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Slaughter Gulch

"Watch your back," you howl, hopping off your stool and racing to Dakota's aid. The Indian turns just in time and leaps out of the way as the chair smashes down, splintering into a dozen pieces as it strikes the floor.

The other two ranchers turn to meet your assault and you barrel headlong into one, propelling him through a pane glass window. One down, two to go. Dakota slugs the one who had the chair and he spins toward you. A punch of your own sends him careening into a wall. The last rancher, and perhaps the smartest of the lot, throws himself through the broken window and hightails it the hell out of there.

You almost smile. Almost. Brushing yourself off, you saunter over to the bar and grab your bottle, ignoring the bartender's protests. Dakota falls in at your side.

"I owe you," he states flatly.

"I didn't do it for you." You take a pull from the bottle and grimace. Good stuff. "I did it for the bourbon."

Dakota arches a brow but lets the matter drop. After a brief silence, he dips his head, then turns to leave. "Take care," he calls over his shoulder before departing.