The End of the Line

Colt revolver chambered in .357 magnum. Photo by Cerebellum, 6 August 2008. Public domain.

"Next stop Hays City!" the conductor hollered.

The train rattled loudly as it sped through the dark Kansas plains. Aside from the occasional roar of a passing steam engine, all was quiet along the desolate stretch between Fort Ellsworth and the train's next destination.

The man in the blue flannel suit pulled a watch out of his vest pocket and glanced at the time. 9:30. He was neat, clean-shaven and about forty-three years old. His straight brown hair was cut short and covered mostly by a black bowler. His dark, gentle eyes and youthful countenance gave him an amiable appearance. Clearing his throat, he summoned the conductor.

"Pardon me, mister," he called politely. "How much longer we got?"

The grizzled conductor turned to face him. " 'Bout fifteen minutes," he grunted and shuffled slowly towards the front of the car.

The man sighed softly. He glanced around him. The car was practically empty. There were half a dozen other passengers, one or two who might have been asleep. He himself was becoming rather tired. The steady hum of the engine he found relaxing.

He looked at the stranger in the black Stetson seated across from him. He'd almost forgotten he was there. Both had boarded the train at Topeka, and the fellow hadn't said a word for two hours straight. He hadn't even moved. Was he awake? It was difficult to make out his features clearly. His thick whiskers were visible and from what could be seen of his face he looked to be in his mid-forties. A holstered gun and a sheathed knife hung at the right and left sides of his belt, respectively. A dark blue neckerchief was tied loosely around his throat. But his eyes were completely hidden by the brim of his big black hat.

"Howdy," the man in the blue suit ventured.

The cold stranger made no reply.

I said, " 'Howdy, mister.' "

The man's right hand went  instantly to his hip. His Colt Walker glinted faintly in the dim light of the of the car as he pointed it straight ahead. 

"Hello, Pete," he replied.

Pete Slimm gasped upon hearing the familiar voice. It was a voice he hadn't heard in a long time and one he had hoped never to hear again. His mouth went dry. He tried to speak, but rasped incoherently.

The gunman grinned. 

"What's the matter, Pete?" he asked sardonically. "Don't recognize your old buddy?"

"Jack Brewster!" Slimm managed to whisper.

Brewster chuckled harshly. "You remember. Must be fate keeps bringin' us together, Pete. When I seen you boardin' the train at Topeka I wasn't sure it was you at first. But I had to take a hunch. And what do you know? Been a long time."

Stunned, Slimm merely shook his head.

Brewster continued in a low, menacing tone. "Not since you stole ten o' Charlie Goodnight's longhorns back in '77." He spat on the floor. "Then you sold 'em to Bill McMalden. Almost had 'em fooled. They was gonna lynch that man. I don't suppose you give a damn."

Pausing, he studied Slimm's apparel. "That's a nice suit you're wearin', Pete. Who'd you steal that from?"

Slimm swallowed. "I didn't steal anything, Jack! Those steer were mavericks!"

"They was on Goodnight's property!" Brewster hissed. Told them two idiot ranch hands you was movin' them to better grazin' grounds! And of course, there was that nasty business with Jim Mangus back in '74."

"What nasty business?" Slimm said. "Just sold him some land."

"Yeah, that belonged to somebody else!" Brewster said. "Since when have you had any land to sell anyone?" He lifted up the brim of his hat, revealing a wicked scar across his left cheek. 

"I used to have a nice-sized plot o' land myself. Before the war." He glared at Slimm with particular ferocity. "Ain't nothin' worse than a swindler."

Slimm trembled slightly. "Look, Jack, I didn't really harm . . ."

"I don't wanna hear it, Pete!" Brewster interrupted. "You done plenty o' harm. You're wanted for all kinds o' stuff -cattle rustlin', horse thievin', sellin' phony real estate -even snake oil sales!" Brewster scowled. "You've made a fool outta me too many times -Saint Louis, Abilene, Mason City . . . I remember spendin' a week in jail in Sweetwater 'cause o' somethin' you did!" Brewster's lips curled into a sneer. "I never had nothin' but trouble from the law. But around here, I'm the law. It's the end of the line, Pete." He nodded towards his Colt revolver. "Now I know you ain't gonna give me no trouble."

"N-no, Jack," Slimm stammered. "I wouldn't do that."

"Good," said Brewster, sounding pleased. " 'Cause I can bring you in dead or alive and still collect five hundred dollars. As soon as we get to Hays City, I'm takin' you into custody until tomorrow. Then we're takin' the first coach back to Texas. I been chasin' you for six years and that's long enough." He placed the gun back into the holster, keeping his hand on the butt.

Beads of sweat covered Slimm's forehead. He couldn't believe this was happening. It must be a bad dream, he thought. But the bounty hunter's ominous figure, huge gun and cruel countenance belied this notion. Jack Brewster was very real. 

Slimm gnawed his lower lip. The train would pull into Hays City any minute now and he would be Brewster's prisoner. He had to do something.

"Hays City," the conductor shouted again. "Hays City!"

A long, shrill whistle sounded as the train screeched to a halt.

"Come on," ordered Brewster, motioning towards the aisle with his gun.

With some difficulty Slimm stood up, placed his hat on his head and brushed off his slacks. He stepped cautiously into the aisle, the barrel of Brewster's revolver urging him on.

"Right on time, Jack," he cheerfully remarked.

"Oh, who cares?" Brewster answered brusquely.

Slimm started to walk towards the door. Suddenly he doubled over and clutched his belly.

"Oh, God!" he screamed, feigning agony. "He stabbed me! He stabbed me!"

Alarmed, Brewster grabbed the collar of Slimm's coat. "What the hell are you try . . ."

Slimm spun around like a tornado and with all the strength he could muster landed a solid blow on Brewster's jaw. Knocked off his balance, the bounty hunter staggered backwards and fell flat on the floor. Gunsmoke and the sound of shattered glass filled the car as the firearm discharged, sending a .45 slug through one of the windows. In the midst of the commotion, Slimm grabbed the conductor, who was standing by the exit, and frantically threw the old man aside. Then opening the door, he jumped out onto the dusty ground. 

When the train had stopped, the five bewildered passengers, as well as the conductor, had no idea exactly what had happened. Suspecting a robbery attempt, three men seized Brewster, who was just getting to his feet. 

Brewster struggled wildly. "Get your damn hands off of me!" he demanded.

Noticing the situation, the conductor produced a derringer from his uniform pocket and held the muzzle inches from Brewster's forehead. 

"Try it, mister," he said.

Having realized that something was amiss, the engineer appeared, accompanied by two brakemen. Taking off his cap, the burly man wiped the sweat from his bald head. 

"What's goin' on back here?" he inquired. "I heard a gunshot."

The conductor's eyes never left Jack Brewster. "This fella tried to pull a robbery, Ed," "Tried to shoot one of the passengers, 'cept the man  got away."

"I ain't no train robber!" Brewster said fiercely. "My name's Brewster, Jack Brewster! I'm a bounty hunter! That man was an outlaw, a confidence man -the sneakiest son-of-a-bitch you'll ever meet! There's a five hundred dollar price on his head. And I almost had him this time." He glared at the conductor.

The engineer scratched his beard. "Bounty hunter?" he mused. "How do we know you ain't lyin'?"

Brewster looked at him disgustedly. "Look in my right shirt pocket," he grumbled. "I got a warrant."

The engineer reached into the pocket of Brewster's flannel shirt. He withdrew a folded, slightly brown piece of paper and opened it up. He examined the warrant closely, mumbling audibly as he read it to himself. Then folding it carefully along the creases, he returned it to Brewster's pocket.

"Where did this . . . outlaw go to?"

The conductor spoke up. "Jumped right out of the train as we was slowin' down. Threw me aside like a tumbleweed."

"Hmm," the engineer responded. "He couldn't have gone far. We'll notify the authorities."

"Authorities!" Brewster snorted. "Where the hell do you think we are?"

Brewster shrugged off the three men who had been restraining him, picked up his Colt and stormed out of the train. The engineer stared warily after him for a moment, then shaking his head, walked back to the front of the train.

*****

"Why didn't you try and stall him? He was a fugitive!"

The clerk at the Wells Fargo station sat with his feet on his desk and listened disinterestedly to Brewster's tirade. For the past ten minutes the irate bounty hunter had lambasted him for having let "a despicable, law-scoffing rat" jump town on the last stagecoach.

The clerk's desk sat in the center of the room, on top of a dirty Turkoman rug. A heap of papers was strewn across its dusty surface and it was dimly lit by a small kerosene lamp. By the entrance to a storeroom in the back of the office were four large wooden crates marked "U.S. Mail." A dozen or so wanted posters were tacked on the wall above them, Jesse James's being the most prominent. The telegraph operator reclined behind an adjacent table, the headphones down around his neck, calmly reading the newspaper. He seemed completely oblivious to the other two men and did not even glance up from his paper once.

"How did a cretin like you get this job anyway?" continued Brewster.

The clerk responded imperturbably, "Look, mister, the gentleman come in here half an hour ago and he says 'You got any tickets left for the next coach?' and I says 'Yessir!' and he says 'Gimme one ticket,' so I gives him one ticket and he pays me and he leaves on the ten o'clock coach. And he didn't look like no fugitive to me. Was in an awful hurry, but . . ."

"Where was it headed?" Brewster asked.

"What's that?"

"Where was it headed?"

"Where was what headed?"

"The stagecoach, you fool!" Brewster exploded.   

"Oh, that!" The clerk laughed amiably. Turning his head, he spat a thin stream of brown saliva into the cuspidor next to him. "Don't remember," he remarked nonchalantly. "Helena, maybe. Or coulda been El Paso. Or maybe even Boston."

Brewster was having a difficult time holding his temper. 

"Don't you got a schedule?"

"Had one somewhere around here. Forgot where I put it, though."

Brewster spoke slowly and deliberately, straining to control himself. 

"Do you . . ." He paused. "by any chance . . . remember when the next coach is comin'?"

The clerk thought. "Hey, George!" he called to the telegraph operator. "George!"

George's eyes remained fixed on his paper. "What?" he said, annoyed.

"When's the next coach comin' tomorrow?"

"Six."

"Is that a.m. or p.m.?"

"One o' the two."

"Well," the clerk said to Brewster. "George don't remember whether it's six a.m. or six p.m., and neither do I. But I suggest that you come back at six tomorrow mornin', 'cause that way if it's six a.m. you won't miss it, and if it's six p.m. you'll still have twelve hours. Don't that sound logical?"

"Where can I buy a horse?" Brewster asked, exasperated. "Forget the coach. Just where can I buy a horse?"

The clerk cocked his head and stroked his chin reflectively. 

"Hmm . . . a horse," he repeated. "I know," he said. "Old Ron Miller sells horses. He got a stable five miles north o' Hays City. If you tell him . . ."

"He's dead," George answered laconically.

"Dead?"

"Died Tuesday." 

"Oh, that's right," he said. "I forgot about that. But I'll tell you what you can do, Mr. Booster. His son be back in town Wednesday -he away on business now- but he be back Wednesday and you can buy a horse from him then. Though I suggest you wait 'til Friday, 'cause Joe Miller don't know his Pa's dead yet and you really should give him a couple days to adjust. But next Friday . . . "

Brewster couldn't stand it any longer. "You idiot!" he stormed. "I can't wait a week from now! I don't need your help and I don't want it! I'll find me a horse and get that sidewinder myself! You see if I don't!"

Saying this, he turned on his heel and walked out the door in a huff, slamming it loudly as he exited.

The clerk shook his head. "I don't understand it, George. Some folks is so rude."

"Shut up, Clem."

*****

"Would I lie to you, amigo?" Pete Slimm asked, patting the other man on the back. This knife belonged to my personal friend and commanding officer, George Custer."

The two men sat on the front steps of Jacobson's General Store in Central City, Nebraska. It was a late April afternoon, near dusk. 

The streets were quiet, free from passersby. Two weeks had elapsed since Slimm's escape from Hays City.

Gingerly, the Mexican took the large knife from Slimm's outstretched palm. Easing it out of the sheath, he carefully turned it over in his hands, scrutinizing it. He seemed fascinated by the long, sharp steel blade and the black leather handle. Inscribed near the hilt were the initials G.C. He had no idea that Slimm had won it in a card game from a one Gerome Collins.

"This was really his?" the Mexican asked.

"It sure was," Slimm replied. "Now folks'll tell you that every man in the 7th Cavalry was killed at Little Bighorn. Well, that isn't true." He paused. "I'm the sole survivor. Was shot in the shoulder and I just laid there, hoping the Sioux would think I was dead. As you can see, it worked."

The Mexican continued to gaze intently at the knife, stroking the long blade with his fingers. "He  gave this to you?"

"No." Slimm shook his head. "No, he didn't exactly give it to me. Like I said, I just laid there and when those injuns left I took it off of George's belt. Some folks might call that stealing, but it wasn't stealing. This is all I have to remember my friend by," he said wistfully.

The Mexican was puzzled. "Why you want to sell this?"

Slimm sighed. "Have to," he replied. "Times are hard for me. Need the money. "Haven't had work for six weeks."

"I thought you were a captain in the . . ."

"No!" Slimm interrupted loudly. "I'm through with that. After Little Bighorn I never wanted anything to do with the military again." He scowled. "I never want to see another uniform as long as I live."

"How much you want for it?"

Slimm folded his arms thoughtfully. His brow became taut. The corners of his mouth turned ever so slightly upwards. "Something like this'll be extremely valuable one day. Why, I could probably sell it for a couple of hundred bucks right now." He exhaled loudly. "But I'll tell you what I'm going to do, amigo. I'm going to let you have it for a mere seventy-five dollars." 

The Mexican replied, "Ah, senor, I can only pay you forty."

"I'll take it."

*****

It was a chilly afternoon in Belfield, North Dakota Territory. Several horses were tied up in front of the local tavern and the usual steady din emanated from behind a pair of swinging doors. The tavern was large, 60 by 30 feet. An oaken bar was located against the south wall with twelve wooden stools in front of it. Behind the door hung a huge mirror, sparkling clean, with the words "A.J.'s Saloon" etched skillfully across the top. It seemed out of place. Countless bottles of bourbon, scotch and whiskey sat on a long shelf under the mirror. Three gas lamps burned smokily along either wall. It was a squalid place, and this was enhanced by the dearth of light, the odor of stale cigars and the grumbling of discontented card players.

The bartender stood at his post, hands resting on the counter, casually observing the customers as he was wonted to do. He was a tall, gaunt man of fifty. His lips were almost covered by a bushy white moustache. He wore a white cotton shirt, brown wool slacks and suspenders. There were about twenty patrons that day, half gambling, half seated at the bar. He noticed an ugly-looking group playing pinochle in the far corner of the room. The three of them had finished most of a bottle of whiskey in less than an hour. In addition to drinking heavily, one had a large wad of tobacco behind his lip. They made the bartender slightly uncomfortable, but weren't causing any commotion.

But he had his eye on one man in particular that day. He'd never seen him before; he certainly wasn't a regular. He was clean and well-dressed, contrasting sharply with the rest of the crowd. The suit he was wearing must have cost twenty dollars. He was seated at one of the four tables in the room, with a negro and an Indian, ostensibly teaching them to play cards. The bartender couldn't help but hear some of the conversation. He would never trust this man. What was he doing in Belfield, anyway?

The stranger coolly adjusted his tie. There was something smug about his manner. With impressive dexterity, he rapidly shuffled the cards and systematically dealt them out to each player. The three dully pushed ten cents apiece toward the center of the table. Glancing casually at his hand, the stranger addressed the Indian seated across from him.

"You're first, partner."

The Indian appeared to be concentrating intently on the cards. 

"I will bet thirty cents," he said, pushing three coins into the pile.

The negro blinked confusedly. He said, "I'm gonna raise 'im twenny-five cent," and added a quarter.

Pete Slimm spoke: "Jim," he said. "You have to see his thirty cents first."

"Oh," Jim replied, embarrassed. He placed another thirty cents in the pot. "Den I sees his thirty cent and I raises 'im twenny-five cent."

Pete Slimm pretended to study the cards in his hand. He dropped fifty-five cents into the pile.

"How many cards, my friend?" he asked the Indian.

"Three cards," the latter replied gruffly.

It was Jim's turn. "Gimme one card," he said.

"And I'll take two," Slimm said. Silence followed while the three looked over their hands.

"It's your turn," Slimm told the Indian.

Without a word, the Indian produced two wrinkled dollar bills from a small cloth purse in front of him. Hesitantly, he placed them into the pile. Following suit, Jim dropped two dollars in coins into the pot.

Slimm leaned back in his chair. He stretched out his legs, assuming a reclining position. He slowly drummed the fingers of his left hand on the table. Tossing a five dollar bill onto the pile, he said, "Let's get serious, boys."

The Indian was puzzled. "I don't know," he remarked.

"Three dollars to stay in," Slimm reminded him. 

"I . . . I check," he said.

"Well, I don't!" Jim said cheerfully. He placed three dollars in the center of the table.

The Indian tossed down his cards. "I'm out."

"Well, Jim," Slimm eagerly inquired. "What have you got?"

Smiling broadly, the negro placed his cards face up in front of him. A pair of aces and a pair of kings.

"Not bad," Slimm said, sounding mildly impressed. "But a full house beats two pair every time." He laid his cards on the table. Two jacks and three queens.

Jim stared at them dumbfoundedly. 

"Well, gentlemen, it's been real nice playing with you," Slimm said, sliding the pile of money toward himself. Standing up, he began stuffing the bills and coins into his coat pocket. "I hope to see you again sometime."

"Aw, shucks," Jim said. "You gots to give us one more chance to win our money back."

"We never played before," the Indian added. "Teach us another game."

Pete Slimm considered it. "All right," he said reluctantly. Sitting down once more, he gathered up the cards on the table and reshuffled them. "Either of you boys ever heard of Twenty-One?" 

Grimacing, the bartender turned his eyes away in disgust. Oh well, it probably wasn't his business anyway. He'd seen all sorts of people in the tavern; some good, some not so good. This fella would get his someday. Maybe. 

As the bartender was surveying the customers, a cowboy approached the bar. He was about thirty years old and had a rough, weather beaten face.

"Hi, Alex," he said. 

"Oh, hi, Bill," the bartender replied, slightly startled. 

The man grinned. "Gimme the worst stuff you got." 

Reaching under the bar, Alex produced a clean glass and set it on the counter. He turned to the liquor shelf and seized a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a bottle of tonic water in the other. He filled the glass halfway with whiskey and was about to add the tonic when the cowboy stayed his hand.

"Alex, don't put no branchwater in my drink."

"Whatever you say, Bill," the bartender answered and finished filling his glass with whiskey. "Ten cents."

Bill reached into his jeans pocket and tossed a couple of coins onto the bar. "Thanks, Alex," he replied and headed back toward his table, drink in hand.

Pete Slimm was engrossed in Blackjack, dealing hand after hand. He took no notice of the figure standing quietly in the doorway, arms folded across the chest. No one had seen him enter; it was as if he'd materialized there.    


Slimm placed another card in front of the Indian. He now had two fives and a two. He tapped the table lightly with his index finger. Slimm obediently dealt him another card. A four.

"Sixteen," Slimm announced.

The Indian was frustrated. "Hit me," he said.

Slimm placed a sixth card on the table. A ten.

"Sorry, partner," he said, and collected the last of the Indian's cash.

"Hey, mister," a voice boomed from across the room. "Mind if I get in on a couple o' hands?"

Slimm froze where he was seated, his mouth dropping open in shock. The playing cards slipped from his hand and fell to the floor.

Without taking a step forward, the bounty hunter drew his Colt Walker from its holster and aimed it straight at Slimm. 

"You son of a bitch," he muttered and fired.

But Slimm had quick reflexes. The second he saw Brewster's finger tense on the trigger, he threw himself to the floor. The bullet missed him by half an inch and tore through the back of the chair, splintering it to pieces. Alarmed, Jim and the Indian jumped up from their seats and backed away from the table as quickly as possible. The other customers did likewise. Getting to his feet, Slimm dashed toward the bar and nimbly leapt behind the counter. A second bullet followed him, skimming the counter and shattering the great mirror. The large broken pieces of glass crashed to the floor, smashing two dozen bottles as they fell. 

Brewster rapidly approached the bar, smoking gun in hand. Several people made for the door; the others looked on in amazement, no one daring to move. Desperately, the bartender ran out from behind his post and grabbed Brewster's arm, attempting to wrench the weapon from him.

"No!" he screamed. "Stop it! Stop it! Go away!"

While Brewster was grappling with the bartender, Slimm jumped over the counter once more and lit out for the exit. Brewster hurled the crazed bartender aside, knocking him into an adjacent table, which promptly collapsed. 

Once outside, Slimm untied the horse as fast as his trembling hands were able and climbed into the saddle. With a yell, he dug his heels into the animal's sides and was off.

Brewster was not long to follow. Seconds after Slimm's departure, he rushed out of the tavern and once again took aim at the figure riding away on horseback. Again the shot missed. Suddenly, a shotgun blast sounded behind Brewster and the swinging door next to him exploded into a thousand fragments.

"You wrecked my bar, damn you!" the bartender's voice screamed at him. 

Not wasting any time, he drew his Bowie knife and sliced through the rope that bound his horse to the hitching post. Hopping onto the stallion's back, Brewster took off after his old rival.

The two men sped through the streets of Belfield, leaving a trail of dust behind them. The gap between the two horses narrowed, Brewster gradually gaining on Slimm. 

Slimm was worried. Brewster was closing in on him fast. The two were nearing a crossroads. A post office was stationed at the northwest corner and across from it was a small chapel with a large wooden cross on its roof. 

In an attempt to throw off his pursuer, Slimm jerked the reins sharply to the right. But he was unprepared for such an abrupt turn and losing his balance, he tumbled sidelong from the saddle and landed with a thud by the entrance to the chapel. 

Though not seriously hurt, Slimm was dazed and out of breath. His lower back throbbed painfully. He soon recovered when he saw Brewster round the corner and yank his steed to a halt. Slimm ran into the chapel.

Slowly, menacingly, Brewster dismounted and began stalking toward the entrance. "Bad move, Pete," he said. Kicking open the door, he entered.

Brewster quickly surveyed the room. A long red carpet ran down the aisle, leading up to the altar. On either side were seven pews, each bench with a shelf containing six or seven prayer books. Two diamond-shaped stained glass windows were on the side two walls. Behind the podium was a huge mural depicting the Crucifixion.

Brewster walked leisurely down the aisle, glancing left and right as he passed each pew. As he came to the second row from the podium, a voice called out, "Freeze!"

Brewster's glance shot to the right. Slimm stood in the side aisle, between the pews and the stained glass windows. His outstretched arms nervously held a Smith and Wesson revolver. 

"Take off your gun belt, Jack," he sputtered. "Take it off and lie down next to the podium."

Brewster was dead calm. "Well, well, Pete," he remarked wryly. "Nice to see you've come up in the world." With blinding speed, he seized the gun at his hip, turned and fired. There was a brief zing! of lead against steel as Slimm's weapon flew harmlessly out of his hands. Slimm stared incredulously at his empty palm.

"The game's over, Pete." Brewster approached Slimm until he was in point blank range. He raised his gun. The barrel was a foot from Slimm's heart. "Thought you was pretty smart, didn't you? Well, I'm smarter!"

Beads of sweat covered Slimm's face. He quaked slightly.

"How did you find me this time?" he asked.

Brewster grinned, a thing he rarely did. "You made some dumb mistakes too, Pete," he answered. "After you made a fool out of me in Hays City, I was determined to redeem myself. So I went searchin' for you up north in Nebraska. And you'll never guess who I met in Hastings. Some stupid Mexican I see in a bar tries to sell me a knife he says belonged to General Custer." He barked a short laugh."I recognized your handiwork immediately, Pete. Then it wasn't hard. Just looked around."

Slimm was shocked. He was actually going to die. 

"Jack, you wouldn't shoot a man in a house of God, would you? That's not proper."

Brewster thought for a moment. "No, you're right. It ain't proper. But I'm gonna do it anyway."

Brewster pulled the trigger. CLICK! Slimm winced. Nothing happened.

"Damn it!" Brewster exclaimed. Turning toward the front of the chapel, he hurled the empty revolver toward the pulpit.

 Slimm sighed in relief. "I guess you can't shoot me now, Jack. Why don't we just forget this whole thing?"

Brewster reached for the Bowie knife strapped to his belt. He firmly grasped the hilt. "Forget nothin'," he said. Raising the blade above his head, he lunged at Slimm.

Slimm's back was literally to the wall. As the knife came down, his hands shot up and caught Brewster's wrist. With all his strength, Brewster began pushing the knife toward Slimm's chest. The sole of Slimm's boot slammed into Brewster's stomach, sending him flying into the pew behind him. Brewster grunted loudly as his back collided with the wood. The Bowie knife slipped from his hand and clanked to the floor. Brewster reached to recover it when Slimm kicked him in the stomach again. Brewster seized Slimm's legs and toppled him to the ground. 

Straddling himself atop his old rival, he grabbed Slimm by the collar and struck him repeatedly, between words.

"I'm . . . sick . . . of . . . you!"

Slimm furiously groped for the bounty hunter's face. Grabbing hold of Brewster's nose, he gave it a savage twist.

"Aaahh!"

With both hands, Brewster seized Slimm's wrist, attempting to loosen the grip on his face. Slimm's other fist struck Brewster squarely on the chin. Managing to free himself, Slimm stood up and kicked Brewster in the face. Brewster's head snapped back with the force of the kick. Blood trickled from his mouth and nostrils.

Suddenly enraged, Brewster sprang to his feet and slammed his opponent into the wall again. With determination, his fists thudded repeatedly into Slimm's ribs. Slimm winced noticeably with every blow. Then grabbing Slimm's shoulder, Brewster turned him around so he was facing the wall and began fiercely twisting his arm, attempting to snap it.

With amazing alacrity Slimm's other hand caught his arm and held it in place. He groaned in obvious pain and exertion. His left heel struck Brewster's shin and managing to free himself for the moment, Slimm spun around and cracked Brewster across the mouth. He hit him again. And again.

Brewster stumbled backward in pain and confusion, reeling like a drunken man. Slimm dealt him blow after blow, until Brewster lay half senseless on his back. Then he himself collapsed to his hands and knees, panting in exhaustion.

After a minute Brewster sat up, holding his aching head with both hands. His lower lip was cut badly and the blood was smeared all over his mouth and chin. He gently inserted a finger into his mouth and carefully felt one of his upper molars.

"You good-for-nothin' slug," he said, glaring at Slimm. "You broke my tooth."

Slimm glared back reproachfully. "Well, you cracked a couple o' my ribs!"

"You near broke some o' mine!"

"Well, who started it?" Slimm hollered.

"It doesn't matter who started it," Brewster said apathetically. "I'm finishin' it. I'm sick o' this whole damn job. I'm sick o' chasin' after lowlives like you and nearly gettin' myself killed in the process. Your kind ain't worth it. So actually, Pete, I oughta thank you. You're doin' me a favor."

"Always happy to oblige," Slimm replied with slight irony. "It sure makes me happy to hear you say that, though." He extended his hand.

Brewster just looked at it.

"Yeah, that's easy for you to say," he grumbled. "You got nothin' to worry about 'cept who you're gonna swindle your next dollar from." 

Slimm frowned. "I've been thinking of going straight, Jack," he replied. "Really I have. Only problem is I've never done anything else."

"I've got a brother in Tennessee," Brewster remarked. "Maybe he could use a hand. Ain't seen him in twenty years."

"No point in worrying about it now, Jack," Slimm replied. "Let me buy you a drink. It's the least I can do."

Brewster stared at him long and hard. Then he chuckled, almost jovially. "I think we wore out our welcome at the local tavern."

"Heck, not here!" Slimm said."There's a nice bar in Dickinson. Only about fifteen miles. It'd be a fine idea if we left this town pronto!"

Brewster shrugged. "I guess you're right."

The two men got to their feet. 

"Your knife, Jack," Slimm reminded him. Walking over to where the Bowie knife lay, Slimm picked it up by the blade and handed it to Brewster. Brewster looked at it for a moment, then slipped it back into the sheath.

"Thanks," he said unemotionally.

Slimm walked over to where his gun lay on the floor. "Don't worry, Jack," he explained as he bent over to pick it up. "It's not loaded. What about your gun?"

"We got no time," Brewster said. "Besides, my brother got a spare gun he can give me. Let's get outta here."

The two began walking toward the exit.

"I'll show you a good time, Jack," Slimm assured him. "After we hit the saloon, there's a place right down the road with the most beautiful women you've ever seen."

"You don't say."

"Say, Jack," Slimm began. "Ever play gin rummy?"

"Don't even start, Pete," Brewster muttered, and they departed.