He was back in the hall again facing the hulking figure of death. But instead of running from it he charged at it and took a swing at its head. To his surprise it fell off and rolled across the floor. The rest of the body however, seemed not to notice its loss and continued it’s forward practice. Soon Jack was entangled in the scratchy black cloak that his adversary wore. He thrashed and squirmed, but no matter what he did he could not escape from the entangling fabric.
And then he woke up and realized that he had dozed off inside the heap of hay that he used as a bed. He cursed himself for allowing himself to drift off to sleep. He was extremely lucky that he had woken up when he had for five minutes later he heard the jangling of the Sheriff’s keys as he entered the room. The Sheriff walked in and then, seeing what had been done do the shotguns, exclaimed, “What in tarnation happened here!”
By the time that he had turned to look at Jack, Jack had already taken out the shotgun that he had acquired the night before and pointed it at the Sheriff. “Make a sound and you are dead, move one muscle and you are dead,” Jack whispered.
“I said be quiet, now get on the floor, nice and slow-like. That’s it, now give me your pistol”
The Sheriff, seeing no way around it took out his gun and slid it across the floor.
“Good job, now give me your keys.”
Once again the Sheriff obeyed, tossing his keys to Jacks out-stretched hand. Jack then opened the door of the cell.
“I’m sorry I have to do this to you Larry, but I do not really want to die,” murmured Jack as he tore the Sheriff’s shirt into strips and then bound and gagged him, “You were a good fair man, and that is why you aren’t dead right now, but make no mistake, if you try to escape I will hunt you down.”
He left the poor Sheriff struggling on the ground as he walked outside and mounted the Sheriff’s prize horse and rode off in a northward direction as fast as he could drive the horse to go. He had not forgotten Vince Doon’s treachery and was now ready to take his revenge. After about a ten-minute ride he saw the fence that marked the border of Vince Doon’s land. He quickly scanned Doon’s property for any signs of life before scaling the ten-foot barbed wire fence. He quickly and quietly slunk towards the house marveling how lucky it was that he had not run into either of Doon’s guns.
When he reached the house he suddenly realized that he had no idea how he was going to get in. After analyzing his options he decided that the best way would be the fastest way. The Sheriff had probably been discovered or escaped his bindings by now and would be rapidly gathering deputies to take him in again. He walked around to the front of the house and kicked the door in and ran into the house, his rifle aloft. Vince, who must have heard the commotion, was already at the front door by the time he realized who was there.
“Any last word’s,” asked Jack, who took Vince’s shocked silence as a no and proceeded to empty both barrels of the shotgun into Vince’s head.
As he walked back out of the door as casually as if he did that every day, he heard a shout from behind him
“Stop where you are,” shouted a voice in a thick Mexican accent, “Put your hands above your head or I’ll shoot.”
Sighing Jack turned around to see José Walker glaring at him.
“Give me your gun,” José demanded.
“Where’s Tim?” asked Jack
“Away, now give me your gun”
Jack decided that it would be best to do what José said. “Fine” he said and then threw the Sheriff’s pearl handled pistol at José so hard that when it connected there was an ominous crack and José dropped to the floor, unconscious. Jack decided that he had been forestalled long enough and headed swiftly to the Sheriff’s horse, which he mounted gracefully. As he spurred his horse forward it reared up, snorting and whinnying, almost throwing Jack off before it began galloping westward leaving behind nothing but a cloud of dust.
When the Sheriff and his newly appointed deputies arrived at Vince Doon’s house Jack was long gone. A search of the grounds yielded three things: Vince’s corpse, the limp and unconscious form of the famous gun José Walker, and a playing card; the Jack of Spades, the calling card of Jack Montana. One glance was enough to tell Larry that the card was from his own deck. Smiling to himself he looked westward into the setting sun and mumbled to himself, “I guess you had the better hand again Jack.”