Longarm collected his bag from the UP depot and took a room in a cheap hotel close to the tracks. He would only need the bed for a few hours so he saw no need to hire anything fancier.
He quickly washed away the soot gathered from sitting behind a coal-fired engine all day, then dressed and went downstairs.
“Where can I get a decent meal?” he asked the desk clerk.
“Mister, there’s cafés all up and down Front Street. There’s a good one right on the corner over there,” the fellow said, pointing.
“And a quiet saloon?”
The clerk laughed. “Quiet? Sir, I’m not sure there’s any such of a thing anywhere in Cheyenne, so take your pick and take your chances. One is about the same as another.”
Longarm thanked the man and headed across the street and into the next block to the café the man pointed out. It proved to be more than adequate for his needs, serving beefsteak covered with gravy and a heap of fried potatoes to go with it.
He ate a leisurely meal, paid thirty-five cents for the privilege, and walked half a block to a likely looking saloon.
The saloon was popular enough. It had a piano man, three bartenders, and half a dozen fairly decent-looking whores working the place. There were also four tables with card games in progress. Longarm could not tell just from looking if there were house dealers in the games or if they were open to the players.
“My kinda place,” he muttered under his breath as he approached the bar.
His entry was noticed immediately. The nearest bartender slid down his way. “What will you have, mister?”
“Do you have rye whiskey?”
“Of course we do,” the man said in a tone of voice that suggested it would be uncivilized to not carry rye.
“I’ll have a glass,” Longarm said.
“This is a bit house, mister. If you’re expecting to want more than one you should go ahead and get the second drink now. It would save you a little. Fifteen cents for one drink or two bits for the two.”
Longarm smiled. “I’ll have the two, thank you.”
The barman dexterously picked up two shot glasses in one hand and a bottle in the other. He quickly filled the pair of glasses and set them down in front of Longarm. A quarter Longarm placed onto the bar disappeared just as quickly into the man’s apron pocket.
He turned, leaning against the bar while he surveyed the card games, thinking an evening of low stakes poker would be relaxing.
He savored his first drink. The rye was smooth and pleasant on the tongue and warmed his belly nicely once it hit bottom. Longarm took a minute with the drink, enjoying it slowly.
The second table in, he decided. The men who were already playing seemed a congenial bunch. No one was in the game for the money, rather for the pleasure of the play, or so it looked.
Longarm finished his first glass and turned back to the bar for the second.
The glass was there, but the whiskey was gone.
Some son of a bitch had stolen Custis Long’s whiskey!
“Cocksucking son of a bitch,” Longarm roared loud enough to stop the piano player in mid-piece, loud enough to rattle the rafters.
He took half a step back and grabbed the two men who were standing to his right and to his left. Grabbed them by the scruff of the neck, one in each powerful hand, and demanded, “All right, you bastards, which one o’ you drank my whiskey?”
His answer came in the form of flying fists.