A Third Button Affair

Virginia City is a peculiar town. It takes no small effort to stand out in the throng of silver-tongued scoundrels, hard-bitten miners, and fortune-hunting gamblers, but Jackson managed it with an ease that bordered on art. Not for his charm or his wit—though he possessed neither—but for his unmatched skill with a revolver and a propensity to use it in ways that made men marvel even as it made them shiver.

Jackson was not violent, at least not by Virginia City standards. Violence in these parts is as regular as breakfast, and some said Jackson had skipped breakfast more than a few times. He was, however, a man of principle, and his primary principle was this: offenses were like gold nuggets, valuable and worth holding on to.

One brisk morning, as the town’s citizenry shuffled along C Street, Jackson was leaning lazily against a post, contemplating the mysteries of the universe—or, more likely, the mysteries of his next drink. His gaze suddenly fixed on a figure in the distance, a man walking toward him with the carefree air of one unaware he was heading straight for the gates of perdition.

The unfortunate soul had offended Jackson some days prior, though no one could quite recall the nature of the offense. Neither, likely, could Jackson. It was enough that it happened and was unaddressed.

As the man drew near, Jackson straightened up, dusted off his coat, and turned to a nearby group of men.

“Gentlemen,” Jackson announced with a slow, deliberate drawl that suggested he had all the time in the world, “You see that fella comin’ yonder?”

The men squinted against the sun and nodded.

“Well,” Jackson continued, drawing his revolver with the kind of reverence one might reserve for a fine violin, “He’s got a button on his coat—a third one, from the top. It’s a good twenty-yard shot, I reckon. And I’ll clip it clean.”

There was no time for protest or persuasion—not that anyone would have dared try. Jackson’s arm rose, steady as a church steeple, and the revolver barked.

A murmur of admiration rippled through the crowd as the man staggered backward, clutching his chest. Jackson, his face as blank as an unmined vein, holstered his revolver and ambled off, muttering something about needing to find a decent breakfast.

The funeral was well-attended, as funerals often are in these parts.