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2.

Vic had watched carefully, Bulman had stood there toasting and preening himself and the shot had been made to knock him down a bit.  Next shot wouldn’t be in warning.  Now, barely twenty yards away was the man that had started it all; this trail of revenge was close to ending and this would be the first step.  Breathing steadily, eyes on the target, Vic was ready.  Bulman had just frowned, a quizzical looked passed over his face before he smiled; "Ha ha ha, now this is funny.  I just now this minute know your face!  Oh this is good, no-one will believe this story!"  Anger now flared in Vic, the son of a bitch was mocking, this man that had destroyed a whole family simply for wanting to farm their own land and now he stood there laughing.  Vic's eyes narrowed, right hand stretched fingers wide before moving closer to the holster.  Bulman stopped laughing; "Serious, I ain’t not done this and you don’t wanna push me no further."  His face wasn’t sure, and now wasn’t laughing any more.  Bulman went for the Schofield, fast and fluid the barrel cleared the leather but Vic was faster, the .45 cocked and levelled at Bulman.  The shot blasted through his stomach, punching a hole that powered out his back sending him clear across the card table.  Vic stepped over, and drew the hammer back as the gun sighted on Bulman lying sprawled on the floor, gasping for breath as his hands clutched at the wound bleeding profusely in his guts.  "This is for my family", as the second bullet slammed into Michael Joseph Bulman's head.

The gunshot died away, and the bar's occupants now raised heads above tables and from behind the piano.  Vic holstered the .45 and bent down to retrieve Bulman's unfired Schofield.  As the questions and murmuring began Vic shoved the pistol into the gunbelt and, backing out of the bar, walked quickly back to the hotel as people started to gather and talk.  The night was starting to settle in and lamps were being lit as the story started to work its way around the town, faster even than Vic headed for the back door of the hotel.  Coming in upon the cook and her assistant, Vic smiled and asked for a hot meal and coffee to be sent to the upstairs room.  Overcoming the adrenaline that raced around a still trembling body, Vic sat by the window and watched; a sense of achievement was tinged with the thought that the harder work still lay ahead. 

It was dark when the rider thundered into the compound, yelling and shouting.  A crowd gathered round, and within seconds a constant murmur and muttering spread amongst the men.  Edwards stood up from his bunk and wandered out the door.  As he grabbed at the animated and excited men, all he got was gibberish "He's dead", "Killed him in town" "What happened?”  Getting nowhere, Edwards reached inside to his room and lifted the shotgun from the wall.  Checking the single barrel was loaded he aimed high in the air and discharged the buckshot into the night sky.  Silence fell, and he pointed to the rider; "You, here now, tell me everything."  The young man made his way through the throng of workers and stepped into Edward's room.

Jase Edwards was a quiet, efficient man.  He didn’t dress fancy like his boss, or talk needlessly.  His face rarely smiled and he got on with any task given with the minimum of fuss.  Like most young men he had gone off to the war when it came, but he had returned from it a different man.  Found among his dead comrades, bloodied and battered, no-one ever knew what had happened to him.  He had found work after the war's end as a drifter, first working cattle then as that had died off, as a hired gun.  Fast, fearless and with no emotion he killed whatever was marked his target.  Now, as Bulman's right hand man the killing was less than it once had been but there were still some issues that had to be resolved by his guns.  As the messenger came through his door he poured him a mug of water and listened to his story.

 "Well Mr Edwards sir, I went into town to deliver your note to Mr Bulman.  Found him at ole' Mr Nev's place and passed it right direct to him.  I went out to water lil Maisy after that."  Edwards raised an eyebrow but let the question pass.  "Then, a small scruffy kinda herder went into the bar, and there were three shots.  I waited till the stranger had got gone then I heard Marty Willows, that’s Missus Willows eldest that got his arm lost at Fredericksburg, he said, 'He's dead, Bulman's dead', an' I caught a look at Mr Bulman lying on the floor.  He was bleeding awful bad, like when Marty, he lost his arm you know, rolled him over he had his head all bloody and stuff........"  Edwards held up a hand to stop the rambling rider, and thought.  A man walks into town, and in plain sight just shoots the boss dead.  "I couldn’t do nuthin' Mr Edwards, I didn’t have my gun."   Edwards nodded, "I know, now describe the stranger again."   After he was done, Edwards waved him out the door, and sat down to think.

 A stranger, a killer at that.  Short, small in build, with a milk-white face and dirty brown hair.  Clothes like a drover or cattleman.  Jase sipped his coffee and thought.  It couldn’t be Gentleman James Walker from Baysville, he was a dandy and wouldn’t be seen dead in anything except the latest and smartest fashion.  Stabletown's Phil King met the look, but was over six feet tall.  Edwards knew that most men that lived with a gun for company tended to avoid similar men.  Sooner or later it always came down to who was fastest, or cleverest, or just plain luckiest.  He himself had several close encounters, and he tried to let his reputation put off all but the most fool hardy or cocky.  Still, this new man had bested Bulman, who Edwards had shown some skills to sharpen his draw and aim.  But the thing that wandered around his mind wasn’t the killing, but the fact.  This stranger turned up in Bulman's own town and shot him down in front of witnesses.  Edwards doused the light, and thought towards the coming days events.

Vic woke with a start again, the dream tormenting still even with the death of one of its originators.  Again, cold water was splashed over the face and head, hot coffee and eggs followed.  The .45 had again been cleansed of powder and residue, re-loaded and ready once again.  This time, though, it would be the hired gun opposite and not the boss.  Edwards was the rare breed of killer that felt no emotions, didn’t show fear and had no remorse for anything past.  It would be difficult, but there was still confidence in Vic's abilities, a sense of right and justice.  Surely that would help in the coming fight.  Now, sat by the window staring down the street, it wouldn’t be long before it was all put to the test.

 Edwards rose while it was still dark, as he usually did.  Washed and dressed he headed for the cookhouse.  A large breakfast of bacon and eggs was served in silence by the kitchen staff.  They knew what had happened, and while Mike Bulman wasn’t a very well liked man, he was still the boss of the place.  Two cups of coffee and the plate was cleared.  He headed off back to his room, leaving the empty dining room behind.  Back in the bunkhouse, he opened his cases and thought about his choices.  It would be a close in fight, he wanted to see the man that had killed his boss; see the calibre and grit of the stranger as they faced off.  No need for a rifle, he discarded the use of a shotgun too; it wasn’t his weapon of choice.  He preferred the clean clinical pistols that he had amassed in his time; trophies of past victories.  Buckling on his gunbelt, Edwards picked his .45 Colt for the job.  Four inch barrel, almost pristine in its appearance.  He never wore this as a working gun; it was reserved for just this sort of occasion.  Opening a new carton of ammunition, the cylinder was loaded with six new bullets.  Spinning the .45 backward and forward on his trigger finger, he finally slid it safely into the holster on his left thigh.  Looking over the weapons before him, Edwards also picked out and pushed into his coat pocket a .450 Bulldog pistol.  Short, compact, but with a healthy punch, it was a dog with a bite worse than its bark.  He closed the door up, went to where his horse had been saddled and was waiting, and headed into town.  It was still dark, and the ranch still slept.

 Vic saw the rider coming into town, slowly and certain in his pace.  It was a fact that Edwards probably knew he was being watched.  Finishing the glass of water, Vic stood up and faced the mirror.  Looking back was the face that had stared down Michael Bulman just yesterday, the face that had seen father killed and found the bodies of the brothers.  It would be the last face Jase Edwards would ever see, Vic was determined to see it through.  Gun holstered, hat pulled down low over the eyes, Vic started out to the street. 

 It was moving faster than a train at full tilt, the rumour that Bulman's killer and Jase Edwards were both in the town.  People either fled from the street or hurried towards it.  The onlookers that wanted a prime seat to see the combatants and those that wanted the safest possible distance from them.  Mothers shepherded children into houses as men made bets on the outcome; winner, loser, first shot, etc.  Edwards had tied off his horse at the bar where Bulman had been slain, and was sat now on the steps spinning his gun and smoking as if it were a normal day on the ranch.  Vic had the sun in his eyes, and knew it was the wrong place to be.  To get around this and closer to Edwards would take a walk right past him.  To wait would mean more nerve shredding time spent thinking instead of acting and that might cause a mistake or slow the reflexes.  Vic cut in between the dry goods store and the blacksmith, using the alley to come up on Edwards left side.  That would mean the sun would be side on to both, no advantage for either shootist. 

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