“A fancy boy like you shouldn’t be roaming around alone in the dark, Morris.” Hank Fetters stood in the space between the saloon and the blacksmith shop, blocking what little light filtered in from the bar’s windows.
Clint cursed himself for hitching Stetson in the alleyway, but all he had to do was mount up and blast out of the darkness. Even Fetters couldn’t stop a horse on his own.
Before Clint could take the final steps to his steed, though, something stirred in the deep shadows, and a hat bobbed into view. Jason Peters stepped between Clint and his horse.
“Yeah, maybe you need some pals to keep you safe,” Peters said. “I mean, seeing as how you don’t even wear a sidearm.”
It was true — Clint didn’t wear a gun. Daddy had set him up with a nice rig before the boy left home to come work on the railroad, but Grandma wanted the last word. As he sat there on top of Stetson, she laid it out for him.
“You wear that sidearm, and you’re just lookin’ for trouble,” she had said. “All you need is a little luck. Here … keep this right there in your trouser pocket with whatever money you’re carryin’. Rub it, and it’ll keep you safe.”
She winked at him and slapped Stetson to send them on their way.
Much as Clint loved his daddy, he could no more disobey Grandma than he could stop breathing. The sidearm had gone right into his dresser drawer and stayed there.
Now, faced with the two brutes. Clint rubbed Grandma’s good luck charm in his pocket.
“What do you fellas want?” Clint asked.
“Just hand over your money,” Fetters growled and hulked forward.
Clint nodded, and Grandma’s derringer flashed in the darkness with a pop.