The Lawman Takes A Wife

He’d shoot himself before he’d sit through another round of that damned song, and he wasn’t about to try pushing his authority to convince the miner to stop.

“You’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” he said. “Work to do.”

Whatever objections his companions might have made were cut short by a furious bellow from the direction of the piano.

“Gol durn it! Don’t you go tellin’ me what t’play!

”Crazy Mike surged to his feet like an angry buffalo, all snorts and dangerous, threatening bulk. The crash of his chair falling echoed loudly in the sudden silence.

One of his companions gave him a queasy grin. “Ah, now, Mike, you know we didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

Mike glared at the cringing men in front of him. “You told me t’quit playin’.”

“Didn’t tell yuh t’quit! Just t’play somethin’ differnt.”

Mike advanced a step. The miners retreated two.

“You din’t like my song.”

“Not t’say we didn’t like it,” said one of his hapless friends.

“‘Clementine’s’ a fine song, Mike, just fine,” the other hastily assured him. “But dammit! You been playin’ it fer God knows how long an’—”

“Don’t cuss!” Mike roared. “You know I don’t approve uv cussin’!”

Three steps in retreat. “Sure, Mike. Sorry about that. Din’t mean t’—That is—”

“Ah, hell,” said the man beside Witt. “That’ll about do it for tonight, I’m thinking.”

The patrons nearest the door abandoned their drinks without a backward glance and escaped into the night. The freckle-faced boy, who’d been collecting empty glasses at another table, slowly set the ones he held back down, then sidled closer, eager for a better view.

The sharp crack of a pistol made even Witt jump. Crazy Mike wasn’t wearing a gun belt—most men didn’t even own a gun—so he must have carried it shoved in the waistband of his pants. Right now the weapon was pointing at the floor, which had a new hole in it and a number of fresh wood chips scattered across the surface.

Witt quietly got to his feet.

“Ain’t nobody tellin’ me what to play,” Crazy Mike insisted, swinging around to confront the saloon’s wary patrons.

“Put the gun down.” Witt didn’t raise his voice, but in the silence, his words carried clearly.

The miner’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Who’re you?”

“I’m the new sheriff, and I’d appreciate it if you’d put the gun down.”

Mike grunted. “Make me.”

Witt studied him for a moment, then slowly unbuckled his own gun belt. He set it on the table, much to the consternation of his drinking companions, then held up his hands, palms out.

“Put the gun down, Mike.”

Mike shot a hole through the painted tin ceiling.

“Watch the damned chandelier!” warned the outraged proprietor.

This time, Mike deliberately aimed at that battered brass fixture. His shot sent bits of paint flying from a new hole in the ceiling a good four feet to the right of the first.

“God dammit!” Jackson roared.

Mike swung toward him, the gun wobbling in his unsteady hand. “Don’t cuss. Ain’t right t’cuss.”

A warning gesture from Witt stopped Jackson from fishing beneath the bar for the gun that was undoubtedly hidden there.

“Sure, Mike. Sorry,” Jackson said through gritted teeth.

“Whyn’t you come back and play fer us, Mike?” one of the miner’s friends suggested.

Mike shot the piano. Twice.

He would have shot it again, but he was out of bullets.

Moving slowly, with both hands up where Crazy Mike could see them, Witt worked his way toward the angry miner. The crowd happily moved out of his way. No one offered to help.

For that small favor, Witt was devoutly grateful. He’d dealt with enough Crazy Mike’s over the years to know that “help” of that nature only made things worse. To men like Mike, one man coming after them was a joke.

Half a dozen eager citizens was a threat that provoked more violence and got a lot of people hurt.

And it would take half a dozen normal-size men to stop someone as big as Mike.

He hadn’t met many men even as big as he was, but Witt was willing to bet Mike topped him by a good two inches or so and outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. The man had arms that looked like tree trunks and fists the size of a nine-pound sledgehammer.

Five feet from the miner, Witt stopped.

“Nice night out, Mike,” he said conversationally. “Let’s you and me go for a walk, shall we?”

Crazy Mike tossed aside the useless gun and came at him like a bear, roaring with rage, shoulders hunched, eyes glittering with the light of battle.

Witt sidestepped, then punched him in the gut as he passed. Hard.

The miner’s roar died in a choking grunt as he doubled over, clutching his middle. He staggered, tried to straighten.

Witt hit him again.

Crazy Mike sagged, then slowly toppled onto the floor, face first. The floor shook when he landed.

Witt could hear the crunch as Mike’s nose smashed into the wood. He winced and ruefully rubbed his knuckles. The damn fool was so drunk, he didn’t have the sense to roll.

Silence held Jackson’s saloon in a grip of iron.

One of Mike’s friends stepped forward, fists half raised in the wary, defiant stance of a man who felt obligated to defend his friend but wasn’t all that happy about it. Witt looked at him, raised one eyebrow in silent inquiry. The fellow wavered for a moment, then lowered his fists and sheepishly slunk back into the crowd.