The Last Walkdown

Virginia City had seen its share of law officers, but the latest sheriff, a stout and square-jawed fellow named Wes Halford, had riled the town like a kicked anthill. He made sweeping changes from the moment he pinned the star to his chest, aiming to tame a town that had long tolerated its rowdy charm.

Banning children from saloons outright was his first move, a change that left families grumbling. Then, in a bold display, he marched into the Bucket of Blood Saloon and unbuckled Cowboy Carl’s six shooters, relics of another age, leaving the man red-faced and sputtering.

“Those guns ain’t been loaded in thirty years, Sheriff!” Carl bellowed, chasing Halford out onto the boardwalk.

“They’re still guns,” Halford snapped, tossing the holsters over his shoulder. “Rules are rules, Carl.”

Carl glared at the sheriff’s back. “Rules, my foot. This town wasn’t built on rules—it was built on grit!”

Inside the Crystal Saloon, where many townsfolk had gathered to watch the spectacle, Hank Weaver, the barkeep, leaned on the counter and smirked. “You see that? Halford’s tighter than a preacher on Sunday.”

“I’ll say,” muttered Sarah Clemens, the widow who owned the bakery two doors down. “He told me my pies were an eyesore on my windowsill! Can you believe that? An eyesore!”

“I don’t mind it,” chimed in a young tourist sipping a beer. “Keeps things orderly.”

“Orderly? This ain’t Boston,” said Old Bill, a grizzled prospector leaning against the bar. “Virginia City’s supposed to have a little dust and trouble. That’s how it’s been since ’49.”

Hank poured another drink for Jebediah Slater, who sat silently at the far end of the bar. The old cowboy, his face as worn as an old saddlebag, was nursing a whiskey and beer.

He didn’t say much, but his presence carried weight. Folks had heard the stories—Jeb used to be a gunslinger, a man quick with his hands and deadly with a six-shooter.

“Halford’s gonna learn soon enough,” Hank muttered, glancing toward Jeb.

The crash of breaking glass snapped everyone’s attention back to Jeb. Another bottle had been tossed toward the old woodstove by the stairs, shattering into a thousand pieces. Hank winced but didn’t say a word.

Moments later, the saloon doors swung open, and in strode Sheriff Halford, his boots heavy on the wooden floor. He stopped short at the sight of the pile of broken glass near the stove.

“What in the hell is this?” Halford barked, his voice booming.

Hank shrugged, polishing a glass. “Just Jeb. Letting off steam.”

Halford marched down the bar until he stood towering over Jeb. “You’re gonna knock that off, old man.”

Jeb didn’t look up. Instead, he finished his whiskey and lobbed it toward the stove.

Before it could reach its mark, Halford’s Colt roared, shattering the bottle.

The saloon fell silent as the sheriff holstered his gun. “I said knock it off.”

Jeb turned his head slowly, his gray eyes locking onto Halford’s. He slid off the barstool, his boots hitting the floor with a thud. “Don’t go nowhere. I’ll be back at first light.”

The man strode past Halford, his spurs jingling softly.

Hank let go a low whistle as the doors swung shut behind him. “Well, now you’ve done it, Sheriff.”

“Done what?” Halford snapped, though his voice betrayed a flicker of unease.

“He’s gone to his place to fetch his guns,” Old Bill muttered.

Another man, sitting near the window, added, “Yeah, and he’s killed before. Three men in one night. They say he only pulls when he means to kill.”

Halford straightened, his face pale. “I’ll be ready.”

The saloon murmured with doubt, and someone whispered, “You’d better be.”

By sunrise, the town was alive with tension. People lined the windows of the saloons and shops along C Street, waiting for the inevitable showdown. Tourists, business owners, and residents whispered to one another, placing bets and sharing rumors.

“You think Halford’s got a chance?” Sarah asked Hank as he set up chairs on the boardwalk.

Hank snorted. “Against Jeb? Not a prayer. But maybe he’ll learn a lesson about poking the wrong bear.”

Up the street, Carl leaned against a post, chewing on a piece of straw.

“That sheriff’s green as grass,” he muttered to a young couple watching from a hotel balcony. “You don’t challenge a man like Jeb unless you’re ready to meet your maker.”

“I heard Jeb used to ride with Wild Bill,” said the young woman.

“Wild Bill? Shoot, Jeb’s older than Wild Bill ever got,” Carl replied with a chuckle.

As the sun crept higher, hooves echoed down the street. Jeb rode in slow, his hat pulled low, a black powder pistol strapped to his left hip. He dismounted near the Crystal Saloon, slapped his horse’s flank, and turned to face the sheriff, who stood waiting in the middle of the street.

“Here we go,” muttered Hank from the saloon doorway.

Halford’s hand hovered near his holster, sweat beading on his forehead.

“Whenever you’re ready, old man.”

Jeb said nothing, his hand hanging loose by his side.

“I said, whenever you’re ready,” Halford repeated, his voice cracking.

The crowd held its breath.

Jeb finally spoke, his voice low and gravelly. “You sure you want this, Sheriff?”

Halford nodded but didn’t move.

Jeb took a step forward without warning, closing the distance between them. Halford tensed, his fingers twitching. But Jeb stopped, standing inches from the younger man, and looked him square in the eye.

“Not today, Sheriff,” Jeb said quietly. “Not today.”

He turned and walked past, pushing through the saloon doors. Moments later, the sound of breaking glass resumed.

Halford stood frozen for a moment before walking back to his office. By the next day, he was patrolling without his pistols, a quieter, more thoughtful man.

But he still never gave Cowboy Carl his rig back.