he glanced at his crotch before slowly sitting back in the chair.
“Chet, I’ll buy you a whole bottle of Old Overholt if you mosey over and fetch the sheriff,” Reb said.
“Hell, to see egg-sucking Dan in jail, I would do it for free. However, I won’t turn down your offer of a bottle, mister,” Chet said before he pushed off from the bar and headed for the door.
“Mister, you are making a big mistake. My daddy will burn Bisbee to the ground before he’ll let them hang me,” Dan said.
“They ain’t going to hang you. The good folks in Albuquerque will do that,” Reb said.
“Yeah, well let’s see if I ever get to Albuquerque. I would bet the pot I don’t,” Dan said.
“Hmm, you don’t need to bet the pot. You are betting your life already that your daddy will rescue you before you reach Albuquerque.”
“Trigger, go fetch Wallace,” Dan said.
The range rider glanced at Reb before he slowly pushed back his chair and stood. He kept his hands away from his Army Colt during the process. Before he turned his back on Reb, he glanced at him.
“Yup, go fetch the boy’s daddy. Tell him the Ghost Rider has arrested his little boy,” Reb said.
Trigger swallowed nervously when he heard the name Ghost Rider.
“Now get, and take your amigos with you,” Reb said, waving Dan’s pistol at the men seated at the table.
“It ain’t over,” Trigger said before he led his four companions toward the door. Men sitting at the other tables silently watched them make their way toward the batwing door.