I knew I’d never get used to killing a man, whether or not he deserved it. The inevitable finally happened once again. The man I’d killed in the gunfight at the Golden Palace Saloon had a friend named Axel Brennan. After learning about what happened to Walter Heath, he vowed to kill me. The Sheriff learned of this threat from a sheriff in Sacramento, California. Sheriff Browning told me about it and apologized for my new problem. “I feel like I am responsible for your predicament.” “That wasn’t your fault,” I told him. “There was nothing you or I could do about it. I will have to deal with myself. It was bound to happen sooner or later anyway. I will have to take care of it.” I turned away from the Sheriff. I felt sick all over. Now I have someone gunning for me. Eight months had passed since the gunfight with Walter Heath, and I’d begun to relax and forget about the problem. There was quite some distance between Sacramento and Ogden, Utah. While the railroad provided the transportation, the expense would be more than some men could or would want to pay. During the winter season, passenger travel on the railroad diminished. If there were a problem, I expected it to come in the spring time. It was now spring. It was a cool evening in April, 1871 when I began the rounds on foot, including a walk down both sides of Fifth Street to check the doors of the businesses closed for the night. Of course, the Golden Palace Saloon and other drinking places remained open long after all others. I always felt reluctant to go into the Golden Palace, especially after the gunfight with Walter Heath. I knew the owner passionately hated me, and many of the women looked on me with contempt. The saloon was lighted by lamps hanging from supporting posts that extended from floor to ceiling. The walls were covered by varnished timbers. On the south of the room were swinging doors leading to a smaller room where card games were played. I was able to walk directly to the room. The bar and drinking tables were on my left as I approached the doors of the small room. The Sheriff considered the occasional poker game between friends different than poker games run by the saloon, using saloon workers as dealers. Gambling was illegal in all cases, but our efforts were directed toward the businesses of gambling. The light of the room came through swinging doors which I opened just enough to discover that it was just some of the locals having a card game among friends. Since the earlier raid and the arrest of the owner, gaming as a business had ceased. It appeared that the Golden Palace Saloon remained in compliance. I turned away to make my exit. As I walked, I noticed about five men at the bar, drinking. In the middle of them stood a larger man who listened, while another man whispered in his ear. When I reached midway in my return to the front door, the larger man turned around and yelled out my name.
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