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Updated: May 11, 2025
As everyone in the mountain-desert knows, the Three B's are Bender, Buckskin, and Brownsville; they make the points of a loose triangle that is cut with canyons and tumbled with mountains, and that triangle was the chosen stamping ground of Jerry Strann.
His brown hair was thick and dark and every touch of wind stirred it, and his hazel eyes were brilliant with an enduring light the inextinguishable joy of life. Consider that there was no malice in Jerry Strann. But he loved strife as the young Apollo loved strife or a pure-blooded bull terrier.
And then he fell back in the bed, and into the arms of Mac, who was beside him, moaning: "Buck up, Jerry. Talk to me, boy!" "Mac, you've finished the job," came the husky whisper. Mac Strann raised his head, and his terrible eyes fixed upon Dan Barry. And there was no pity in the face of the other.
And Jerry Strann perceived, under the shadow of the table, a blacker shadow, huge and formless in the gloom, and two spots of incandescent green twinkling towards him. He stopped; he even made a step back; and then he heard a stifled chuckle from the bartender.
The old man who had done the hoe-down hobbled to the end of the barroom and before the table of Mac Strann made a speech to the effect that Elkhead had everything it needed except laughter, that Mac Strann had come to their assistance in that respect, and that if he, the old man, had the power, he would pension such an efficient jester and keep him permanently in the town.
He fought with distinction and grace and abandon and was perfectly willing to use fists or knives or guns at the pleasure of the other contracting party. In another age, with armour and a golden chain and spurs, Jerry Strann would have been but why think of that? Swords are not forty-fives, and the Twentieth Century is not the Thirteenth. He was, in fact, born just six hundred years too late.
The hazel eye of Strann was grey with anguish of the spirit as he looked from O'Brien to the crowd and from the crowd to Satan, and from Satan to his meek-eyed owner. Nowhere was there a defiant eye or a glint of scorn on which he could wreak his wrath. He stood poised in his anger for the space of a breath; then, in the sharp struggle, his better nature conquered.
His torso was a veritable barrel that bulged out both in the chest and the back. And even the tremendous thighs of Mac Strann were perceptibly bowed out by the weight which they had to carry. And there was about his management of his arms a peculiar awkwardness which only the very strongest of men exhibit as if they were burdened by the weight of their mere dangling hands.
The black stallion flicked back its ears and winced from the outflung hands, but the rider remained imperturbed. "I never heard of Mac Strann," said Barry. "You never heard of Mac Strann?" echoed the other. "But I'd like to meet him," said Barry. The deputy marshal blinked his eyes rapidly, as though he needed to clear his vision. "Son," he said hoarsely. "I c'n see you're game.
It seemed so placid at the first glance that he was on the verge of spurring the horse into the wide, brown stream, but even as he loosened the reins a gap opened in the middle of the water, widened, whirling at the brim, and drew swiftly into a fierce vortex with a black, deep bottom. Mac Strann tightened his reins again, and then turned his horse, and waited.
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