Chapter 1

Some people seem to think that bounty hunting is one grand adventure. At least, the dime novels make it seem that way. Well, let me tell you, it's dull, dirty, and dangerous work. Yeah, I'm a bounty hunter, Sam Jackson by name, and I do make a living at it, but I expect that I would be happier if I had a regular job. The trouble is, there ain't many of them around right now.

Since the last financial panic, it seems like there's more fellers out of a job than those working. A course, that's what keeps me in business—if there was more jobs, I probably wouldn't have as many outlaws to chase. Oh, well, I got to make a living, so I keep after it, like it or not.

Anyway, my job is why I'm standing in this here saloon, nursing a beer, and trying not to attract too much attention. I got word that Jeb Hurly was due in here about now, and he's worth $75 if I can catch him. A course, I'll probably have to kill him, cause nobody wants to spend 10 years in the pen. The trick is to be lucky, at least luckier than the man you're chasing.

By dogies, there he is! He's just now bellying up to the bar. God damn it, where did that galoot come from? I ain't got enough freedom of movement with a man between me and my target. Well, I don't want to go off half cocked, so I'll just have to see what develops.

Jeb Hurly and I nursed our beers for another 20 minutes or so, before he turns to walk out of the saloon. Well, I can't have him getting away, so I swallow the last of my beer and follow him out of the saloon. I don't even get one step out of the saloon before a bullet comes whizzing past me and cuts a little hole in my shirt, about belly high.

Now, I ain't normally all that nimble, but I do loosen up when a bullet comes that close to my gut. I was back inside the saloon before Jeb Hurly could get off another shot at me. I drew one of my Starr DA (Double Action) .44 caliber cap and ball pistols before squinting around the edge of the door, exposing as little of my skin as I could manage. I guess I exposed a mite too much, because another ball came crashing by, burying itself in the door frame.

I seen enough. I caught sight of the powder smoke, so I knew where to watch out for Jeb Hurly when I made my move. I slipped back away from the door a mite and breathed deeply to settle my nerves, what was still a little shaken from that first unexpected shot.

The sidewalk was raised from the street about three feet, and Jeb Hurly was hunkered down just beyond the edge of the of the sidewalk, kind of squatting in the street. He must of thought that I was a damn fool if he expected me to come out that door while he was waiting for me.

I ran out the door to the saloon jakes and ran through the alley to get behind Jeb Hurly. He must of been kind of foolish, himself, since he was still squatting down waiting for me to come out that front door. I came out to the street and called out, "JEB HURLY, YOU BETTER SURRENDER, BECAUSE I GOT YOU COVERED!" I was a mite louder than I had to be because I wanted to make sure he heard and understood me.

That's when I knew he wasn't a fool—he was a damned fool! He still had his gun in his hand, so I suppose he thought that he could get off the first shot. Well, let me tell you, he was DEAD wrong! I had my pistol pointed right at his gut from a range of no more than 20 feet, so I squeezed off a shot before he could get one off and plugged him in the balls. He'd jumped up a mite faster than I had expected, so the lead ball caught him just a bit lower than I had aimed.

Well, he screamed like you wouldn't believe and grabbed his crotch with both hands. I ain't no fool, rumor to the contrary, so I shot him again, but this time in the chest before he fell to the ground. Hell, he was a dead man, anyway, because he would of died of the gangrene he'd of soon caught; there wasn't no doctor in the world what could of treated that kind of wound.

I went over and kicked his dropped gun out of reach. I was still searching him for hideout guns and knives when the marshal came up and wanted to know what was going on. I gave him my side of the story while we went into the saloon to look for witnesses. A couple of witnesses backed up my story, including that bozo what had stepped between us when Jeb Hurly first come into the saloon.

The marshal had the swamper fetch the undertaker while I finished looting Jeb Hurly's body. I picked up a .44 Colt, a .51 Derringer, and three knives, as well as $12.23 from his pocket. This was pretty good—I was going to net over $100 by the time I sold everything I got from Jeb Hurly, plus the reward. I did decide to keep the Derringer, since it fit right well in my boot.

I showed the wanted poster with Jeb Hurly's picture on it to the marshal, and he gave me a receipt for the body, so I had what I needed to claim my reward at the county court house. I spent the night in the hotel and left the next morning to claim my reward.

I think that Texas is a nice place, but it is kinda far between towns, sometimes. I did manage to find a crossroads with a combination saloon-hotel-restaurant-livery stable where my horse and I could spend the night. I swear, I think my horse had better accommodations, though; I know he ate better!

The next day, I claimed my reward and picked up some new wanted posters. The nearest big city was Laredo, so I headed in that direction. There wasn't no special reason, I just had a hankering for a little city life.

The trip was uneventful, so I was pretty bored by the time I pulled into town. The first thing I did was find a decent livery stable for my horse and a decent hotel for me. Since I had some money, I figured to visit as many saloons as I could find. Lordy! I don't know how many saloons Laredo had, but there must of been at least one saloon in every block, most of them on the corners.

I waltzed into the saloon what was part of the hotel I had registered in and looked around. It was kind of puny as saloons go, but it had beer and a poker game, both of which I was looking for. Now, I consider myself a pretty good poker player, but it wasn't long before I was sure that my luck wasn't all that bad, and I was a whole lot better player than my winnings showed. I kept a close eye on the dealer and caught sight of him palming cards.

I ain't no hothead, but I do take exception to being cheated at poker. I saw the dealer palm a Queen of Hearts what should of been dealt to me to fill out my full house. I moved faster than the dealer and nailed his hand to the table with my Arkansas Frog Sticker (eight-inch stiletto). The knife passed through his hand and the card and stuck in the table top. He let out a scream and tried to pull his hand back, but, a course, he couldn't.

The next thing he tried was to pull a Derringer on me. Well, I had one of my pistols out and pointing at his nose before he had half drawn his Derringer. I said, "you put that there pistol back where it came from before I put a big hole in your face!"

He did, then he said, "Pull that damned frog sticker out of my hand. It hurts like hell."

"I expect it do hurt. Just be happy that I didn't use my bowie knife, because if I did, you'd be short one hand by now. I want to see what you got in your hand, so you be real nice when I pull out the frog sticker."

I worked the knife out of the table without pulling it out of his hand. I turned his hand over by twisting the knife, and there was the Queen of Hearts stabbed through the middle. The other fellers at the table got right peeved when they seen this, and I had to calm them down a mite. The card sharp looked like he was about to cry, so I pulled the frog sticker from his hand, but I kept him covered with my gun.

Chapter 2 »