“You want t’make something of this, partner?”

Yom did, very much. But the sheriff was riding armed today— his duster was bulky and Yom saw silver barrels peek out from every break in the fabric. There might have even been a ray gun somewhere ’round the thigh.

Hell, Yom thought, if he was unarmed and twice as drunk it wouldn’t matter. The sheriff—Grisly, or Greaslay or something like that—was a hard-looking man. Half-shaven, like the razor wouldn’t take; body as thick as a horse with the flab of an old John Wayne. Yom wasn’t half his size.

He thought about backing away, maybe groveling maybe not. Then he spotted the salloon girls in the corner. He saw the glittering neon of their cleavage palpitate lightly— giggling. The metal bouncer beside them looked at him with a disinterested expression of disgust.

Yom looked back at Grisney. He slammed his drink.

The last thing he would remember about that night was raising his fist and growling, “Pal, this won’t be pretty.”