Present day
Music poured from the Three-Guns Saloon.
Thomas Stratton peered at the other players over his hand of cards as the pianist banged out lively tunes, his honey-brown eyes struggling to focus after too many pints of beer. The atmosphere was lively as patrons laughed and drank their blues away in the smoke-filled room.
“Are you in or out Thomas?” asked a rough-looking man with a cigar hanging from his lips. His wide-brimmed cowboy hat hid the top of his face, leaving only his lips and long grey beard visible underneath.
The other players watched intently from behind their cards.
Thomas hesitated for a second, chewing on his bottom lip. “I’m in.” He picked up a pile of ivory gambling chips and threw them into the middle of the table, scattering some of the other chips.
Someone placed a leather-gloved hand on his shoulder. “How about you repay your debts before making more?” a voice rasped from just behind his ear.
Thomas picked up his beer and chugged what was left. He banged the empty mug on the table. “How about you remove your hand before somebody gets hurt,” he cautioned, slurring some of his words.
“There’s no need, Thomas.” One of the gamblers attempted to stop him.
Themanbehind Thomas tightened his grip.
Thomas pushed himself up from his chair and turned around. He looked straight into the other man’s dark brown eyes and scarred face. “I told you, Jack.” He squared up to him, pushing his snubbed nose right up against theman'soverly large one. “You will get your money when you get it. And not a moment before.”
The man known as Jack was a well-known thug around town, serving as a money collector for one of the most notorious usurers. You knew things were serious when Jack came knocking at your door. His grotesque features were scarred, boasting of the many fights he had fought and undoubtedly won.
He grabbed Thomas’ beer-stained lapels and lifted him off his feet.
The other gamblers lay down their cards and quickly backed away from the table, scraping their chairs on the wooden floor.
The music stopped playing with a clatter of keys. Thomas noticed that everyone had stopped what they were doing to observe the scene.
Thomas’s fights had become legendary in the months after his wife had passed. He owed more money to usurers than he could possibly pay, and his fights had become a constant source of entertainment to those who frequented the saloon.
“Go get the sheriff,” a barmaid near the entrance whispered hurriedly to the boot boy who had popped his grubby face over the swinging doors to watch.
The boy nodded and ran for help.
“Now you listen here.” Jack shoved Thomas onto the table, scattering the cards and ivory chips. “I want that money soon, or you and I are going to have an even bigger problem. That pretty ranch of yours ain’t gonna be so pretty when I’m done with it.”
Thomas laughed. “You think that’s gonna scare me scarface?”
Jack shoved him back as he let go of Thomas’s jacket.
“Just get the money.” He turned his bulky frame to leave.
Thomas propped himself up with his elbow and rubbed the back of his head where it had connected with the table, mussing his already messy hair. “I’ll give it back when I feel like it,” he muttered under his breath.
The man whipped around. “What did you say?” He barked.
Thomas smiled and lifted himself off of the table. Stumbling slightly as he hopped to the floor. “I said.” He swayed. “I will give it back...when I feel like it. Scarface.”
The man rushed forward and threw a punch that knocked Thomas back.
Staggering back, Thomas took a minute to regain his footing. Lifting his fists he clumsily staggered forward once more.
“That’s enough!” boomed a voice from the door. Thomas lurched to a stop and turned to look.
Sheriff Ezrah Gideon stood just inside the door, the wide brim of his hat partially shading his face and his hand on the holster of his gun, ready to draw. He was a tall, imposing figure, towering over the saloon’s less impressive patrons.
Thomas lowered his fists and took a step back as his opponent straightened his bowler hat and walked to the door.
