The bartender, in a white shirt, vest, and bow tie, with short, neatly combed dark hair. a handlebar moustache and large, striking eyes, came over and wiped down the bar in front of him.
“Howdy, stranger.” he said. “What’ll it be?”
Neilson immediately recognized him from old photographs he’d seen in countless books on western history. It was none other than Buckskin Frank Leslie, the famous scout and buffalo hunter, a man who often entertained himself by shooting flies off the ceiling and the occasional cigar out of someone’s mouth. A good friend of Wyatt Earp’s.
“Whiskey.” Neilson said.
“Comin, right up.” Leslie replied, setting a glass in front of him. “New in town?” he asked, as he poured.
“Yep.” said Neilson, paying for his drink.
Leslie was sizing him up. “Where you hail from, son?”
“Montana.” he replied, taking a drink. He kn
ew that a lot of these characters had drifted all over the west, from Dodge City to San Francisco, but the Montana Territory was still fairly Wild and sparsely populated. There wasn’t much happening in Montana yet except for cattle ranching and farming in the western part of the territory, along the Bitterroot. And Indian trouble. Especially Indian trouble.
“Is that right?” said Leslie, with some surprise. “Montana Territory, eh? Where ole George Custer met his Maker?”
“Yep.”
“Ever meet ’im?”
“Nope. Heard all about him. though.”
He was one hell of a man.” said Leslie.
One hell of a stupid man, if you ask me.” said Neilson.
Leslie raised his eyebrows. “How old are you, son”
“Old enough.” said Neilson.
Leslie grinned as he wiped out a glass, amused by the arrogance of youth. “What brings you to Tombstone?”
Neilson shrugged. “Heard some bends of mine might be here. prospectin’.”
“That right? What are their names? Could be I know ’em.”
“Ben Summers, Josh Billings and Joe McEnery.”
Leslie’s grin faded. “Hell. I know ’em, all right Or knew ’em. I should say I’m right sorry to tell you, son, they’re dead All three of ’em.”
Neilson put down his glass and stared at him. It was what he’d feared. Only how did they die?
Before he could ask Leslie, shouting broke out behind him and he heard a chair crash to the floor.
“ You goddamn. cheatin’ tinhorn, son of a bitch!”
Neilson turned around. Out of the corner of his eye. he saw Leslie’s hand go down below the bar.
“Step aside, son.” Leslie said, softly, his eyes on the table where the altercation was taking place.
There were five men scaled at the table. One of them, a cowboy, had jumped up. sending his chair crashing to the floor. He had pulled a six-gun from beneath his coat and cocked it. The others were still sitting at the table, staring at him nervously. All except one man, who sat very still with his hands flat on the table.
He had his back to Neilson, but he was dressed like a gambler, in a dark, dandy’s suit. The cowboy with his gun out was standing at a right angle to Neilson, his left side toward him, about a dozen feet away. Neilson quietly stepped aside, knowing that Leslie had a gun beneath the bar. The entire room became suddenly, completely silent,
“Come on now, take it easy. Slim.” said one of the other men at the table.