Outlaw's Reckoning by J. R. Roberts Page A

again.”
    The one-legged man looked over to Clint as if he’d just noticed he was there. “Who are you?” he asked.
    â€œI’m the one who’ll pull this trigger if this man so much as thinks about stepping out of line.”
    Finally, the one-legged man nodded and lowered his shotgun. “Fine. One minute. That’s all he gets.”

TWENTY-TWO
    Despite the fact that he was no longer staring down the barrel of a shotgun, Matt didn’t seem any more comfortable once he was inside. In fact, he was more and more uncomfortable as the tension between him and the one-legged man simmered down to a more hospitable level.
    Clint watched Matt carefully for any sign that something might be amiss. So far, the only strange thing he could see was the timid way Matt was carrying himself.
    The one-legged man set his shotgun down once he was inside his house, and immediately hobbled toward a small shelf nearby. After taking some fresh shells from an old box on that shelf, he reloaded the shotgun and did his best to keep an eye on Matt and Clint as they stepped inside. Considering the fact that he was also balancing on his crutch, it was quite a show.
    â€œYou’re Matt Fraley,” the one-legged man said.
    â€œYes, sir. I am.”
    The one-legged man mumbled nervously under his breath while fumbling with the shotgun. Just as he managed to get one of the shells in place, his hand flinched and the shotgun fell from his grasp. He winced in expectation of the loud impact, but slowly opened his eyes when only silence came.
    Having been fast enough to lean forward and catch the shotgun before it hit, Clint held the weapon sideways and offered it back to its owner.
    â€œAnd who’re you?” the one-legged man asked.
    â€œMy name’s Clint Adams.”
    The one-legged man blinked and let out a breath. “The Gunsmith?”
    â€œThat’s what some folks call me. I didn’t figure on being recognized so easily though.”
    â€œPlenty of folks heard of the Gunsmith.”
    â€œYeah,” Clint replied. “But most of those spend twenty hours out of the day in a saloon.”
    That brought a smile to the one-legged man’s face. Glancing toward Matt, he asked, “Did that one there tell you who I am?”
    â€œNot by name.”
    â€œMy name’s Abraham Zucker. Of course, he never asked my name when he was holding my family hostage and ruining my life.”
    â€œI’m sorry about that,” Matt said weakly. “I know it ain’t much, but—”
    Matt was cut short by a sudden knocking on the front door. Zucker grunted and groaned, but motioned for the other two to step back as he made his way to see who’d done the knocking. Once the door was open and Zucker looked outside, Clint tried to get a look for himself, but couldn’t see more than two burly shapes standing on the porch.
    â€œThere a problem in there?” one of the burly men asked.
    Zucker wasn’t quick to answer, but that didn’t seem to make any of the other two outside very sympathetic.

TWENTY-THREE
    â€œWhat the hell were you shooting at, Abe?” one of the men outside asked.
    â€œShooting?” Zucker replied.
    â€œYeah. You may be cripple, but we ain’t deaf.”
    Zucker hung his head and said, “I . . . thought I saw something.”
    The two burly men laughed and leaned forward to get a look inside the house. Even though they had to have seen at least one other stranger inside, they stepped away from the door and threw their last comments over their shoulders as they left.
    â€œDon’t fire any more shots in the air,” one said.
    â€œIf ’n we come back here again, we’re takin’ that damned shotgun from you,” the other added.
    Zucker pushed the door shut and dragged himself to a chair next to a small table cluttered with bits of food, a couple books and one chipped ceramic mug. “That outlaw you got there