As he had ridden up the puny dirt road that the town’s residents called Main Street on his way to the mayors house to begin “negotiating”, he was knocked off his saddle by something with the force of a train, and that in all honesty felt like one too. As he spat dust out of his mouth he opened his eyes and looked up to see menacing eye-like black holes of a double-barreled shotgun looking down upon him. Holding the mighty steel harbinger of death was none other than Buck “Shot” Williams, the most feared gun for hire west of Tennessee.
For a moment neither moved or spoke as they sized each other up. While Williams’ eyes silently searched for any weapons that Jack might have concealed on his persons, Jack was staring resolutely at the twin barrels of the an ancient 1839 Colt shotgun, looking for any possible way to escape without loosing his head—literally. Jack finally surrendered to his fate and let his muscles relax as he asked his assaulter, “Who hired you.”
Buck’s response startled him, “The same person who hired you: Vince Doon.” Seeing Jack’s look of mixed anger and incredulity he continued on with a sneer on his face, “Come on, you can’t honestly think that someone in this small town would be able to afford your outrageous price just to intimidate the mayor, do you, you stupid yellow turd. He only hired you to capture you, bring you in, and collect the reward.”
Buck then marched Jack down Main Street and into the Sheriff’s office where they were met by a man so fat that he Jack privately wondered how his legs could support such a large bulk. The man was clean-shaven, and looked very neat in a fashionable two-piece suit although his scarlet face that was dripping with sweat somewhat ruined the effect.
“Hello Jack,” said the unmistakably high-pitched voice of Vince Doon, “I think that our Sheriff will be very happy to meet you.”