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1.

Boyd threw in his hand; "Dammit Curtis, that's the third time I had'ta fold." He wasn't a particularly good loser and the drink wasn't helping. Curtis decided it was best to quit while he was ahead. He lay his cards down and scraped the pot towards him. "Hey, turn over those cards boy, what'ya got?" Curtis pocketed the coins and notes; "Rules say I don't gotta turn my hand if you fold." He pushed back in his chair to stand, but a clearly maddened Boyd was up too, his right hand twitching dangerously close to his gun. "Why you mouthy horse's ass, you turn those damn card's or you'll wish you had!" The other players slowly backed up, Chris Packer was the dealer tried to calm Boyd down; "He aint carrying Boyd, it's not fair to pull on a fella when he ain't armed. Sit down, let me get ya a drink."

Curtis slowly palmed the cards into his hand and, putting the cards into his pocket stood up. He was pushing it with Boyd, who was hot-tempered at the best of times. Walking to the bar he ordered a bottle from the tender, and filled several shots pushing them along the bar to the various players. "Here boys, lets call this an end to it", Packer raised his glass. Boyd slapped it away, snarling; "You ain't no one to be telling me what to do and when to drink." Curtis finished his drink, tipped his hat and walked steadily out the doors. "You're a damn coward, just like your no-good father was!" Inside Boyd seethed; "You think it's over? Next time he cheats me gun or no gun he won't walk out that door." The others knew better than to argue or point out, that ever since he was old enough to walk into a bar, Boyd Carlton was the worst card player the Diamondback Saloon had ever seen.

Curtis Milner picked up his key from the hotel reception and let himself into his room. He had walked away from plenty of trouble in his time, and from Boyd more than once. His father had been a sheriff, and he had seen how he had tried to balance justice with raising his boy after his wife died. Curtis was always a quiet child, even when he made got older and began showing an interest in horses, guns and finally, girls; it was all done in a calm methodical manner. A horse was selected, paid for by running errands, working at the livery and odd jobs around the town. After a few weeks there wasn't much he couldn't do in the saddle and was an accomplished rider at the town fairs and shows. His fathers old Colt Navy was next; taken out of the worn wooden case and cleaned followed by hours spent at Cobalt Creek shooting and re-loading. Tin cans, old crockery; anything that provided a target was surely placed on the weathered old stump and shot to blazes. Finally when he could prove his marksmanship his Dad let him fire off six from his prized Remington; five centres and one slightly high and right and the paper target was pasted on his bedroom wall along with his other trophy's.

 Now, he opened the box he kept locked under the bed, and lifted out his father's Remington. Six shells he loaded and slowly rotated the chamber till he snapped the loading gate shut. The holster he threaded onto his belt and eased the gun into it. He would have let the whole thing lie, Boyd could cuss him out from now till Judgement Day and it would be water off a duck's back. Saying that about his father was a bad mistake, and he couldn't let it go. He stood up, settled the holster and belt more comfortable on his hip and went out towards the saloon.

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