The Wrong Gun

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Steve Winslow leaned back in his chair, cocked his head, and looked across his desk at the man holding the gun.

Russ Timberlaine looked like he’d stepped out of the road company of Indians. He could have played Ned Buntline, Buffalo Bill or Wild Bill Hickok, no problem. His blond hair hung to his shoulders. He was dressed in boots, jeans, denim shirt, buckskin vest and cowboy hat. He was a tall man, say six-six, broad-shouldered and solid. Looking at him, the term cowpuncher came to mind. He looked like he could stop a stampede just by standing there and letting the cattle run into him.

Completing the picture was a hand tooled gun belt and holster. The holster was now empty, since Russ Timberlaine had drawn the gun.

“Know anything about guns?” Timberlaine said.

Steve Winslow shook his head. “Not a thing.”

Timberlaine glanced over at Tracy Garvin. “What about you, young lady?”

Tracy shook the long blonde hair out of her face, pushed her glasses up on her nose. She smiled. “Only what I read in books.”

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