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The Stranger
    By Herschel Cozine
    The stranger rode into town late one afternoon, alone as always. He climbed off his horse, stretched and looked up and down the deserted street. It was always that way; people suddenly disappearing when he came through town. It didn’t bother him. In fact, he liked it that way.
    He patted his horse, threw the reins over the hitching post and walked slowly to the saloon. Standing in the doorway, the stranger surveyed the room through wary eyes. Spotting a table in the corner of the room, he strode over to it, swung a long leg over the back of the chair, and sat down, his back to the wall. Eyes alert under a wide-brimmed hat, he kept his hand on the holster of his gun. His body was tense, ready to react to the slightest movement. His dark, leathery face wore no expression. A scar ran the length of his cheek, the result of a near miss. He had won that gunfight, just as he had won so many others.
    He motioned to Jake, the bartender. “Whiskey,” he said. “Bring the bottle.”
    Jake hurried over, placed a bottle and a glass in front of the man, and went back to the bar.
    The stranger made no move for the bottle. A few men sat at the table across the room, talking in murmurs. Occasionally one would cast a quick glance over at the stranger, then just as quickly look away. Jake busied himself with washing glasses, watching the stranger from the corner of his eye in case he was beckoned. The muted voices of the men at the table were the only sounds in the saloon. The stranger couldn’t make out what was being said. But he didn’t care. He knew without hearing that they were talking about him. It was that way wherever he went. Empty streets, muffled conversations, furtive looks in his direction. He had long ago come to accept it.
    The saloon door swung open and a tall man pushed through. He wore a badge on a plain brown shirt and a six-gun on each hip. He stopped as the doors swung behind him and looked around the room. His eyes fell on the stranger. With purposeful steps, the sheriff walked over to the table, touched the brim of his hat in a greeting and nodded to a chair. The stranger pushed the chair toward the sheriff with his foot. The sheriff sat down.
    “Jake,” he called to the bartender. “Beer.”
    Jake took the glass he was cleaning and set it under the spigot. The sheriff turned back to the stranger.
    “Luke Clayton?’ he asked.
    The man nodded. “And you’d be Sheriff Trenton.”
    “You know me?” Trenton asked.
    “It’s my business to know who the law is when I come to a strange town.”
    “Passin’ through?”
    Clayton nodded.
    “You plannin’ to stay long?”
    Clayton leaned forward, picked up the bottle and studied it. He raised his eyes to meet Trenton’s. “Haven’t made up my mind yet, sheriff. Is there a law says I have to leave?”
    Trenton shook his head. “Nope.” He took the beer from Jake, handed him a coin and drank. Setting the glass on the table next to Clayton’s glass, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “But this town ain’t no place for you. Too many young bucks with big ideas. Trouble.” He sighed. “I don’t need trouble.”
    Clayton laughed softly. “I hear that ever’where I go. Seems to follow me around. Mind you, Sheriff, I don’t look for it.”
    “That don’t seem to make a whole lot of difference,” the sheriff said. “Don’t matter who starts it. Trouble is trouble.” He looked around the room. Two men stood at the bar, backs to the sheriff. One of the men at the table nodded at Trenton, took a swallow of beer, and looked away again quickly. Sheriff Trenton lifted the glass again and drank.
    “There’s one young buck in particular who thinks he’s the fastest gun that ever lived. He’ll come lookin’ for you as soon as word gets around that you’re in town.”
    Clayton shook his head ruefully. “Been through that hundreds of times, Sheriff. I can handle myself.”
    “I ain’t worried about that.