“This is a story about a Sheriff and his four butt-buddy deputies. Women and blacks still knew their damn place, whiskey was easy to get and men could get work done. We were still feelin' the effects of the Civil War in these new Yankee Union states. Some people were optimistic about their future, if they weren't a servant or a whore, and some people just weren't. I can't quite recall the year, but I was around San Francisco then.”

“I'd wandered into a small town, and law and order weren't exactly a premium then. There were always some so-called enforcement agencies that kept the peace they could, but only the U.S. Marshals had government authority. I always happened to run into the damn U.S. Marshals, and they tended to be right cocksuckers to me. I imagine most folks don't have that particular problem though.”

“Name of that town wasn't so important, but I'll call it Worktown, because it was known for its great workers, if you know what I mean. The Sheriff there's name was Jimmy Foster. Jimmy Foster and his four deputies Sleepy, Dopey, Dumbass and Retard. Sheriff Jimmy called 'em Davids, Houston, Dean and Thompson though. They were pretty well known in the area for their ability to work through gangs, and they didn't take kindly to stragglers in their town, especially since they knew the couple hundred bitches and bastards that lived there all personal-like.”

“Sheriff! Sheriff!” One of the townsfolk called out to the Sheriff. He was busy getting liquored up in the local watering hole. “There's a man ridin' in on a horse!”

Sheriff Jimmy Foster was a middle-aged man, just leaning on his 30s. He had short brown hair, a ruddy white complexion, dark eyes and was a man of a fairly average height. He always dressed in his finest browns, and kept his Sheriff badge on his chest, high where everyone could see. His belt was worn like an experienced shooter, and he was, one of the best shots in all of California in-fact.

The Sheriff stood up from his table, and walked outside to greet the stranger. It was a rather cool day in the desert, much cooler than most days that the Sheriff could remember. The man riding in on the black and white horse wore himself a dark brown leather overcoat, covered his face in a hat made from the skin of a Brahma bull, finely craft twin Colt revolvers on his waist like he knew how to use them, and didn't look or smell like he'd washed in weeks.

“Welcome stranger!” the Sheriff called out to the man, waving his hand.

“Local greetin' party, I see,” said the stranger in a coarse voice, still trotting slowly into town.

“Local law, brother. Now, before you come waltzing in here, you have to pass a security check, and learn the laws of the town.”

“Fair enough,” replied the stranger, stopping his horse just short of the Sheriff.

“Say, you look awfully familiar brother, have we perchance met before?” said the Sheriff in an unsure tone while examining the man with a careful eye. Beneath the stranger's hat, the Sheriff could see past the man's oily black hair. The muddy complexion of the man was paired off with a pair of cold blue eyes, piercing like the Sheriff had never seen.

“Not that I can recall, brother law,” said the stranger as he dismounted from his horse. The stranger's height was something that the Sheriff hadn't noticed before, and the stranger towered over him, at least by a head.

“Ah. My name's Jimmy Foster, they just called me Sheriff in these parts,” Jimmy said with his hand outstretched toward the stranger. The stranger either didn't see the Sheriff's hand of peace, or didn't care, and led his horse right past the sheriff to tie him up on one of the booths near the bar that the Sheriff had just walked out of. “What do they call you?”

“Name ain't important.”

“Everyone's name matters, especially here. So, what's your name, brother?”

“Bloody Stump the Cunt Maestro.”

“I'd reckon it'd be an interestin' tale to hear how you got that particular name, Maestro. But I don't have no time for games today. So, what's your real name?” the Sheriff replied, his tone indicating his rising ire with the time being wasted by the stranger.

“Frank Cloverleaf.”

“Cloverleaf?”

“That's what I said, ain't it?”

“That seems a mighty odd name, can't say I've heard it before. Where's it from?”

“Who gives a damn? I ain't got time to study family history books or names for somethin' as uninterestin' as that. Can we get this damn check over with, so I can get a woman, some whiskey and a bed?”

“No need to empty your lungs there, brother, was just askin'.”

“Whatever you say, 'brother'.”

“Say, are you in a hurry, brother?”

“I ain't in no hurry.”

“Then you shouldn't be mindful of my questions so much. But, since you're in such a piss poor mood, let's head off to the office,” said the Sheriff as he turned and started to walk down a poorly outlined road in the center of the dirty town. Frank followed after him, glancing about at the townsfolk as he went past, who either looked away and went back to what they were doing, or nodded their head at him with a smile.

“How long you gonna to be in town?” said the Sheriff.

“However long it takes,” replied Frank.

“Takes for what?”

“My business, of course, brother.”

“I was askin' what your business was.”

“Ain't none of it your's, so I can't see why.”

“Oh, but everythin' in this town is my business, didn't you know?”

“This ain't.”

“You're in my town, so that means you're my business and that your business is my business, brother.”

“All my eye it is.”

“Say, you have any money?”

“I got plenty.”

“So, why are you here then, brother?”

“I said business.”

“So, this business, it involve gold?”

“If you think that line of question is gonna work, then I should have took you for a mental cripple, brother.”

The Sheriff turned around with his hand on his own revolver, looking at the stranger with a furrowed brow. “I suggest you change that tone of yours brother, lest you bite the ground,” he'd said in the deepest voice he could muster. The only response from the stranger was an stare as icy as winter in the north lands.

After an awkward silence, the Sheriff turned about and kept walking until they'd arrived at the Sheriff's office. On the front porch to greet him was Deputy Davids, leaning on the front door, an eight gauge shotgun on his shoulder. Davids was a small, pudgy, pale man, balding with dark eyes, his frame was weak at best, and it was clear he wasn't one of the Sheriff's better men.

The Sheriff's office was a rather small building, perfect wooden walls all around, with large painted red letters that read, 'SHERIFF' on them in all bold. It had a few dings here and there from bad weather, earthquakes and such, but it held up well compared to most of the buildings around there. It was easy to see that it'd never been painted either.

“New arrival?” called Deputy Davids.

“Yes indeed, we're about to run a security check on Mr. Cloverleaf here,” said the Sheriff.

“You one of them drunk Irish types?”

“It look like I got a stumble to you?” said the stranger, as they made they way closer. Davids opened the door and they walked into the small office. If it looked dinky on the outside, it certainly looked laughable on the inside. There was room enough for a desk, a gun rack, a messaging machine and a small jail-cell.

“Where are you comin' from?” the Sheriff said, cutting right to business as he moved to the only desk in the office. He pulled open one of the drawers and from them a couple pieces of paper, and laid them in-front of the stranger.

“San Francisco,” said Frank without resistance.

“The city or the area?”

“City.”

“Big city that, easy to get lost in the mix. You know your letters?”

“Yeah.”

“I need you to fill out these papers, and your stay here will be nice and legal. If you can't read a certain part, I'll read it for you, so you understand what you're signin'.”

“I don't need a nanny,” he said and picked up one of the quills off the desk. Frank took the paper with one hand, and wrote quickly and neatly, something the Sheriff hadn't seen in anyone that wasn't an Oil Baron. When Frank had finished, he pushed them back at the Sheriff.

“I'm goin' to go get tight now, Sheriff, you'll s'cuse me,” he said as he started out the door.

“Whoa, whoa there, brother. There's still the matter of your guns,” Jimmy said as he pointed at Frank's belt.

“What about them?”

“I can't let you wander around town with guns, brother. You should know that. It's just a common-sense manner of disarmin' potential murder and thief types.”

“You really think that if I was plannin' murder, that I'd waltz into the front of your town for all to see, and that I wouldn't just shoot you straight up when you wanted me to do that damn security check?”

“I think you'd think of that, brother. Murder types are awfully clever folk sometime, and I'm not too sure about you. I don't care though, because me and my boys will deal with that situation if it ever comes to it, and don't you forget that.”

“I ain't takin' my guns off.”

“You'll unstrap that Colt from your ass, unless you want my boot up it, brother.”

“And what if I've decided my hand's faster than your boot, brother?”

“Then we got a problem.”

The unmistakable cocking of the eight gauge shotgun at his back stopped Frank's hand in its tracks. “We ain't got a problem,” he said, “you might have a problem, if I were interested in causin' one. But, my business is more important than my pride, so..” Frank put his hands into his cloak and around his back, undoing the belt. He pulled it off, and held it out to the Sheriff with a grimacing smile.

“You have any other weaponry there that I can't see?” the Sheriff said as he took the belt.

“Nope.”

“Then enjoy your stay, Mr. Cloverleaf.”

“Why brother, I already am.”

The stranger turned around and gave an icy glare to Deputy Davids, who still had the shotgun pointed in his direction. After a second, the stranger walked out of the office, and down the street toward the inn. The Sheriff walked to his window and watched as Frank walked off. Their eyes met momentarily when the stranger turned his head to look back at the office.

Act II: Accusation

“You sure, boss?” asked Deputy Houston. Houston was a big man, with brilliantly browned skin. His arms looked like they were capable of beating in a railroad spike on their own. His face was grizzled like leather, scarred, with a dark handlebar moustache over his mouth, but with a pair of the greenest eyes anyone would ever see. There were tales that he'd once wrestled with a full grown bull, overpowered it, then ripped its still beating heart from its chest. Regardless of the tales, the truth of it was that he was the best gun the Sheriff had, faster than most men blink. Though, just a bit on the stupid side sometimes.

“There's no doubt in my mind. There was a train robbery around the city of San Francisco only a few days ago. That's time enough to travel here,” said the Sheriff.

“Can't it just be a coincidence?” asked Deputy Thompson. Thompson stood about as tall as the Sheriff. His red man heritage was obvious, he had the benefit of his daddy being white, and got dirty blonde hair so that he wasn't a total disgrace to look at. His nose was crooked two ways from sundown, story is that he got it when a horse kicked him straight between his eyes. Ancient moon gods didn't help him much there. For all his shortcomings of being from inferior blood, the white man in him made him a damn good shot, and he was one hell of a good eye. Wasn't terribly fast though.

“Mighty fine coincidence, don't you think?” said the Sheriff as he walked up to the door of the inn.

“We really bustin' in there without evidence, boss?” said Deputy Houston.

“Coincidence is all the evidence I need, Deputy. Follow your gut on things like this, it'll never steer you wrong,” said the Sheriff as he pushed through the doors. He took two steps into the inn, with two of his deputies behind him and called, “Frank Cloverleaf, you're under arrest on suspicion of rail road theft!”

The stranger was sitting at a table by himself with a glass of whiskey. He glanced up from underneath of his hat, still wearing the same dirty things he'd worn on the day he wandered in. He looked at the Sheriff with that icy blue stare, and spoke like he had gravel in his throat, “On what grounds?”

“You mistake me for a lawyer, brother. I'm the law here, and I say you look guilty,” said the Sheriff. He motioned with his hand for his deputies to move forward. Houston and Thompson started to walk toward the seated stranger, and the stranger simply stood up and raised his hands to the air, staring at the Sheriff.

“I think you're wrong, Sheriff. I ain't who you're lookin' for,” the stranger said.

“You'll do best to shut your mouth, brother. I've got a mind that you're lyin'.”

“And I challenge your honor, Sheriff,” said the stranger. The Deputies stopped in their tracks and glanced back at the Sheriff, who stared bullet holes into the stranger's face.

“So, I suppose you'll be wantin' an honorable duel under the sun to prove your innocence?”

“No, I want a duel on the premise that you're a corrupt lawman. I got a right to a trial, and everyone who's ever studied letters knows that. Best be gettin' rid of a broken limb of justice, don't you think, brother?”

“You're a fool man, Cloverleaf. But, I'll give you what you want. I'm tired of your types wanderin' into town, actin' like you'd blush at the sight of a woman's breasts. I'll gladly make you leak that whiskey you're drinkin'. And after I shoot both your kneecaps out, brother, you're gonna tell me where you hid that train's goods. Take him,” the Sheriff said.

As Jimmy Foster walked out of the inn, he heard the stranger cuss loudly as Houston lifted him off the ground. He'd spend the next night in a jail cell, and at noon, he'd be dispensed of like the criminal scum he was.

The night before the duel, the Sheriff and the Deputies were gathered outside of the inn, with Davids being left behind at the office to watch over Cloverleaf. They'd just finished drinking, and were laughing about how badly the Sheriff would beat the man they'd captured. For a moment, the Sheriff glanced around warily in the middle of the street.

“Thompson, tomorrow, I want you up in the clock tower with that rifle of your's. If by some chance Cloverleaf's got some acquaintances lookin' for him, I want to be ready for them, and don't come down until after the duel. If you see anythin' out of place, you shoot it, you don't ask questions, understand?” said the Sheriff.

“Yes, Sheriff,” replied Thompson.

“Houston, I want you to stand near here,” he said pointing at the entrance to the inn. “I want you to just be there, just in case he tries to run. You're too quick of a shot to miss straight up, and if you do, Thompson will pick him off. You got the same rules as Thompson though, shoot if anythin's out of place.”

“Yes, boss,” said Houston.

“Dean,” said the Sheriff, who turned to look at the man. Dean was a lean, tall man that dressed in all black. He had long, thin on the top, brown hair and brown eyes to match. He was said to be the eyes of the Sheriff, the one that fed him all of the information about the surrounding gangs and outlaws they'd captured and killed. “I want you watchin' the alleyways, and my back. I'll be standin' here,” the Sheriff said as he pointed at a spot in the road. “Same rules as everyone else.”

“Yes, sir,” said Dean, who then headed down the alleyway immediately. The Sheriff knew that Dean had to be sure to inspect every inch of every situation he'd be involved in. The man was as thorough as a thousand dollar whore.

“No way that the train robber leaves alive, fair or unfair,” said the Sheriff. He looked back at the Sheriff's office, the dim light of which outlined Davids sitting in a chair. The Sheriff drunkenly chuckled to himself for a moment, and stumbled toward his house. He was damn sure getting a full nights sleep for tomorrow.

Act III: Resolution

The Sheriff waited on the spot he'd pointed out to Dean before. The people of the town had all heard about this little duel in the span of a few hours, and they were all there, lining the streets and the windows of every building. Across from him stood Frank, who looked well rested considering the stay in the jail cell. When Davids had brought him out, he was still in handcuffs. The Sheriff had personally handed Frank his gun belt, and could feel his hand shaking when he did. Now that he wasn't drunk, games of life and death were far more real to him. But, he knew that if he failed that Thompson, Dean or Houston would gun the stranger down. He didn't hold much hope for Davids pulling it off.

Jimmy Foster held his hands at his side as his fingers twitched, beads of sweat rolling off of them. The sun was hot today, why the hell did it have to be so hot on a day like this? The Sheriff slowly tilted his head from the left then to the right.

“You ready to receive the law up your ass, brother train runner?” said the Sheriff, who then spit to the side. He lifted his head to glare at Frank, hoping to draw a bit out of the man with it.

“When you're ready to go, brother, we'll-” said Frank, but he drew his gun in the middle of the sentence. His hand was as fast as any locomotive, and his aim was equally as steady. He shot Jimmy Foster in the chest, and the man dropped like he'd been thrown out of a window. The crowd of townsfolk watching gasped unanimously. Frank took two steps forward and hovered over the Sheriff, finishing his sentence, “-jump.”

Jimmy took a few last gasping breaths, and shook his head. He looked up at the clock tower, his vision beginning to blur in the hot sun. Frank raised his gun, and cocked the barrel of the Colt, “Red man and that alley snake are dead,” said Frank. Jimmy's eyes widened with grim realization as he turned his head toward Houston and Davids.

Davids portly, pale body lay sprawled on the front steps of the inn, with Houston plying the shotgun from his dead hands. Houston had cut Davids throat with a knife, the Sheriff could see from the blood pouring out of his throat and into the wood and dirt underneath him.

“Turns out my business happened to be a Deputy of your's, brother law. Damn shame for you, though. He killed your other Deputies last night, after he and I had a little chat. Took over for Davids there, made sure it was me, and headed out. Seems he hasn't completely given up his old life, Sheriff. The Texas Bull is still a damn hard man,” said Frank.

“So you know though, Sheriff. It was me that robbed that damn train, my name just ain't Frank.”

The Sheriff started to say something, but the stranger shot him, then four more shots rang out as the stranger put the Sheriff in the ground.

“The hell does honor get you? Four bullets in your face, and a hole in the ground, Bull,” said the stranger as he looked over at the Bull. The stranger raised his Colt up, and let the used casing fall to the ground at his feet. He glanced over at the townsfolk as he reloaded his gun, yet they made no movements or sounds to indicate they were going to do anything to the man.

The Bull and the stranger made their way onto their horses and left the small town. They trotted through the Californian heat for some time, until they arrived at a small patch in the ground.

“Let me just get these supplies I buried here, and we'll head back for where I put the goods,” said the stranger.

“You want help with that?” said the Bull.

“Nope, I've got it.”

“How far back we goin'?”

“About midways from that little town of yours. Off a ridge on top of that little mess of caverns.”

“The cold rocks?”

“Ye-” before the stranger had realized the mistake, he had Davids' eight gauge shotgun lodged at the back of his head. The stranger turned his head to look over his shoulder, and the Texas Bull gave him an almost apologetic smile then pulled the trigger.