Packing Iron by Steve Hayes

for them to stop arguing and stomp off in opposite directions and then walked casually along the sidewalk to the front door. It opened at his touch and he ducked inside, finger on the trigger, ready to shoot anyone who opposed him.
    The office was empty. He moved quietly to an inner door that he guessed led back to the jail. Pushing it open with his rifle, he peered inside – and saw a young, one-legged jailor dozing in a hard-backed chair. Gabriel poked him with his Winchester. The man came awake instantly and froze as he saw the rifle and who was holding it.
    ‘Easy,’ Gabriel warned. ‘Tell me where Mr Stadtlander is an’ you can go back to sleep.’
    ‘With the sheriff. ’Cross the street havin’ a drink.’
    ‘Place got a name?’
    ‘Garrett’s.’
    Gabriel nodded and tapped his rifle butt against the jailor’s head, knocking him senseless. Taking his keys, Gabriel re-entered the office, locked the door, threw the keys under the desk and walked out.
    No one paid attention to him as he crossed the busy street to Garrett’s, a small wood-fronted building with traditional bat-wing doors named after the sheriff who’d killed Billy the Kid. Ducking into an alley beside the saloon Gabriel entered through a back door. To his left was a storeroom , to his right a kitchen and directly ahead a door leading into the bar. Gabriel inched it open and peered through the crack.
    A bartender was pouring whiskey for three cowboys at the bar. Behind him, above the cash register and a display of liquor, hung a gilt-edged mirror in which Gabriel could see the reflection of Sheriff Samuel Akins and Stillman Stadtlander.
    The two men were talking at a corner table, a bottle of rye before them. Gabriel made sure no one else was in the bar then pushed open the door and covered Stadtlander and the burly, mustachioed lawman with his rifle.
    Everyone but Stadtlander froze. The tough old rancher, shoulders hunched over from arthritis, chuckled as if seeing an old friend and shook his head in admiration.
    ‘I was expectin’ you to make a play, Gabe. Barkeep, another glass.’
    ‘Save it,’ Gabriel waved off the bartender. ‘Won’t be here long enough for a drink.’
    ‘Don’t be a damn fool,’ Sheriff Akins told him. He was abig man, full of self-importance, but he had a woman’s voice. ‘Y’ain’t goin’ nowhere. You so much as step outside an’ my men’ll cut you to pieces.’
    ‘I just come from outside, sheriff. Not a deputy in sight. You,’ Gabriel wagged his Winchester at the bartender who was reaching for something. ‘Bring your hands up real slow and don’t let me see anythin’ in ’em.’ Then as the bartender slowly obeyed: ‘Come out from behind there.’
    He waited until the bartender was in front of the bar then turned back to Stadtlander and the sheriff.
    ‘So what happens next?’ the rancher asked him.
    Gabriel set the rifle on the table next to him and let his gun-hand drop beside his holster.
    ‘I was hopin’ we could end our differences right here an’ now.’
    Stadtlander grinned mirthlessly. ‘I’d like to oblige you, son, but it seems the Good Lord has other plans.’ He raised his gun-hand and Gabriel saw arthritis had turned it into a half-closed claw. ‘Throw in my broken ribs, gimpy leg an’ bad back an’ you’d get more fight from a blind gandy dancer.’
    As he finished speaking one of the cowboys at the bar moved slightly. That movement, twitch, saved Gabriel’s life. His eyes flicked in the cowboy’s direction – and in that instant he saw in the mirror the reflection of Stadtlander’s other hand reaching under the table and drawing a derringer from his boot.
    He drew his Colt and fired, so quickly the bullet knocked Stadtlander from his chair before the derringer cleared the table.
    Sheriff Samuel Akins threw up his hands and blurted: ‘I ain’t drawin’ against you, Moonlight. Y’all can see that.’
    Gabriel ignored him. Stepping close to Stadtlander, he kicked the