Slocum and the Thunderbird by Jake Logan

through the camp. Men began whispering. The fear this simple punishment caused among hard-bitten men made Slocum wonder what the hell was going on.
    â€œHey, Axel, this here’s the nickel. I found it in the dirt.” A burly man at the far end of the bar held up a shiny coin. “Drilled it fair and square. You’re the one what gots to pay up.”
    The coin made its way down the bar, passing from hand to hand until it fell to the plank in front of Slocum.
    â€œHe ain’t no winner. The bet’s to cut the middle out of the nickel. His slug tore off part of the rim. Got to see the hole surrounded by nuthin’ but metal.”
    The piano player picked up the coin and ran his thumb over the rough spot where the bullet had torn the rim and left a small gap.
    â€œYou’re damned lucky he didn’t miss and blow off yer fingers, Axel. I say he won the bet. Don’t you all agree? All of you?” He held up the coin with the hole through it so everyone in the saloon could see. The cheer that went up gave Slocum a touch of hope he might get out of this without shooting any of the customers.
    The barkeep brushed dirt off his mustache, grumbled a mite, then put a bottle of whiskey down on the bar with a loud clank. Slocum held his breath. There was deathly quiet in the tent, and he knew why.
    â€œWhat’s that?” he demanded of the barkeep.
    â€œWhat you won, dammit.”
    â€œI want shot glasses for everyone here,” Slocum said. The deafening cheer told him he had said the right thing. Everyone crowded close to get a shot of free whiskey.
    Slocum hung back. The tarantula juice would go a ways toward cutting the taste of trail dust, but it was more important to keep the men from gossiping about him. Let them say they had drunk a free shot, and nobody else in town was likely to ask more than that. If he had denied them their bounty, word might have spread like lightning.
    He finally got a shot from the dregs. The liquor burned like a branding iron all the way down to his empty gut, where it threatened to sear away at his flesh the rest of the night.
    â€œYou’re mighty good with that hogleg, mister,” the piano player said. “Ain’t seen you around. Mr. Mackenzie jist bring you in?”
    â€œJust got into town,” Slocum said.
    He didn’t understand why the piano player reached out and pushed up Slocum’s hat until his forehead was exposed any more than he did what the piano player said next.
    â€œSorry, sir. Didn’t mean nuthin’ by my impudence.” The man backed off and even put a protective arm around the woman who had been occupying his lap earlier.
    They cast quick, fearful looks at Slocum and returned to the piano. In a thrice, the music started again, the man playing and the woman warbling off-key. But no one in the saloon thought twice about it. They had their free drinks.
    Slocum had some questions he wanted to ask, but there wasn’t anyone to answer. He settled down in a chair and quickly had the table all to himself. The patrons avoided him just as the piano player had, sometimes casting a quick look in his direction, as if to be sure he wasn’t swinging his six-gun into action against them.
    This set Slocum to thinking. None of the men in the saloon wore sidearms. More than a few carried knives sheathed in boots or at their side, but he was the only one wearing a gun. That struck him as unusual but not to the point of them shunning him.
    He looked up when a new customer came into the tent, standing for a moment holding the flap and them moving in quickly. Slocum sat a little straighter in his chair when he saw the man had a number 10 whitewashed on his forehead. He wore a six-gun slung low, tied down, and moved with the easy grace of a natural shootist.
    The others in the tent subtly edged away from him, too. He got a drink, turned, and saw Slocum. A look of relief passed quickly, replaced with a touch of fear that