Badlanders by David Robbins

hell I will,” Lindsey replied, and stood. He was a big man who liked to throw his weight around even when sober, and who had made more than a few peace-loving townsmen dance to the tune of his six-shooter. “One of you is dealin’ from the bottom’,” he snarled at the other cardplayers, “and I have a good idea who.”
    That was when Neal set eyes on Jericho for the first time.
    Jericho was one of the men at that table. His head was down, but just then he’d raised it and said to Lindsey, “No one is cheatin’. If they were, I’d know.”
    â€œWho the hell are you?” Lindsey demanded.
    â€œJericho.”
    A murmur spread through the saloon. Neal overheard enough to gather that the name wasn’t to be taken lightly.
    Lindsey didn’t seem especially impressed. “Jericho, you say? I’ve heard of you.”
    Jericho didn’t say anything. In his left hand he held his cards. His right was under the table.
    â€œI’ve heard you’re supposed to be considerable shakes with a six-gun,” Lindsey went on. “Well, I can shoot, too.”
    â€œDon’t go there,” Jericho said.
    â€œI’ll do what I damn well please,” Lindsey said. “And I don’t much appreciate you buttin’ in.”
    â€œYou should take the barkeep’s advice.”
    â€œWho’s he to tell me what to do?” Lindsey snapped. “Who are you to tell me the same?”
    Neal had been surprised when Jericho set down his cards and stood.
    â€œYou’re right. I shouldn’t ought to stick my nose in. It’s a bad habit of mine. I reckon I’m done with this game.” With his left hand Jericho scooped up his money and stuck it in a pocket, then turned to go.
    Lindsey stood there, staring. No one could say what made him do what he did next. Neal’s best guess was that Lindsey was looking to add to his reputation as a bad man to trifle with. It was the only thing that made sense, the only thing that explained why when Jericho had taken a couple of steps, Lindsey clawed for his six-shooter.
    Nor could anyone say what prompted Neal to do what he did next. He couldn’t explain it himself. All his life he’d minded his own business. He never got involved when a fracas broke out. He never raised a finger to stop a shooting. But as Lindsey started to draw, Neal shouted, “Look out!”
    Jericho was already in motion. He must have sensed something or seen Lindsey out of the corner of his eye because he whirled even as Neal yelled, his pearl-handled Colt seeming to leap into his hand. He fanned two shots from the hip so swiftly they sounded like one.
    Lindsey was jolted onto his bootheels. “No!” he bleated, and keeled onto his back with his arms outflung. He lay gasping for air and staring at the ceiling.
    No one moved. No one spoke.
    Jericho came around the table. He watched Lindsey gasp, and said quietly, “You made me rush it.”
    â€œDamn, you’re quick,” Lindsey got out, and stopped gasping.
    Jericho frowned. He’d slowly replaced the spent cartridges, and slowly slid his Colt into its holster. “I had it to do.”
    â€œWe all saw it,” a cardplayer said. “We’ll vouch for that with the marshal.”
    Jericho nodded, then did the last thing Neal expected; he walked over to the bar. “I’m obliged for the warnin’.”
    â€œDidn’t seem as if you needed one,” Neal said, smiling.
    Jericho held out a hand. His right hand. “Jericho.”
    â€œSo I heard.” Neal held out his. “Neal Bonner.”
    â€œCowhand?”
    â€œForeman.”
    â€œI can work cows.”
    â€œYou’re lookin’ for work?”
    â€œNo. But if that’s what you do, I can, too.”
    Only afterward did Neal realize this was a pivotal moment in his life. On some unconscious level he’d recognized what Jericho was offering, and on