Slaughter Gulch
You throw the bourbon back and slam your glass down, then pour yourself another.
Muttonchops and friends share a few rounds of cheap liquor, growing bolder and more ornery with every shot. Their annoyed glances soon become icy glares, and the Native takes note. He pushes off from his perch beside the piano and starts for the door.
"Now jus' where innuh hell d'ya think you're goin?" Muttonchops demands. His lackeys echo the question as they move to intercept the unwanted patron. One of the ranchers, the biggest of the lot, plants himself before the door and pretends to file his nails with an oversized bowie knife. "Hank asked you a question, redskin."
"The name is Dakota. Where I go is my business alone," the Indian replies. Big Boy doesn't seem to like that answer. He brings his knife down in a shallow arc, pommel-first, hoping to connect with Dakota's temple.
The smaller man proves to be the quicker man, however, and Dakota dances casually out of the way. He lands a clenched fist square on the tip of his attacker's chin to no visible effect, eliciting a smug grin from the big guy. Dakota's next attack, a vicious palm-strike to the throat, wipes that grin away and floors the Goliath.
By now the other ranchers have reached him. He swats a wild punch aside and sends the first rancher crashing through a table. Hank--Muttonchops--takes a boot to the gut and stumbles into the bar not three paces from you.
Your only reaction is to down another glass. Seems Dakota's doing fairly well for himself, considering the six to one odds.
Hank, upon regaining his breath, reaches for the nearest weapon at hand: your bottle of Wild Turkey.
Muttonchops and friends share a few rounds of cheap liquor, growing bolder and more ornery with every shot. Their annoyed glances soon become icy glares, and the Native takes note. He pushes off from his perch beside the piano and starts for the door.
"Now jus' where innuh hell d'ya think you're goin?" Muttonchops demands. His lackeys echo the question as they move to intercept the unwanted patron. One of the ranchers, the biggest of the lot, plants himself before the door and pretends to file his nails with an oversized bowie knife. "Hank asked you a question, redskin."
"The name is Dakota. Where I go is my business alone," the Indian replies. Big Boy doesn't seem to like that answer. He brings his knife down in a shallow arc, pommel-first, hoping to connect with Dakota's temple.
The smaller man proves to be the quicker man, however, and Dakota dances casually out of the way. He lands a clenched fist square on the tip of his attacker's chin to no visible effect, eliciting a smug grin from the big guy. Dakota's next attack, a vicious palm-strike to the throat, wipes that grin away and floors the Goliath.
By now the other ranchers have reached him. He swats a wild punch aside and sends the first rancher crashing through a table. Hank--Muttonchops--takes a boot to the gut and stumbles into the bar not three paces from you.
Your only reaction is to down another glass. Seems Dakota's doing fairly well for himself, considering the six to one odds.
Hank, upon regaining his breath, reaches for the nearest weapon at hand: your bottle of Wild Turkey.