When he reached the door of the saloon, he stopped to take a look before walking inside. As he had anticipated, the man called Hatcher was hassling Rachel and Tiny. He could hear Rachel repeating several times that Mr. Savage was not in the saloon. When he heard Hatcher say he was going to search the entire saloon if she didn’t produce him, Ben figured it was time to put a stop to it. Seeing a young boy walking past the saloon, he stepped away from the door and called to the boy, “What’s your name, son?” When the boy told him, Ben asked, “You wanna make a nickel, Sammy?” The boy said he did, so Ben reached in his pocket and pulled out some change and gave the boy a nickel. “Run down the street and tell the sheriff he’s needed at the Lost Coyote. Can you do that?”
“Yes, sir,” Sammy said and took off running.
Stepping back up on the porch, Ben pushed on through the batwing doors, his Colt six-gun in hand. “Something I can help you fellows with?” he asked. Surprised, they both spun around. Hatcher started to reach for his .44 but stopped short when he saw the weapon already in Ben’s hand.
“Well, ain’t you the brave one?” Hatcher taunted. “Why didn’t you just shoot us in the back and be done with it?”
“I considered it,” Ben answered. “Now, suppose you tell me what you’re lookin’ for me for. Have you got a complaint about this saloon, or about somebody who works here? We’re always ready to help you with any complaints, but I don’t allow anybody to harass the employees or the owners.”
Both men were speechless for a moment, unprepared to hear this type response. Then Hatcher’s partner blurted, “You shot Bob Wills down in here yesterday!”
“Was that his name?” Ben asked the man with Hatcher. “I didn’t catch yours, you left in such a hurry. That’s a fact, though. I shot Bob because he tried to shoot me in the back after I told you to leave. We’ve got a rule here in the Lost Coyote—no back shootin’. That’s why I won’t shoot you in the back, if you turn around and walk on outta here now. But we ain’t got no rule against shootin’ you in the front, if you make a move toward those guns.”
“Who the hell are you, mister?” Hatcher finally demanded. It occurred to him that he might be calling out somebody with a reputation. “I’m wonderin’ if Bob Wills had a fair chance when you shot him.”
“I reckon that depends on how you look at it,” Ben said. “When Bob came back in and was fixin’ to shoot me in the back, it mighta been unfair for me to turn around and shoot him first. To tell you the truth, I thought he and this other fellow with you today were already on their way outta town and nobody hurt. But he came sneakin’ back in here like the yellow dog he was. I expect you never got the true story of how he got himself killed. So, now that you know, you’ll most likely ride on outta town peaceful-like and no harm done. I’ll even buy you a drink to show you there’s no hard feelin’s, and you can go back to the Double-D and tell ’em you took care of everything.”
Hatcher was not sure if he was talking to a lunatic or being japed by a fast talker. Whichever, he decided, there was no doubt in his mind, the man was trying to talk his way out of a gunfight between the two of them. Marty was not sure how fast this fellow was, but he said that he had turned around and shot Bob Wills before Bob got off a shot. That was something to consider, but he still could not discard the idea that the big man was trying to avoid facing him man to man. And that could be nothing less than outright cowardice. He decided to do what he had ridden in with Marty Jackson to do. “I’m tired of hearin’ you runnin’ off at the mouth. It’s time for you to own up to what you did. I’m callin’ you out to stand up for killin’ Bob Wills. So holster that six-gun, and we’ll settle this thing man to man.”
Ben slowly shook his head to exhibit his impatience before he replied. “Now, Hatcher, I believe that’s your name, ain’t it?” Hatcher did not answer but continued to glare at the big man holding the Colt on him. Ben continued. “Not only have you come after me for defending myself against Bob Wills, but now you’re insultin’ me by insinuatin’ that I’d be dumb enough to holster my pistol when I’ve already got it ready to blow a hole in you.” He glanced briefly in Tiny’s direction and said, “Tiny, take that shotgun from under the counter and hold it on Mr. Hatcher’s friend, there, in case he’s got a case of stupidity, too.” Tiny quickly drew the shotgun out, having already anticipated a need for it.
Almost to the point of exploding, due to the situation he had fallen into, Ed Hatcher could only snarl insults in reply. “You yellow devil,” he charged. “You ain’t got the guts to face me man to man. Walk out in the street and we’ll see who comes out on top. You’re too yellow, ain’t you?”
“Is that what this is all about?” Ben asked. “If I say I’m afraid to face you in a gunfight, that’ll satisfy you, and you and your friend, here, will ride on outta town? Why, hell, I’ll do that to keep from killin’ you. I’m afraid to face you. How’s that? Your friend heard me say it, so you two can get back on your horses and never come back to the Lost Coyote. And that oughta make everybody happy.”
Eaten up with frustration and the knowledge that he was being made a fool of, Hatcher fumed for a full minute before he could speak. “Dead man!” he finally managed. “You’re a dead man. Sure as the sun comes up in the mornin’, I swear I’ll kill your sorry ass.”
“Well, now you’ve done it,” Ben said. “Before, you just challenged me to a duel and that’s all right. But now you’ve threatened to murder me, so I’m afraid I’m gonna have to arrest you and your partner for threatenin’ my life in front of these witnesses.” He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out his badge. “Under my authority as a Texas Ranger, I place both of you under arrest for threatening my life.”
“Wait a minute!” Marty Jackson blurted. “You didn’t say nothin’ about bein’ a Ranger. And, anyway, I didn’t say I was gonna kill you!”
“Don’t matter,” Ben responded. “You brought him back here for that purpose. You’re under arrest for aidin’ and abettin’ ol’ Hatcher, here.”
Marty looked at Hatcher, frantically looking for help. “Maybe we oughta just go on back to the ranch, Ed, if he’ll let us go like he said at first.”
“He ain’t no Ranger,” Hatcher said. “He’s just tryin’ to get outta facin’ me. He knows I can beat him.” Back to Ben, he said, “You’re gonna slip up sometime, and when you do, it’ll be me that puts a bullet in your brain.”
“What’s the trouble here?” Mack Bragg called out, surprising the two ranch hands standing before Ben. His .44 drawn, he walked up behind Hatcher and Jackson and pulled the pistols from each one’s holster. “You havin’ some trouble here, Rachel?” Ben, still holding his six-gun on Hatcher, let her answer the question.
“Those two came here with the idea of killing Ben,” she said. “That one,” she pointed to Hatcher, “challenged Ben to a gunfight and Ben told him he wasn’t interested. So then he threatened to kill him, anyway, and Ben put him under arrest—both of them.”
Bragg looked at Ben, who smiled and confirmed what she said with a nod. “You arrested them?” he asked. When Ben nodded again, Bragg said, “I thought you retired from the Rangers.”
“I have,” Ben said, “but it ain’t official till I notify Captain Mitchell. I thought it would be better than shootin’ ’em. Maybe a night or two in jail would be good for ’em—let ’em know we don’t like gunfightin’ in Buzzard’s Bluff.” Bragg didn’t look like he was especially tickled with the idea. “I’ll help you herd ’em over to the jail,” Ben offered.
“You’ll sure as hell hear from Mr. Dalton if you throw us in jail, Sheriff,” Hatcher warned. “He’s gonna be mad as hell.”
“That’s what I was thinkin’, too,” Ben remarked. “Might give us a good chance to talk to him about some of the trouble I hear his hands are causin’ here in town.”
“That’ll