I guess everyone who knows Bryce Atchison has a story to tell about him. I figure that’s how it is when you get yourself a reputation as a gunman. People talk about you, true or not. You’re a marked man, fair game for anyone who wants to build a name as a gunslinger.
I’m here to tell you I saw him face down Mesquite Flemming and never saw him draw his gun.
We were playin’ cards in the Brown Derby Saloon in Stillwater out in the Oklahoma Territory. Playin’ Queens or Bust, drinkin’ watered down whisky and talking horses, Longhorns and wild women, spinnin’ out lies, you know, just passin’ the time. Bryce Atchison was there with his back to the wall, facin’ the rest of the saloon. I was holdin’ a red king, two black sixes and a nine of clubs figurin’ I was about to go bust when in walks Mesquite Flemming. He’s already got his gun drawn and he levels it at our table.
“Hello boys,” he says. “I’m here for Bryce Atchison.” There was a general movement amongst card players, each of us backing away from the table, leaving Bryce Atchison sittin’ there all by his lonesome.
He doesn’t look like much, just another run-of-the-mill working cowhand. Slim and wiry like a bronc rider, he wore a faded pair of those denim jeans and a sweat stained blue cotton work shirt, boots that were worn down at the heels and simple spurs. His mouse gray Stetson was pulled down low over his eyes. He did have a bone handled Colts pistol strapped low on his thigh, tied off with a rawhide string.
Mesquite Flemming was quite the opposite. Dressed all in black, from his hat down to his boots he looked like a fancy man. “I hear tell you think you’re a fast hand with a gun,” he told Bryce in a low growl.
“Me?” Bryce Atchison carefully laid his cards on the table face down. He placed his hands in clear view on the table top, palms down with his fingers spread. “I’m not so fast, slow as molasses in January in fact.” He looked at Mesquite Flemming. “I put more store in accuracy than I do in speed.”
“Accuracy?” Flemming repeated.
Bryce nodded. “You see that bird on the Post Office sign across the street?” he asked. Everyone turned to look out the window at the sign across the dusty street, of course.
“I don’t see no bird,” Mesquite Flemming turned back to look at Bryce. Bryce Atchison still sat there but now he had his Colts revolver drawn with the butt end of that bone handle resting steady on the table. The long barrel was pointed directly at Mesquite Flemming.
“I must be mistaken,” Bryce told him. “Now what was it you wanted to see me about?”
Mesquite Flemming carefully holstered his pistol, turned and left the saloon.
“Deal those cards, Preacher,” I said.
