It was a blistering hot afternoon the day I rode into Junction, the kind of Texas summer day so scorching it would send ol’ Beelzebub himself searching for shade and a cold beer. I knew I sure needed one.
However, my sorrel needed a drink first. I walked him up to the trough in the town plaza, dismounted, and let him drink his fill. Once he was finished, I tied him to the rail in front of the Crossroads Saloon.
As much as I wanted that beer, I had some business to attend to first. I gave the saloon a wistful glance, then headed across the road to the First Bank of Junction.
The bank’s interior was dark and cool after the bright sunshine. I paused to allow my eyes to adapt, then stepped to the counter. The teller looked disdainfully at me from behind the iron grill. He clearly wasn’t impressed by the dusty figure I made. I didn’t much care, but I couldn’t
blame him. It’s hard for a man to stay presentable during days of riding through the Texas heat. Add in the two week’s worth of dark whiskers stubbling my jaw and I reckon I must’ve looked downright disreputable.
“May I help you, sir?” the teller queried, looking down his nose.
“Perhaps. I’ve just ridden into town. I’m supposed to meet an acquaintance, who was to make a substantial deposit in our names upon his arrival. My name is Daniel Brown. My friend’s is Jeremiah Carter.”
“I don’t believe anyone by that name has been in, sir,” the teller replied, his interest obviously piqued by my mention of that large deposit. “But let me check with Mister Hollister. He’s the bank president.
The teller disappeared behind a door marked “Private”. He reappeared a moment later with a middle- aged, balding man at his side.
“Mister Brown, I am Slater Hollister, president of the First Bank of Junction,” the heavyset banker announced.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mister Hollister,” I replied.
Hollister’s grip as we shook hands was moist, his soft hand sweaty. His substantial paunch testified to years of soft living.
“And might I say the same. Regrettably, your friend must not have arrived, as no one has made a goodly
deposit for the past several weeks. When exactly were you expecting him?”
“He’s due anytime. I’d hoped he had already arrived. However, I’m not concerned. I’m sure he’ll turn up in a day or so. In the meantime I’ll partake of the hospitality of your town. I’ve been traveling for several days, and look forward to some rest.”
“That’s a fine idea,” Hollister agreed. “You’ll find Junction more than suitable for satisfying your needs. And when Mister Carter arrives, my bank will be ready and capable of handling all your financial transactions.”
“I’m sure it will be, but I’m reassured to hear that,” I replied. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to wash some of this trail dust from my throat.”
“Of course, of course,” Hollister answered. “I hope you enjoy your stay.”
“I’m certain I will,” I assured him. “Until Jeremiah arrives. Good day, sir.”
“Good day to you.”
Now it was time for that beer. I retraced my steps to the saloon. Where the chairs in front of the place had been empty when I tied my horse, a wizened old man now sat. He nodded to me when I climbed the stairs to the Crossroads’ entryway.
“Howdy, mister,” he drawled. “Right hot day, ain’t it?”
“It’s warm enough,” I agreed, taking off my Stetson and wiping sweat from the band.
“Sure makes a body thirsty. Would you be disposed to buy an old man a drink?” he pleaded.
“Why not? I reckon I can spare the price of a beer,” I grinned. “C’mon.”
I pushed through the batwings with the codger at my side.
At this time of day, there were few customers in the Crossroads. I found a space at the nearly empty bar. My newfound friend stood alongside me.
“Howdy, mister. New in town?” the barkeep asked. “What’s your pleasure?”
“Yep to your first question, don’t know how long I’ll be in town, but I’m waitin’ for a friend to ride in from San Angelo,” I answered, anticipating his next questions. “And two beers. One for me, and one for…”
“Caleb.” The old man supplied his name.
“Caleb, how many times have I told you to stop hanging around outside my place and pesterin’ the paying customers?” the saloonman snapped. “Now git!”
“Aw Purdy, I really need a beer,” Caleb whined.
“It’s all right,” I assured the bartender. “Give him a beer.”
“Your choice, mister,” Purdy shrugged. He drew two glasses of the amber brew.
“Thank you, mister,” Caleb told me as he lifted his mug.
“My name’s Dan. And you’re welcome,” I replied.
The oldster downed half his glass, then headed for the free lunch.
“Don’t you be cleanin’ off that lunch counter on just one beer you didn’t even pay for,” Purdy shouted after him.
“Just a coupla’ sandwiches,” Caleb called back.
“Sorry, Dan,” the barkeep apologized. “I hate to see a new arrival in Junction taken advantage of by that broken-down old coot. I’m Hank Purdy, by the way, the owner of this establishment.”
“Dan Brown. And that old man ain’t really botherin’ anyone. Seems harmless enough. Who is he, anyway?”
“Caleb Sutton,” Purdy explained. “Been here in Junction as long as anyone can remember. Claims he rode with the original Texas Rangers back in Sam Houston’s day, when Texas was still part of Mexico.”
“Him a Ranger? Hardly seems possible,” I replied. “Even in his prime he couldn’t have stood more’n five foot three or four. Wouldn’t have weighed a hundred and twenty pounds fully dressed with his boots on and
soakin’ wet, neither. Now he looks as if he strapped on a Colt the weight of it’d tip him right over.”
Age had withered Caleb Sutton so he now stood little more than five feet tall, and couldn’t weigh more than one hundred pounds. His fingers were twisted by arthritis, the knuckles badly swollen.
“I know. No one believes his tall tales,” Purdy snorted. “But as you say, he’s harmless enough, except for his cadgin’ free drinks. And he does earn his keep by sweepin’ out the feed store, and the jail. Speakin’ of which, here comes our deputy marshal. Steve, get over here,” he called to a youth stepping through the batwings. “Got a beer ready for you.”
“Sure thing, Hank,” the deputy answered.
The deputy stalked up to the bar and took the spot at my left. He looked me over thoroughly.
“Howdy, stranger,” he greeted me. “I’m Steve Malvern, deputy marshal in this town. Who might you be?”
“Name’s Dan Brown. I’m waitin’ on a friend to show up from San Angelo, to answer your next question. Dunno how long I’ll be in town. Anythin’ else you want to know?”
The deputy couldn’t have been more than nineteen. He was downright skinny, with pale gray eyes and light brown hair. The big Smith and Wesson on his right hip
appeared too heavy for its owner. It threatened to pull the gunbelt over the kid’s thin hips and down to his ankles. A peach fuzz mustache, barely visible on his upper lip, was his apparent attempt to enhance an appearance of maturity. It didn’t work.
“I reckon that’ll do for now,” Malvern answered, not quite able to meet my steady gaze.
Purdy placed a beer in front of the young lawman.
“Any word from Sheriff Dobbs?” he queried.
“Not yet. I don’t imagine he’ll reach San Saba for a few more days. Ridin’ with those prisoners is bound to mean slow goin’.”
“I just hope he makes it there in one piece. Those Dahlman brothers are poison mean. Pure rattlesnake venom. I’ll rest easier once Dobbs is back. The whole town will.”
“I can handle any trouble until the sheriff returns,” Malvern retorted.
“I’m sure you can,” Purdy answered, attempting to mollify the deputy’s feelings.
“Darn right I can,” Malvern shot back. He drained the last of his beer.
“Reckon I’d better finish my rounds. I’ll stop in before you close up for the night, Hank.”
“I’ll see you then,” the saloonman answered.
After the deputy left, I took advantage of the free lunch counter, lingered over another beer, then decided to call it a night.
“Hank, thanks for the hospitality. Those were mighty good beers,” I told him.
“Appreciate that,” he replied. “You got a place to stay?
“I reckon I’ll bunk in the hayloft at the livery stable. Since my friend hasn’t arrived, I’m gonna ride out early tomorrow and take the trail to San Angelo. With luck I’ll meet him before goin’ too far.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Purdy agreed. “I’ll keep the beer cold in the meantime.”
“Seems reasonable,” I answered. “Hasta luego.”
“’Night, Dan.”
I left the saloon, picked up my sorrel’s reins, and led him to the nearby livery barn. For an extra four bits, the hostler readily agreed to let me bed down in the hayloft. Once my horse was cared for I climbed the ladder to the loft, pulled off my hat, boots, and gunbelt, and settled down for a hard-earned night’s rest.