It was a slow afternoon in the Mountaineer Saloon, one of several saloons in Millington, a small town in the northwest corner of the Colorado Territory. Millington was a stable community with a slowly growing population. Many people believed that it was nearing its optimal size. The surrounding area contained many farms and ranches, both large and small, and there were few unused tracts of land available anywhere. Several silver and phosphate mines operated in the higher elevations. Production at these was steady and there were no current plans to sink any additional shafts. In the town itself, commerce was good, and all stores and businesses were busy. The consensus among business owners was that there were already enough businesses to support the town, and additional entrepreneurs were not necessary. None of these businessmen wanted a reduced market share should additional competitors move into town.

Sheriff Roy Lancaster was working in his office across the street from the saloon. It had been quiet in town for the past few weeks. The sheriff was planning to visit some of the outlying farms and ranches in the coming weeks to more or less "show the badge." His idea was to remind the people in those areas that professional law enforcement was available to them in town whenever they might need it. He would encourage them to contact the sheriff's office if trouble occurred rather than relying on vigilante justice or personal retribution in solving their problems. In the past, this message had been well received by these citizens. He was confident that these new visits would reinforce this acceptance.

The sheriff was studying an area map that was spread across his desk when the office door opened, and a young man entered the room. Roy raised his eyes and recognized the visitor. He was Norm Webber, the bartender from the Mountaineer.

"Afternoon, Sheriff," said Norm as he approached the desk. "I need your help. There's a cowboy in the Mountaineer wearing a six-gun. I told him that it's against the law in Millington. I asked him to stow it outside in his saddlebag or bring it over here for you to hold. He declined, said that he'll only be in town for a short spell."

Sheriff Lancaster shook his head in frustration. "This new ordinance is quickly becoming a pain in my ass," he griped. "The town council makes these new rules, and it becomes my problem to enforce them."

"I'm really sorry, Roy," said Norm. "I'm only doing what I've been told to do. This is a pain in my ass, too."

"You're doing the right thing," replied the sheriff apologetically. "Keep doing it. It's not a problem. I took an oath to enforce all the laws in this town whether I agree with them or not. That's why I'm here and it's what I intend to do."

Roy Lancaster grabbed his tan Stetson from the hatrack as he stood from his chair. He would use this interruption as an opportunity to stretch his legs. He could use a short break anyway.

"Come on," he said to Norm as he headed toward the office door. "Let's go."

The bartender followed Roy outside. The two men walked across the street together and entered the Mountaineer through the wooden, swinging doors on the front of the building. Once inside, Norm walked to the long bar located against the back wall. He moved behind the bar and immediately began to refill some empty shot glasses with rye whiskey.

Roy stopped just inside the swinging doors where he carefully surveyed the room. A group of five men were playing stud poker at a round table located on the left. Several men were standing against the bar, most with their backs to the front door. The sheriff immediately spotted a cowboy with a handgun hanging from his hip in full view. The man was standing at the end of the bar facing it. As Roy began walking toward him, the cowboy seemed to sense that someone was approaching. He turned and faced the sheriff. Roy stopped walking upon reaching the bar where he assumed a standing position beside the cowboy.

"Afternoon, stranger," said Sheriff Lancaster to the cowboy. "What brings you to Millington?"

"Just passin' through," replied the cowboy. "Just wanna have a couple drinks, maybe somethin' to eat, then I'll be gettin' on my way."

"Who are you?

"Timothy Delaine. I come from Kansas, down Topeka way."

"Where you headed?"

"Grand Forks."

"Grand Forks!" exclaimed the sheriff. "That's quite a ride from here."

"Yeah, I know it is," agreed Timothy. "My kin own a spread near there. Raise wheat and cattle. They're gonna put me to work."

Roy nodded his head in understanding. The cowboy seemed like a likeable fellow.

"Seems like we have a bit of a problem in the meantime," declared Roy. "We have laws in this town. One law prohibits the wearing of a firearm within the town limits. There are signs clearly posted as you enter the town." Roy pointed at the man's handgun hanging in a holster. "Obviously, you're not in compliance. Certainly, you must have seen one of the signs."

"Yeah, I'm sure I probably did," said Timothy, "but I if I did, I don't know what it said. I ain't had much schoolin', sheriff. My daddy didn't see no purpose in it. I never learnt about readin' and writin' and such. I'm real sorry. I don't mean no disrespect."

Sheriff Lancaster felt compassion for the man, Nevertheless, the law had been broken. Roy felt compelled to pursue the matter further.

"Okay, I can understand your confusion," said Roy, "but the barkeep here informed you of the law. He asked you to take your gun outside to your saddlebag or across the street to my office where I would hold it for you. You refused to do either. You're in willful violation."

Timothy nodded. "Yeah, I suppose I am," he agreed, "but again, sheriff, I didn't mean no disrespect."

"If it's not disrespect, what would you call it? You were informed of the law, and you chose to ignore it. That's willful violation."

"Look sheriff," replied Timothy, "I just want somethin' to eat, that's all, and then I'll be on my way. I can't give up my gun. I need it for protection. I'm a dead man without it."

A skeptical expression encompassed Roy Lancaster's face. "You best explain to me," he said. "I need to understand."

Timothy Delaine informed the sheriff that he had encountered bandits on the road earlier in the day. The incident had occurred about a four-hour ride south of Millington. Two masked riders had blocked him on the road and demanded his money.

"I carry my money in a front, pants pocket. I couldn't give it to 'em cause I need it to get me to Grand Forks. If the thieves took my money, I'd have to scavenge the rest of the way there. Either that or scavenge my way back to Kansas. I ain't sure I'd survive doin' either."

Timothy's demeanor indicated that the incident had rattled him. He continued his story.

"I resisted 'em by pulling my gun and firing it. The shot hit one of the bandits in the arm causing him to drop his gun. His partner fired his gun at me but missed. He quickly turned his main attention to his partner, not knowing how bad he was hurt. I used this chance to prod my horse and gallop away, sitting as low in my saddle as I could. The bandit fired some more shots but missed 'em all. I kept ridin' hard and got away.

"For the next four hours, I rode at a medium speed, stoppin' now and then to look back. I could see dust in the air a mile or so behind indicating that they were following me. The injured bandit must be okay, maybe just a flesh wound. A couple hours ago, I met a farmer on the road and described to him what had happened. He said that the bandits might be the Wilcox brothers, known troublemakers in that area. The farmer warned me to keep ridin'. Said they'll kill me on sight if they catch me. I believe he's right."

Sheriff Lancaster nodded his head. "I think so, too. I had a situation with them a few years ago. They're bad guys. I kicked them out of Millington and told them not to come back. So far, they've stayed away. It looks like that might be about to change."

The sheriff stood in deep thought for several minutes, trying to determine what to do. Finally, he concocted a plan. It was a simple plan, but it would be very effective if implemented properly.

"Okay, I think I have an idea," Roy began explaining to Timothy. "I'll place you under arrest for carrying a handgun in town. This offense carries a ten dollar fine. Instead of the fine, I'll place you in the town jail overnight. You'll be protected there. When the Wilcox brothers arrive in town, they'll be in violation of my order to stay away. They'll probably also be carrying their handguns. They'll be arrested on both counts and placed in jail. I'll keep them there for several days. Meanwhile, due to overcrowding in the jail, I'll reduce your sentence to time served and release you for good behavior. You'll be free to leave. By the time I release the two criminals, you'll be safely in Grand Forks. Your trail will be getting cold. They won't try tracking you that far just to settle a grudge. I know them. I'm sure of this."

Timothy smiled upon hearing the plan. He unfastened his gun belt. "This sounds like a good plan, sheriff. Take my gun. I guess I'm going to jail."

Sheriff Lancaster took possession of the handgun. He and Timothy left the Mountaineer and walked across the street together to the town jail located inside the sheriff's office. The jail consisted of two cells, both currently empty. Timothy entered one of the cells and Roy closed and locked the door behind him. Timothy had never previously been in jail, and he now felt as though he was locked inside a cage. He was. He sat down on the side of the narrow bed as he began to serve his punishment. He was promised something to eat soon. He anticipated being released in the next few hours. Timothy was satisfied with the sheriff's plan, and he trusted it. He believed that the lawman was a competent, honest man.

The sheriff was confident that the Wilcox brothers would be coming to town. Not knowing how much time he had, he immediately began preparing for their arrival. In less than an hour, these preparations were complete, and Roy was satisfied that the town was ready. Perhaps the recent weeks of quietness in Millington were coming to an end.

In early evening, Sheriff Lancaster observed from his office window as two horses sauntered into town at a slow gait. The two riders were in their late twenties, wearing dark clothes. One man wore a black Stetson, the other man's hat was grey. Each man had a six-gun hanging in a holster on his gun belt. Each man also had a rifle in a scabbard attached to his horse. Roy was certain that they were the Wilcox brothers. Although he had not seen them in several years, he recognized them without difficulty.

As part of his plan, Roy had left Timothy's horse tied to the hitching rail outside the Mountaineer. A bedroll, saddlebags and a rifle in a scabbard were attached to the horse behind the saddle. Several other horses were also tied to the hitching rail, but they obviously belonged to local riders in that none of these contained a bedroll or a rifle. The Wilcox brothers had no trouble in quickly spotting a traveler's horse. They recognized it immediately as belonging to the cowboy who had tussled with them that afternoon. Roy watched as the brothers dismounted in front of the saloon and tied their horses to an adjacent hitching rail. They briefly stood and spoke together, allowing their legs to recover from sitting in their saddles for the past several hours. Once their legs felt loose and strong, they climbed onto the boardwalk and walked into the Mountaineer through the swinging, wooden doors. They were still wearing their guns.

As soon as the Wilcox brothers entered the saloon, Sheriff Lancaster put on his tan Stetson and headed toward the front door. Timothy noticed the activity and stood from the bed where he had been sitting.

"I'll be locking the door while I'm away," Roy said to the prisoner. "The brothers have arrived and they're inside the Mountaineer. It's time for me to pay them a visit."

Timothy nodded his head in understanding. "Good luck, sheriff," he said. "You be careful."

"Thanks," replied Roy. "I'll be back in a little while."

Timothy watched as Roy exited the building. He heard the door shut and the sound of the key turning the lock. He could feel the adrenalin rushing into his bloodstream knowing that the anticipated confrontation was about to begin. He wished that he could go across the street to witness it, but he understood why this could not be possible. He was content in believing that this matter would soon be settled, and he could again be on his way.

Roy Lancaster was apprehensive yet confident as he walked across the street to the saloon. As he reached the two swinging, wooden doors on the front of the building, he hesitated briefly and took a couple of deep breaths. He then pushed through the door and resumed standing just inside the barroom. He carefully scanned the room, and he located the Wilcox brothers exactly where he had expected them to be. They were standing at the bar speaking with Norm Webber. Their backs were to the front door, and they had not heard the sheriff enter. Roy took several steps forward and halted again as he reached the center of the room.

"Malcolm and Frank Wilcox," called out the sheriff in a loud voice.

The brothers slowly turned around and faced Sheriff Lancaster. They did not appear to be surprised to see him, although they probably had not expected a confrontation so soon upon their arrival in town. Through the years, they had experienced altercations with law enforcement many times in many different places. They did not seem to be intimidated by the sheriff's presence.

"What brings you to Millington?" asked Roy, although he already knew the answer to his question.

"We have a business matter to settle," replied Frank Wilcox. "We don't expect to be here too long."

"What kind of business?"

"A private matter," replied Frank. "It's none of your business."

"No, I disagree," said Roy. "It is my business. I let you guys out of jail six years ago with the understanding that you'd never come back here. Now you're here. Unless you can convince me otherwise, my inclination is to put you back in jail. You still owe me thirteen days on a fifteen-day sentence."

"Come on!" replied Frank angrily. "That was six years ago. Certainly, there must be some sort of statute of limitations. You can't bar us from town forever."

"Oh, yes I can," retorted Roy, "unless you want to serve the remaining thirteen days of your sentence."

The Wilcox brothers stared at the sheriff, wondering where this conversation was leading. They no longer had smart aleck expressions on their faces. They were now becoming worried.

"There's one other matter," continued the sheriff. "Both of you are wearing handguns in violation of a town ordinance. The law is visibly posted on signs at all entrances into town." Roy pointed at both of their gun belts. "You're both in willful violation."

"We didn't see the signs," protested Malcom.

"That's no excuse," replied Roy. "The signs are visibly posted. It's your responsibility to read them. In my opinion, you've read at least one and you've chosen to ignore it. Like I said, a willful violation."

The Wilcox brothers were now silent, each contemplating the situation and perhaps trying to determine a course of action. They were in a difficult spot.

"Unfasten your gun belts and place them on the bar," instructed the sheriff. "You're both under arrest. The circuit court judge will be in town next week. He can decide then if you'll have served enough time or if you should be held for a longer duration."

The brothers hesitated and did not respond to the sheriff's order. They were reluctant to comply. They looked around the room and were relieved to see that nobody else appeared to be carrying a sidearm. Besides them, the only other armed man in the room was apparently Sheriff Lancaster.

"No, I don't think we will," said Frank Wilcox defiantly. "There's two of us and only one of you. I don't believe you'll want to try your hand. Me and Malcolm are both pretty good with a gun. If you reach for yours, I like our chances. My advice is that you best leave us alone."

Roy looked in the direction of Malcom. "The arm of your brother's shirt is singed and it's obvious that he's been bleeding. It appears to me that he's got himself a flesh wound. He's been lucky once today." The sheriff now spoke directly to Malcom. "What do you say, Malcolm? Are you still feeling lucky?"

"I think we'll just leave," declared Frank. "No need for trouble. We'll show ourselves out and be on our way." The brothers both took a couple of steps toward the swinging doors.

"Hold it!" said Roy in a loud voice with an authoritative tone. "You're not going anywhere. I told you to put your gun belts on the bar. Do it now!"

Simultaneously, Norm Webber lifted a 12-gauge shotgun from behind the bar and pointed it at Frank Wilcox. Bud Phillips, the Deputy Sheriff, lifted another 12-gauge from below a poker table where he was sitting and pointed it at Malcom. The brothers halted in their tracks.

"You two are seriously outgunned," stated the sheriff. "There are two other loaded shotguns strategically placed in this room. Do yourselves a favor. Be smart for the first time in your lives. Unbuckle your gun belts and put them on the bar. Then raise your hands and keep them there. Don't give us a reason to start shooting. Believe me, you won't enjoy the outcome."

The Wilcox brothers slowly looked around the room. They could not determine the locations of the additional shotguns, if they really existed. It did not matter. They were already outgunned by the locals and not at all confident that they could survive a gunfight. Reluctantly, they surrendered their gun belts and raised their hands. They were immediately arrested and taken into custody. With a 12-gauge shotgun poking each of them in the back, Sheriff Lancaster led the prisoners across the street and into the vacant jail cell in his office. Once inside, the cell door was clanged shut behind them and locked. The sheriff put the key to the jail cell in his desk drawer, well out of the prisoners' reach.

As the Wilcox brothers began to settle in their jail cell, they immediately noticed through the iron bars that a prisoner was sitting in the adjoining cell. They recognized him as the cowboy whom they had been following all afternoon. Their faces flushed in anger, and they erupted with expletives and dire threats directed at this other man. Timothy looked back at them but did not respond. The sheriff used this opportunity to intervene. He took the jail cell keys from his desk drawer, stood and walked to Timothy's cell where he unlocked the heavy door and opened it wide.

"You're free to go, cowboy," said the sheriff. "The jail here's getting too crowded. Consider your punishment served in full. Try to stay out of trouble."

"Hey, you can't do that!" complained Frank Wilcox. "That ain't fair! It ain't right!"

"Sure, I can do it," replied Roy. "I just did. This man was in jail on a misdemeanor charge. You two idiots came in here and threatened him with bodily harm. He won't be subjected to that kind of intimidation while incarcerated in my jail. I won't stand for it. He's been quiet and cooperative. I'm utilizing my prerogative to release him for his good behavior."

"Besides," continued Roy, "I don't care if you like it or not. I gave you and your brother an early release six years ago. You've both been in and out of trouble ever since. I won't make that mistake again. This time I'll wait for the judge to decide your punishment. I'm not letting you out till then."

As the Wilcox brothers griped and complained, Roy walked outside of the building with Timothy. He handed the man back his gun belt, then directed his attention to the livery stable just up the street.

"You're welcome to hunker down at the livery if you'd like," offered Roy. "It's owned by Jim Keller and he's usually there. Just tell him that the sheriff sent you. He'll let you stay the night. It's no problem. We've done this for other riders before."

"Thank, sheriff," replied Timothy. "I'm much obliged. I reckon I'll take you up on that. I've got a long ride ahead of me tomorrow. I could use some good shut eye."

Timothy shook hands with the sheriff.

"You're welcome, cowboy," said Sheriff Lancaster. "Good travels tomorrow. Be safe"

Timothy walked across the street where he proceeded to untie his horse from the hitching rail, before turning away and leading it up the street to the livery stable. The sheriff watched for a few seconds before turning around and going back inside his office. Deputy Phillips would be relieving him in a couple of hours. Meanwhile, Roy would have to deal with the prisoners. He disliked them both and he expected that his next two hours were going to be very unpleasant. Just part of my job, he thought to himself while slowly shaking his head. Just part of the job.