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Miles stared down from horseback at the deputy.  The deputy stared back over the front sights of a rifle at the officer sporting an eye patch with a trail of scars running underneath it.

The worn Colt Dragoon was a million miles away, holstered in Miles' saddle as was the   shotgun in its scabbard. Dawn's first light was just creeping over the mountains to the east, back lighting the army man and making the deputy squint.

"Sergeant!" Miles called out in a deep commanding voice.

"Yes, Lieutenant Lincoln!." Sergeant Averill replied.

"What are your intentions if this man shoots me?"

"I'm going to kill him graveyard dead, Sir!" the red haired sergeant answered back while maintaining his aim on a deputy, a finger on each of the triggers of his oversized shotgun.

"Sheriff!" Miles called out again.

"Yes, Mr. Lincoln?" The sheriff replied, also facing down the recalcitrant deputy with his own firearm.

"What are you going to do if your man shoots me and somehow survives?"

"He'll hang within the week, Lieutenant!" the sheriff answered.

"Sergeant! Maintain your position. If that man points that shotgun at any of my men, you go ahead and kill him graveyard dead. Corporal Johnson, Corporal West, take charge of your squads and clear that house."

"Yessir!" came the twin replies from behind him.  Miles heard the men dismount along with the distinctive sound of heavy cavalry sabers being drawn as the two enlisted men joined the ranks of soldiers surrounding the coach house.

The deputy finally spoke in a voice reedy with fear. "Sir. That's my ..." he paused. "The boy might still be alive! If your men go in there, guns a blazing, he's going to die for sure."

"The boy is...!" Miles started to speak when the realization of the deputy's position hit him. "Your boy is already dead! He was probably dead two minutes after that thing took him." if he was lucky, Miles thought to himself.

When the man didn't answer, Miles continued on.

"If you cut me down with that shotgun, you are going to join me bleeding out on the ground in less than a second, and do you know what that's going to change?" Miles spoke in an angry voice. "Not a god damned thing."

Miles worked the wad of chewing tobacco in his cheek to build up enough spit to keep talking.           "That place is half a whore house and half a road house! Which side does his mother work?" Miles almost yelled at the man.  "You care enough about the boy to face down two squads of soldiers, but not enough to get him out of that place?"

Miles nudged his horse with one knee and reigned the horse into a stationary turn facing the perimeter of uniformed men. Miles turned his neck so he could  glare at the deputy with his good eye. "If your boy is still alive, and I'm not saying he is, the only chance he has are those men there. If he's alive, they'll bring him out safe.".

Miles worked the tobacco wad a bit more until his mouth filled with its strong juice. He spit on the ground.

"I ain't got time for you!" Miles said as a final rebuke and nudged his mount into a slow walk towards his men, leaving the deputy dumbfounded and raising his weapon skywards. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the sheriff ride up to the man and relieve him of his firearm. Other deputies escorted him away.

Corporal Johnson had formed his men into a loose but heavily armed cordon around the coach house while Corporal West had staged his men by the main door.

Miles transferred the colt from its saddle holster to his belt holster, pulled the shotgun loose, and dismounted. He handed off  his horse to a somber looking private and continued to the front porch.  As he walked up to Corporal West, Miles thumbed back the hammers on the shotgun, exposing the two oversized capped nipples that had made misfires almost a thing of the past. The belgian made shotguns were a few steps up from game shotguns that they had been issued.

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