U.S. Marshal Jake Carpenter never met death, but he understood its intentions and that it was trying to make his acquaintance for some time. The mountains and semi-arid plains of the Territory of Colorado were unforgiving to a lawman who let his guard down against the grasping clutch of the Grim Reaper. Jake played the fool three years ago, and the devil-scythe reaped too closely as a result, leaving in its path a wound which might never heal. By all that was holy, he wouldn't make that mistake again. It was why he rode alone. It was why he was alone.

"You're Jake Carpenter, ain't ya?" The question interrupted Jake's progress on the steps in front of Walker's General Mercantile, located in the busiest section of the growing, frontier town of Denver. A grimy stranger barred his path on the sun-bleached wood of the walkway, a twitch nagging at the right side of his face as he spoke.

In no rush to answer, Carpenter took the time to observe a rodent scurrying for safety under a wood plank. During those seconds, a breeze toyed with his russet hair, reminding him of his need for a shave and cut, pronto. His blue eyes finally rose to confront the soiled man blocking his way, containing in their stare a glacial chill reserved for those trying to make a reputation at his expense. He knew the type. "I suppose I'm Carpenter. There a problem, stranger?"

Hesitation rolled across pocked features of the inquisitor while bloodshot eyes flicked to the left, toward the corner of the building. From Jake's experience, that meant one of two things: the standing human debris was encouraged into this rash action by liquored buddies waiting out of sight in case there was trouble; or he was smarter than he looked and was attempting to formulate an escape plan. The first of the two options made the most sense. Judging from the fellow's odor and the blank look in his eyes, it was safe to assume he wasn't the fastest bullet in the chamber.

The outlaw's swollen tongue attempted to wet his lips in order to spit out more words, settling for a dry croak when his fear refused to produce the necessary moisture. "I'm your problem lawman, and you'd best pay attention." It wasn't a wise reply, but Jake wasn't expecting one either.

The rodent reappeared in his path, carrying discarded food scavenged from under the sidewalk while Jake waited. The sound of pedestrians and horses, along with the wheels of stagecoaches, buggies, and buckboards, created a steady backdrop of noise in the bustling town. Blake Street was busy today, its commerce undistracted by a burgeoning disagreement between two men. It took more than talk to attract the attention of its citizens on something other than their own affairs. The reeking pile of clothes rasped out a challenge, bringing Jake's attention to bear. "Did ya hear me, lawman? Quick Hand Bart is talking at ya."

A weary smile replaced the expression covering the Marshal's face. Why did these petty thieves always give themselves ridiculous titles? The only thing quick the drunken man's hands were doing was shaking. That wasn't altogether a good sign, no matter the circumstances. Fear makes even a clever man do foolish things, and the sack of smell wearing a gun belt didn't appear to have been blessed by the Creator with many smarts in the first place.

Spurs sang out on the boards of the walkway, announcing Carpenter's advance toward the source of his rising irritation. With a voice low and full of hard menace, Jake responded. "Quick Hand Bart, you say?" His eyes watered at the stench emanating from the trembling culprit. An even stronger odor of whiskey blasted its way through gaps in the man's teeth like a harmonica of liquor. "Can I give you some advice, Mr. Quick Hand?" Jake was nose to nose with the pretender, and his nostrils protested the close proximity.

The self-anointed Mr. Quick Hand gave a slow nod, his eyes wide in near-terror. Maybe he wasn't so brainless after all. Maybe there was a chance this would end without incident. Jake spoke with purpose to achieve that end. "Turn around and go back to the saloon. You and your friends were likely having a good time there before you spied me from the window. Am I right?" The unwashed head bobbed a second time.

It was necessary to drive home a final point, and Jake's voice dropped low for the purpose. "Don't ever step in my way again. I'm not looking for a fight, but it seems you are." The bloodshot eyes of the would-be duelist widened further. "Go tell your Compadres you came to your senses and decided not to call me out. Understand?" The mass of greasy hair nodded a third time. "Good. Now get out of here. I don't want to see you out on the streets again until you're sober."

A blinking Quick Hand Bart turned with unsteady feet to begin his journey toward the corner of the building. Jake waited, alert, as he watched. This just might work. Maybe there was more than one lone pony galloping inside his grubby head. The thought was premature as the drunken man halted his progress on the boardwalk. Oh Lord. Jake held out hope, but knew the deck was stacked against him when dealing with the combination of whiskey and no good sense.

With an adrenaline fueled yell, the malcontent whirled, his right hand clawing the holster which enveloped his pistol. Jake was ready for the move, having silently approached the odious man while his back was still turned. The instant the renegade made his ill-considered spin, Jake drove a fist of knuckles into the man's mouth, propelling him to a spread-eagle landing on the wood boards, like a sack of feed tossed to the ground. Jake's Colt Army Revolvers swept out, their bitter steel waiting for unconscious Quick Hand Bart's inebriated supporters to stumble around the corner in his defense. It took several seconds, but they eventually did. At the sight of pistols aimed in their direction, however, they appeared to lose most of their enthusiasm for the day's activity.

Jake didn't have time for them to come up with a coherent thought, his knife-edged voice interrupting their confusion with his own brand of introduction. "Hello, boys. Nice to make your acquaintance." They didn't look pleased to meet him at all. "I wonder if you'd do me a favor." The boldest of the party stepped forward in answer, spewing defiance.

"If you've killed Bart, we'll plug ya. That's for sure, lawman." The youthful sneer accompanying his words evaporated at the sound of the Colt's hammers cocking into firing position, and Carpenter noted with interest how the smallest noises often produced the largest changes in attitude.

"Let me tell you what's for sure, you pack of half-wits." Carpenter's boots rang on the boards, the group looking as if the temperature dipped twenty degrees in response to his movement. "You're going to drop your gun belts and pick up your friend here. After that, you're going back to your hotel and sleep off the whiskey. It's either that, or I'll toss all of you into a jail cell for the night. Your choice." Jake's eyes narrowed when he heard the young leader of the bunch summon up nerve for more resistance.

"Now wait a minute, lawman. You ain't got no right to--"

The speaker's head snapped back as Jake interrupted with the butt of his pistol. He found it almost satisfying to watch the man thud to the wood next to his partner, their positions mirroring each other. The rest of the gang backed away a few steps, a rush of hands scrambling at the buckles of their gun belts. It looked as if a desire to remain conscious was finally overpowering their sheer idiocy.

Jake approved of the newly acquired wisdom. "Good thinking, fellas. Now take your two silent friends here and head to your rooms. I'm taking your guns to the Denver Sheriff, and he's going to hold them for you until you leave tomorrow morning. Any questions?"

After several seconds of exchanging uncomfortable glances, one of them stuttered a protest. "But we just rode in here last night, Marshal."

"Do I look like that concerns me?" Each head shook back and forth as they eyed the menacing posture of the iron in each of Jake's hands. The lawman struggled to contain his anger as he continued. "I'll be checking the hotel later to see if you're following my directions. If you're not holed up in your rooms, I'll hog-tie every one of you and send you out East on your horses tonight. I hear there's been some Indian raiding parties lately. They just might be interested in a gang of tied up rabble-rousers, and you look like the sorts who most likely haven't been too kind to the Tribes in the past. You understand my meaning?" This time their heads nodded in the affirmative, desperation filling their expressions at the thought of reaping consequences for past misdeeds toward Indians without the protection of weapons and other white men.

"Then get your filthy carcasses out of my sight. Now."

The freshly sobered disturbers of the peace dropped their weapons and hoisted their friends in a rush of arms and legs. It was comical to watch them labor toward the saloon and hotel, their greasy burdens heaving and swaying in the dust of the street, but Jake was no longer in a laughing mood.

The jostle in the dusty street continued as Carpenter collected the dropped gun belts, shaking his head in disgust while the scarred leather of his boots aimed for the building housing the Sheriff of Denver. It hadn't gone as well as he'd wanted, but it went better than it might have. Ever since the Civil War ended seven years ago, fools like these were pouring into the Colorado Territory. The lure of gold, silver, and land was too great for them to resist, and they were making his job as a Territorial Marshal troublesome. Although he'd made a private oath to the Good Lord above to perform his duties with as little killing as he could manage, he knew sooner or later a river of blood on the ground would accompany the bodies. His blue eyes took on a firm quality, matching the set of his jaw, as he faced the fact one day his own blood would likely contribute to the flow.