Compared to all the other camps, dirty towns, and forts that Caleb had gone through on his ride, Denver was more than just a jolt to his senses. The sounds and sights had an even bigger impact on him due to the fact that he’d spent more than a few nights along the way sleeping under the stars in a bedroll he’d won off a miner whose left eye ticked every time he was dealt anything better than two pair.
Caleb wasn’t the only one to benefit from that little stopover. The gray mare he’d bought in Jacksboro now sported a newer saddle as well as a fresh set of shoes. Caleb figured it was more important to keep her in good condition instead of padding his own pockets with the specks of gold dust that the miner had to offer. It had worked out pretty well, since he’d made it in far less time than he’d figured.
Denver sprawled in every direction like the mountains themselves. On his way through town, Caleb passed at least three churches and even found himself traveling down a few streets that were paved by wooden planks. The boardwalks were crowded, but not with the rowdy sort he’d grown accustomed to. These were normal folks, as well as a good supply of families, who looked at Caleb without hiding their discomfort.
After traveling through Indian country, Caleb had become very aware of his own appearance. Thanks to spending more time in the sun than he had in a long time, his normally dark coloring had become even darker, until he looked closer to a full-blooded Indian rather than the mix that his family tree would actually show. His coal-black hair had grown out a bit since the last time he’d cut it in Fort Griffin, adding even more of a savageness to his appearance.
But Caleb soon realized it wasn’t the color of his skin or hair that put the locals on edge. Their eyes drifted more to the guns around his waist and the rifle that was strapped to his horse’s side. The wound in his back still gnawed at him every now and then, reminding him to never again be caught without a weapon at the ready. He’d picked up a few pistols as a result of his growing prowess at cards and a close call with a drunk cavalry scout who didn’t know the difference between bluffing and cheating.
Caleb took to wearing the guns on his person—two bolstered around his waist, one stuck under the back of his belt, and another wedged in his left boot. There were plenty of men who wore more guns or displayed them with more flair, but no men like that were to be seen on the street at the moment. As such, Caleb felt more and more like a wild dog that had wandered into the middle of a flock of sheep.
“Afternoon, sir,” Caleb said to a balding man with a thick gray beard hanging down long enough to completely cover his neck. “Wonder if you could direct me to a clean room and a bath?”
“Try one of the saloons,” the older man replied as if he were wading in the muck to do so. He pointed toward the end of a row of brick buildings, adding, “There’s plenty of them that way.”
“Much obliged, sir.” With that, Caleb pointed his horse’s nose in the direction he’d been shown and flicked the reins.
Soon, he spotted a row of saloons and poker halls, which called to him like a chorus of muses. As he rode down that street, he got fewer suspicious glares thrown his way and saw more sights that were familiar to his weary eyes. Although the places may have been bigger and better maintained, they were still saloons, and even the smell of them made Caleb feel more at home.
He tied his horse in front of a small barbershop and stepped inside.
“Help you?” asked a man in his forties wearing a clean apron while sweeping the floor in front of a shiny barber’s chair.
“How much for a bath and shave?”
“Dollar fifty.” The man looked Caleb up and down as if counting the dirty smudges on his face and clothes. “Make it two dollars.”
Caleb paid the money, cleaned up, and got a recommendation for a place to rent a room, as well as the closest stable for his horse. In under an hour’s time, he was walking the streets of Denver in a fresh set of clothes, with a smile on his face. Never before had he felt so far from where he’d started. The Busted Flush seemed like a distant memory, even though he’d owned the saloon less than a year ago.
Now, as he walked along by the saloons outside the door of his hotel, Caleb pulled in a breath of clean air and let it out slowly. There was no Texas dust catching in his throat and no cowboys screaming in the distance. Denver truly felt like foreign soil, and Caleb was more than happy to do some exploring.
Every time he caught sight of a piece of mountainous scenery, it nearly took Caleb’s breath away. For the rest of that night, he wandered around, until he found himself in the Chinese district and among folks who made him feel even more out of sorts.
Caleb had met plenty of Chinese, but it was on their streets that Caleb got a subtle reminder of why he’d come to Denver in the first place. Hanging in one window, there was a white banner with a picture of a red tiger painted upon it. Caleb stepped up to the picture and quickly saw that it wasn’t the same picture that had been carved on Taylor’s blade. Even so, Caleb walked a little more carefully after seeing that painting. He made his way back to the saloon district with his arms hanging at his sides so he could always feel the touch of his guns holstered in his newly acquired double rig.
Despite the darkness that accompanied thoughts of the Tiger, Caleb couldn’t stay under that cloud for long. There was something about Denver that energized him. Until now, he’d always just thought of “a breath of fresh air” as just another phrase. Indeed, he could see why Colorado was recommended for people with health conditions. As he stepped into a saloon called the Mint, Caleb was feeling almost as good as he had before catching lead back in Fort Griffin.
The Mint had a definite Southern air about it. Although the building fit in with the others on its portion of Blake Street, the inside was done up like a plantation he’d visited once as a child. The tables were round and covered with nicer than average cloths. The banisters were polished and not too chipped. Near the door was a man with a banjo playing music that was lazy as a Louisiana summer.
Caleb stepped up to the bar and placed his foot on a polished brass rail. He took quick stock of the liquor supply shelved in front of an expensive mirror behind the bar and nodded his approval.
“Good evening, sir,” said a man in a drawl that reminded Caleb of Doc’s. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you around here.”
“I just got into Denver.”
“That explains it,” the barkeep said. “The name’s Charley Ward.”
“Caleb Wayfinder.”
“Ah. A savage from the wilds, eh?” The good-natured way in which Charley spoke made it impossible for any of his words to cause offense. The brimming smile on his face took a few more steps in that direction. “Can I interest you in a drink?”
“If you’d offered me a peace pipe,” Caleb said in a manner that was almost as good-natured as Charley’s, “I would’ve had to knock out a few teeth.”
Charley was a burly fellow with a thick beard that made him look like one of the men coming in from the mountains. He had thick, meaty hands covered in calluses and a bit of a belly protruding over the top of his belt.
“I suppose I had that coming,” Charley admitted. “How’s about I buy the first round and we can be square?”
“Sounds good.”
When Charley turned and poured a drink for him, Caleb expected to find either beer or whiskey in the glass. What he saw was neither of those. Staring down at the glass, Caleb asked, “What is that?”
“A mint julep. Don’t tell me you’ve never had one.”
“Not in a place this far north.”
“Aw, just drink it. It’s the specialty of the house.”
“I guess that explains the sign out front.”
“Sure enough.”
Caleb lifted the glass to his lips, shrugged, and took a sip. It trickled down his throat like his first taste of cold water. “Damn! If I could mix a drink like that, I’d name a place after it, too.”
“Glad you like it. There’s plenty more where that came from.”
“Actually, I was looking for a game.”
“What’s your flavor?” Charley asked. “We’ve got everything that’s worth playing.”
“I see a few poker games going on,” Caleb said while surveying the main room. “What about faro?”
“Bucking the tiger, eh? There’s a few tables in the next room.”
“Actually, I was thinking about having a word with a man named Morris. Can you help me on that end?”
Charley’s eyes narrowed a bit and his smile lost a bit of its humor. “I see you’re more than just a casual player.”
“You might say that.”
“So you’d be looking to deal faro rather than play?”
Caleb nodded. “I’d be happy to stick to poker for a while if there’s no other openings yet.”
“What’d you say your name was?” This time when he asked, Charley squinted as if he were studying the fine print of a contract.
“Caleb Wayfinder.”
“And where’re you from?”
“Formerly from Dallas. I owned a place there called the Busted Flush, but more recently I’ve been in Fort Griffin.”
Charley’s eyes widened and he nodded quickly. “The Busted Flush? I’ve heard of that place. Survived a bunch of fires a while back didn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Caleb answered. “I didn’t know news like that would make it this far.”
Letting out a rumbling belly laugh, Charley said, “A man’s gotta listen to the gamblers to know what’s going on. They’ve been talking about your place since it made it onto the circuit.”
“I handed over controlling interest to my partner. Since then, I’ve been doing some traveling.”
Charley kept nodding. “I guess there were a bunch of fires that put a lot of other saloons around there out of business. Since your place survived, folks started saying it was lucky. That, along with a few big games held there, made plenty of cardsharps mighty anxious to see if some of that luck would rub off on them.”
Thinking back to the Flush made Caleb smile. “I’ll be damned.”
“Will you be around here for long?” Charley asked.
“If I can sit in on a few games.”
“Good. I’ll see about getting a word with the Tiger and point him in your direction.”
“Perfect And one more thing. I’ll need another one of these juleps.”