––––––––
It all started with the horse trader named Jacob Nelson from Idaho who came staggering over to my table with a couple of his hands, both of whom were three sheets to the wind, same as their boss. The last thing I needed was for some drunk yelling who I was. I was half way finished with my third glass of whiskey, and trying to keep a low profile by hiding myself among the raucous cowboys, loggers, harvest bums, and prospectors who had also come out of the blustery winter night to warm up inside Chaney"s Saloon. There were men sat around tables playing cards, losing their hard earned wages to sharp eyed, professional gamblers. Others either sat along the bar, or mingled on the floor, getting blinding drunk as they boisterously whooped and laughed after hard weeks of back breaking t
