The Murdock's Law by Loren D. Estleman

In his town suit he looked as much like a cowhand as I looked like Eddie Foy. I recognized one of the three silent men seated with him as a lounger I had driven from French Sam’s.
    I said, “Who says the Schofield’s a good gun?”
    â€œJesse James, for one.”
    â€œThat explains how he blew the raid on Northfield. You’re Pardee?”
    He threw away two cards and slid two more from the deck. “You’re Murdock.”
    â€œNow that we’re on a last-name basis, let’s talk. You know some men are on their way here from Dick Mather’s spread.”
    â€œI heard something on that order. In for two.” He tossed a pair of chips into the center of the table.

    â€œTalk is you think it was Mather’s boys almost strung up your brother.”
    â€œSee it and raise you five.” The man from Sam’s sweetened the pot. The man at his right folded. The fourth man equaled the bet.
    â€œRaise ten.” More chips left Pardee’s stack.
    â€œTrying to buy the pot,” grumbled the fourth player.
    â€œIt’ll cost him.” The man from Sam’s saw the raise.
    I leaned across the bar and brought the barrel of the Winchester smashing down atop the table. Chips and cards flew.
    â€œGoddamn!” Pardee reached for his hip.
    A roar shook the room. The cigar smoker’s hand sprang away empty. In the loud silence that followed, everyone in the room gaped at the Major, standing in a cloud of swirling blue smoke, his shotgun pointed at the ceiling and a litter of plaster around his feet. He chewed casually.
    â€œHey!” The bartender was first to shake off the spell. “Who’s going to pay for that?”
    Brody drew his lips tight against his gums and shot a stream at the nearest cuspidor. “I reckon Pardee’s the man you should talk to about that. It was him startled me into yanking this here trigger, going to scratch that there itch on his hip so sudden.”
    â€œThe idea was to get your attention,” I told Pardee. “Why do you think Six Bar Six riders are responsible for what happened to your brother?”
    The cowhand took the cigar from his mouth, spat out bits of tobacco, and crushed it out in a crystal ashtray full of chewed brown butts on the table. In
the excitement he had bitten through it. He lit another. Puffing it into life: “Six Bar Six, Périgueux, what difference does it make? They was trying to scare me into quitting as foreman. They know I don’t rabbit when it’s just my hide, so they tried to get at me through Dale. If I leave, Terwilliger goes under. He can’t get no one else to ramrod with things like they are.”
    â€œSo what’s going to happen tonight?”
    â€œI reckon that’s between me and that consumptive bastard.”
    â€œI reckon not. The law’s here now. We’ll take care of Mather, if Mather’s behind the raids.”
    â€œHow?” He snapped the still-burning match into the mounded tray. “You going to throw the old bushwhacker in front of Dick’s horse and trip it up?”
    Mild laughter bubbled around the room. The Major went on chewing as if he hadn’t heard. His shoulders and the crown of his hat were white from the plaster dust that was still dribbling from the gaping hole in the ceiling.
    â€œWhose idea was it to bring in Chris Shedwell?” I asked Pardee. “Yours or Terwilliger’s?”
    He restacked his chips. “Wouldn’t make much sense, would it? Us hiring him and then me coming here to square things myself.”
    He had a point.
    â€œYou’re a gambling man,” I said. “I’ll make you a bet.” Tucking the Winchester under my arm, I came around the bar and gathered up the scattered cards with my free hand. When the deck was intact I shuffled and dealt us each five. Then I peeled a five-dollar bill off the roll in my pocket and laid it on
the table. “If I don’t