Free Steel by Richard Matheson

a trifle to hide the movement of his throat.
    â€œTell him he’s a dirty Rebel,” he said in a breathless-sounding voice. “Tell him—tell him I’m a Yankee and I hate all Rebels!”
    For another moment he stood before us in wavering defiance. Then suddenly he was gone.
    George broke the spell. We heard the clink of glass on glass as he poured himself a drink. We watched him swallow it in a single gulp. “Young fool,” he muttered.
    I got up and went over to him.
    â€œHow do you like that? ” he asked me, gesturing one big hand in the general direction of the doors.
    â€œWhat are you going to do?” I asked him, conscious of the two men now sauntering with affected carelessness for the doors.
    â€œWhat am I supposed to do?” George asked me. “Tell Selkirk, I guess.”
    I told George about my talk with young Riker and of his strange transformation from city boy to, apparently, self-appointed pistol killer.
    â€œWell,” George said when I was finished talking, “where does that leave me? I can’t have a young idiot like that angry with me. Do you know his triggers were filed to a hair? Did you see the way he slung that Colt?” he shook his head. “He’s a fool,” he said. “But a dangerous fool—one that a man can’t let himself take chances with.”
    â€œDon’t tell Selkirk,” I said. “I’ll go to the sheriff and—”
    George waved an open palm at me. “Don’t joke now, John,” he said. “You know Cleat hides his head under the pillow when there’s shooting in the air.”
    â€œBut this would be a slaughter, George,” I said. “Selkirk is a hardened killer, you know that for a fact.”
    George eyed me curiously. “Why are you concerned about it?” he asked me.
    â€œBecause he’s a boy,” I said. “Because he doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
    George shrugged. “The boy came in and asked for it himself, didn’t he?” he said. “Besides, even if I say nothing, Selkirk will hear about it, you can be sure of that. Those two who just went out—don’t you think they’ll spread the word?”
    A grim smile raised Shaughnessy’s lips. “The boy will get his fight,” he said. “And may the Lord have mercy on his soul.”
    George was right. Word of the young stranger’s challenge flew about the town as if the wind had blown it. And with the word, the threadbare symbol of our justice, Sheriff Cleat, sought the sanctuary of his house, having either scoffed at all storm warnings or ignored them in his practiced way.
    But the storm was coming; everyone knew it. The people who had found some reason to bring them to the square—they knew it. The men thronging the Nellie Gold who seemed to have developed a thirst quite out of keeping with their normal desires—they knew it. Death is a fascinating lure to men who can stand aside and watch it operate on someone else.
    I stationed myself near the entrance of the Nellie Gold, hoping that I might speak to young Riker, who had been in his hotel room all afternoon, alone.
    *   *   *
    At seven-thirty, Selkirk and his ruffian friends galloped to the hitching rack, tied up their snorting mounts, and went into the saloon. I heard the greetings offered them and their returning laughs and shouts. They were elated, all of them; that was not hard to see. Things had been dull for them in the past few months. Cleat had offered no resistance, only smiling fatuously to their bullying insults. And, in the absence of any other man willing to draw his pistol on Barth Selkirk, the days had dragged for him and for his gang, who thrived on violence. Gambling and drinking and the company of Grantville’s lost women was not enough for these men. It was why they were all bubbling with excited anticipation that night.
    While I stood waiting on the