Saving the Gunslinger

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Six

The air in the saloon was thick with the scent of smoke and whiskey as Clinton made his way up to the bar. Bodies were packed in the place and the din of conversation was all around. The bartender saw his approach and immediately selected a bottle of whiskey, filled a glass and slid it to him.

Clinton was a regular here—or had been for the last couple of days. He had been laying low in this tiny Oklahoma town waiting on word from the man he'd sent to Hackney to gain information on Zachary Marston. That bastard. Thinking he could take everything from Clinton—his reputation, countless good men, his pride... and then simply ride back home and go on with his life as if he'd done nothing? He was wrong. Dead wrong. Clinton was going to finish things once and for all and Zachary Marston would be groveling at his feet begging for death before he was done.

Clinton settled onto a crooked bar stool that wobbled beneath him. This saloon was barely more than a hole in the wall and it suited this town just fine. It was the kind of town Clinton enjoyed staying in now and then. While it was true, this town provided none of the luxuries he typically enjoyed, it was also true that there was no law in this town. No rules. It was a town full of drifters, rovers, outlaws, and all around bad folk. The perfect town to recruit new men when he made his move on Zachary.

Sipping at his whiskey and lost in thought, Clinton was startled when the bartender slammed a hand on the bar top. "Marshall Oxley? What the hell are you doing here?"

Attempting to act uninterested and yet wanting to see the newcomer, Clinton glanced to the side. Marshall Oxley had the complexion of a long time alcoholic. An eyepatch sat on his ruddy face and his vest was tight on his pot belly.

"Thomas?" he demanded with clear surprise. "I didn't figure I'd see you again."

"Well, this is my saloon now," the bartender, apparently named Thomas, stated holding out his arms and glancing around the dilapidated saloon.

The apparent lawman, Marshall Oxley, chuckled as he sat on the stool next to Clinton. Clinton wasn't worried about the lawman—he was a fairly quick judge of character and this man was a coward. No one for Clinton to be concerned about.

"This is a pretty big fall from the place you had before," Marshall Oxley noted.

Thomas snorted, filling a mug with beer and sliding it down the bar to a waiting patron. "I won't get rich here for sure but it sure beats dealing with that bastard back there."

"Fucking Zachary Marston," Marshall Oxley practically snared as he took an offered shot of whiskey from Thomas and downed it quickly. "I hate that bastard."

Clinton's attention firmly piqued, he remained focused on the conversation between the two men. Thomas chuckled. "Yeah, he's an arrogant son of a bitch for sure. I take it he's the reason you're here instead of back in Hackney?"

Marshall Oxley adjusted his eyepatch. "Yeah, him and that friend of his Tim and their little whores."

"That bitch Samantha ruined my life," Thomas growled, his grip on the glass in his hand tightening until his knuckles grew white.

Samantha? Clinton frowned. No. It couldn't be his Samantha. His men hadn't been able to find her in nearly a year. She had either finally run east or was dead—he certainly hoped she wasn't dead.

Clinton took the final sip of his whiskey before waving his glass for Thomas to refill. "I didn't mean to listen in but couldn't help but overhear the man's name you both seem to dislike. Zachary Marston?"

Thomas and Marshall Oxley shared a look before Thomas nodded and refilled Clinton's glass. "Yeah. You know him?"

Clinton chuckled, hatred for Zachary Marston burning his gut more than the cheap whiskey. "Yes, I know him."