Ball and Chain by J. R. Roberts

drives shipments for Wells Fargo. Mostly rides the trail between Omaha and Dodge City. He was damn near killed in a shooting a year or so back when some bunch of wild, gunslinging assholes tried to rob his shipment. You and one sheriff’s deputy rode in to clean those assholes out. Saved Zeke’s life in the process.”
    The knot in Clint’s stomach loosened. Although he didn’t recall Zeke by name, he sure recalled trading shots with those robbers. “There was a whole posse after those men when I signed on. Me and that deputy were all that was left by the time we caught up with those desperadoes.”
    â€œWell, that’s all that was needed. I gotta take your fee to send this message on account of this ain’t my business. But ol’ Zeke would string me up if I didn’t buy you a drink.”
    â€œOh, no need for that,” Clint protested.
    â€œHogwash! I’m closing up shop right now and I intend on heading down to the Howlin’ Moon for a drink. I sure as hell don’t intend on drinkin’ alone. Not when the one and only Clint Adams is in town. At least let me treat you to some whiskey as a way to say thanks. Zeke may be a pain in the ass, but he’s family and you kept him alive.”
    â€œThe thing is, I’m not partial to whiskey.” When he saw the good-natured scowl on the operator’s face, Clint added, “But a beer or two might just do the trick.”
    â€œA beer or two it is!” the operator said as he slapped Clint on the shoulder. “Let me get this message sent and we’ll tip a few mugs!”
    If the operator hadn’t been so good at his job, Clint might have been able to get out of there before he was done. As it turned out, the big man’s fingers flew and the message was quickly tapped out. From there, the operator draped a hand over Clint’s shoulder and practically shoved him outside so he could lock up the office.
    The operator didn’t lose one bit of his enthusiasm on the way to the saloon. When he pushed open the batwing doors, he announced, “This here’s my friend, Clint Adams! He’s a damn hero and I wanna buy him a drink!”
    Clint wasn’t about to refuse an offer like that.

TWELVE
    The Howling Moon Saloon was a run-down place with a sagging roof. Because of that, there were more posts propping the ceiling up than columns in front of a Greek temple. Between the small round tables, rickety chairs, and thick wooden posts running from floor to ceiling, there was barely enough room to walk. A few of the drunks in the place raised their glasses to the telegraph operator’s announcement, but not everyone in the saloon was in such a festive mood.
    Acklund was already leaning to his left on account of the deep gouge that Clint’s bullet had ripped through his right hip. The wound looked messy, but had mainly passed through meat without doing any serious damage. Wincing as he was forced to lean toward his left to get a look around the post directly in front of him, Acklund scowled and swore under his breath.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” Mose asked from the other side of Acklund’s table.
    When he saw Mose start to turn around to look toward the bar, Acklund growled, “Sit still. That son of a bitch that killed Dave just walked in.”
    That got Mose twisting around even faster. “Where? I wanna—” Even though he easily had fifty pounds on Acklund, Mose was stopped cold by a quick backhand from the other man.
    â€œKeep still before he sees us.”
    â€œWho cares if he sees us? Ain’t we here to kill the bastard?”
    â€œNot when he’s surrounded by half a dozen of his friends,” Acklund said. “We ain’t about to make a stupid mistake like the one that got Dave killed.”
    â€œDave may have been stupid, but he was our brother,” Mose pointed out “I want to get a look at this asshole’s face to make sure