Free Sunset Trail by Wayne D. Overholser

the bank. . . .”
    “Damn it, I ain’t done!” Fisher bellowed. “The Populists want to abolish the national banks. They want the government to take
     over the railroads and telegraph. I tell you that, if Wyatt is allowed to live, and the fool voters of this state put him
     back into office. . . .”
    “All right, we know how you feel.” Corrigan took the old man’s arm. “Let’s go over to the bank and see if Matt’s got his meeting
     started.”
    Fisher tried to break free, but failed. Corrigan pulled him toward the batwings, but he had not taken more than two steps
     until Vance Yarnell said: “Let’s take this snot-nosed sheriff and whittle him down to size. He sure needs a lesson, seeing
     as he ain’t dry behind the ears.”
    Yarnell lunged at Corrigan who had been watching them and, knowing that this was typical of cowboys who hated any figure of
     authority, had expected some kind of a move. He let go of Fisher’s arm and drove his fist squarely at Yarnell’s chin, a pile-driving
     blow that knocked the Owl Creek man cold. Corrigan jumped back, his gun in his hand.
    Lupton and Mason were slow to follow Yarnell’s Lupton and Mason were slow to follow Yarnell’s lead, slow enough so that now,
     facing Corrigan’s gun, they lost their appetite for fighting. “Pick Yarnell up,” Corrigan ordered. “Tote him out of here.
     You’re going to jail, the three of you.”
    “You can’t do that!” Lupton shouted indignantly.
    “What’d we do?”
    “You attacked an officer of the law,” Corrigan said. “Now do what I told you or I’ll pistol whip both of you and haul you
     in myself.”
    A cowboy on the other side of the room let out a rebel yell and shouted: “Let’s take the sheriffs pants off! He’s too smart
     for his britches.”
    “Stand pat!” Elliott bellowed above the rumble of the crowd as he brought a sawed-off shotgun into view from behind the bar.
     “Any of you buckos who think you’re going to take the sheriff will get your heads shot off. I’ll start with you, Holly.”
    The cowboy who had yelled raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m sorry, Sam. I decided I don’t want the sheriffs pants,
     after all.”
    “Get those Owl Creekers out of here, Jerry,” Elliott said. “I’m closing for the night.”
    “Move,” Corrigan said.
    Cursing, Mason and Lupton picked up Yarnell and started toward the batwings, Corrigan coming behind them, his cocked gun in
     his hand.
    Fisher was already on the boardwalk by the time Corrigan got there with the Owl Creek men. He was meek now as he said: “You’re
     coming to the bank, ain’t you?”
    “No,” Corrigan answered. “I’m supposed to take Jean buggy riding and that’s what I’m going to do. You tell Matt that.”
    “I’ve got something to tell you,” Fisher said, “and you’d better listen. Wyatt will never live to ride out of this town.”
    Corrigan turned away and went on toward the jail, keeping two paces between him and the Owl Creek men. They reached the end
     of the business block and crossed the street to the courthouse square. A minute later he locked the three men in a cell, then
     wheeled and sprinted to the livery stable.
    Walt Payson, the liveryman, saw him run through the archway and called: “You don’t think Jean is gonna wait up for you this
     long, do you?”
    “I dunno,” Corrigan panted. “Just hook that horse up, will you?”
    The Dugan house was across the street from the courthouse and directly north of the platform that had been built for the speechmaking
     and the auctioning of the irrigated land. Corrigan was still breathing hard when he drew up in front of the house and whistled.
     Usually he walked up the path to the front door and yanked the bell pull, but tonight, as late as he was, he was afraid to.
     If Jean didn’t come, he’d know she’d given up and gone to bed. In that case, he’d take the horse and buggy back to the livery
     stable and try to see her first thing in the