The two riders plodding down Helena’s main street were dog-tired and they looked it. Even a casual observer’s quick glance could have surmised that long weeks in the saddle had preceded their arrival in town.
The pair’s clothing was dusty, smoke-stained, crusty with dried perspiration, and worn down to the final threads in elbows and knees. Their shoulders slumped and they looked at the world through red-rimmed, heavy-lidded eyes.
One was tall and lean with dirty, straw-colored hair that sprouted through a couple of holes in his sugar-loaf sombrero. Angular and long in the face, he was just the opposite of his partner. The man who rode beside him was short, stocky, and muscular. The black braids he sported gave ample evidence of his Indian ancestry as did his darker skin.
The tall one, an Irish-American named Lefty McNally, spoke out of the side of his mouth to the other. “Well, I just hope you’re satisfied, that’s all.”
“Sure I am,” the Kiowa Kid replied. “We got money in our pockets, ain’t we?”
“Hell, yes! Where were we gonna spend it out there chasing the Sioux around the countryside with that damn colonel on our butts ever’ minute of the day?” Lefty spat. “Go a-scouting for the army, you said. Some fine idea that was.”
“All I can say is that we got money in our pockets,” Kiowa remarked.
“You already said that.”
“And that don’t mean nothing to you?” Kiowa asked. “Most o’ the time we ain’t got two coppers to rub together.”
Lefty was thoughtful for a moment. “I’ll allow how that ain’t a bad thing.” He frowned anew. “But what about all we put up with, huh? That was a pretty miserable life alright. We got wet when it rained, froze when it was cold, and blowed crazy when the wind kicked up. And that damn grub we ate was Godawful.”
“It was good,” Kiowa insisted.
Lefty pulled his horse to a stop and stared incredulously at his friend. “You call army salt pork and hardtack good!”
“Sure.” Kiowa kept on riding.
“Well, remind me to watch my saddle the next time you get hungry,” Lefty said. He kicked his horse’s flanks to catch up. “You’ll be gnawing on it next if you liked that chow they gave us.”
“Will you simmer down?” Kiowa said. “That six months working as army scouts was just what we needed. We didn’t have no chance to get into trouble and—”
“—and we got money in our pockets,” Lefty said. “But let me tell you something, old friend. If I was so damn crazy about the army I’d list in it like my pa.”
“We got a grubstake,” Kiowa said satisfied. “Now we can settle in and wait for something good to come along without having to starve to death. I was thinking we might even do some prospecting. If we got lucky, the next time we come riding into some town, it just might be as a pair of real rich fellers.”
“I ain’t thinking about that right now,” Lefty said. “All I want is to take a bath, have a drink, and get me a saloon gal for about an hour of fun.”
Kiowa grinned. “Sure.”
“There ain’t no sense in going farther,” Lefty said wheeling toward the hitching post in front of a saloon.
“I thought you wanted a bath first,” Kiowa said.
“I need to cut that dust and gravel in my throat before I do anything. I can’t hardly breath,” Lefty said. “C’mon. Let’s get a slug o’ rye whiskey or corn whiskey or whatever whiskey.”
“Well, that might not be too bad an idea at that,” Kiowa said following him.
They both dismounted. After tying their horses, the pair stepped up on the boardwalk and went through the batwing doors. Giving the other patrons only cursory glances, the weary travelers made straight to the bar. The other drinkers there looked at them for a few moments, then turned back to their own activity.
“Whiskey,” Lefty ordered. “Two glasses and leave the bottle.”
“I thought we was only going to have one drink,” Kiowa said.
“As long as we’re here, we might’s well really treat ourselves,” Lefty said. “Then we’ll take a bath and come back for some purty gal.”
Kiowa looked around. “I’ll allow how there is purty gals in here.”
Lefty shrugged. “I don’t know. After all the time we been out chasin’ Sioux, any gal prob’ly looks purty to us.”
The barkeep, a surly fat man in need of having the beard on his jowls trimmed down to a respectable stubble, remained leaning against the shelf holding his liquor supply. “We don’t serve Injuns,” he announced. “It’s the goddamned law and I’m in agreement with it.”
Lefty jerked a thumb toward Kiowa beside him. “He’s half an Injun.”
The barkeep sneered. “So I’ll only give him half a glass.”
Lefty’s Irish temper flared. Without thinking about the consequences, he grabbed a bottle from a drinker next to him and hurled it at the bartender. The man whose whiskey container had been taken also acted out of instinct. He hit Lefty so hard the young man staggered sideways into Kiowa. Both crashed into the other patrons, and all tumbled to the floor in a writhing, cussing, snarling mass.
The bartender, ax handle in hand, leaped over the bar and took a swing at Lefty who was on the floor. The Irish-American managed to duck the heavy instrument, and it struck the floor beside him. Kiowa, who had managed to get into a crouching position, dived at the barkeep’s legs, knocking him down.
The others involved in the fracas had now begun to punch and kick as they fought to get to their feet. Within moments everyone in the saloon was involved in the brawl.
From that moment on, things got even worse.