CHAPTER 3
Brown Dirt Cowboy Saloon, Big Rock
The battered old hat was tipped far back on the man’s rumpled thatch of rusty hair. All his clothes, from the old boots to the patched jeans to the faded blue shirt and brown vest, showed signs of long, hard wear. The gun belt strapped around his lean hips had been gouged and torn in places by thorny brush. The Colt .45 that rode in the attached holster was clean and well cared for, though.
Steve Markham picked up the glass from the bar in front of him and threw back the shot. The whiskey burned all the way down his gullet. The Brown Dirt Cowboy was popular with range riders in the area because the who-hit-John sold there was cheap and packed a punch, not because it was smooth as silk going down.
Steve stood there for a moment, letting the booze kindle a fire in his belly, before he followed it with a healthy swallow of foamy, bitter beer from the mug next to the empty shot glass.
One of the bartenders ambled over, nodded toward the glass, and asked, “Another?”
“I’m all right for now,” replied Steve. Still holding the mug, he turned so his back was to the bar and leaned on it, hooking his elbows on the hardwood as he surveyed the smoky, noisy room.
The saloon was packed. Men stood two deep at the bar in places, and every table was full. Gals with painted faces and wearing short, spangled dresses carried trays and made their way through the crowd delivering drinks to the tables. They were pawed almost nonstop, but there was no way to avoid those groping hands.
And truth to tell, most of them looked like they didn’t mind all that much. From time to time, a customer would pull one of them down to lean over a table, whisper something in her ear, and then the two of them would adjourn to an upstairs room to complete the transaction.
Steve smiled faintly as he observed one of the saloon girls leading a nervous-looking youngster up the stairs. It had been a while since he had enjoyed any female company himself, but he wasn’t in the mood for a soiled dove. He had other things on his mind tonight.
Turning his head to look at the big, florid-faced man on his left, Steve said, “The whole town looked fit to bust when I was ridin’ in. Is it always this crowded?”
“What? No.” The man shook his head. He was no cowboy, might have been a blacksmith or a freight handler. “Naw, Big Rock’s busy sometimes, but not like this. A lot of folks have come into town for the big shindig tomorrow.”
“There’s a celebration here in town? It’s not the Fourth of July yet. Or is it? I haven’t been payin’ a lot of attention to the calendar, bein’ on the drift like I have been.”
“No, no, the shindig’s not here in town. It’s out at the Sugarloaf. You know, Smoke Jensen’s spread.”
Steve arched an eyebrow and said, “Smoke Jensen? The gunfighter and outlaw?”
The man glared at Steve. “Watch your mouth, mister. Smoke’s no outlaw. Yeah, there might’ve been some reward dodgers out on him years ago, but those were fake, put out by some fellas who had a grudge against him. He’s always been a law-abiding sort. Well, other than going ahead and killing a bunch of lowdown skunks who needed killin’, without waiting for the law to do it.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Steve said. “I didn’t mean no offense. And I notice you didn’t find any fault with me callin’ him a gunfighter.”
“Well, it’d be plumb foolish to argue about that. There’s never been anybody slicker on the draw than Smoke Jensen.”
Steve swallowed some more of the beer and asked, “Why’s he throwin’ a party?”
“Say, you did just ride in, didn’t you? Smoke’s son is getting married. There’s gonna be a big feast and a baile afterward, and kickin’ things off in the morning before the ceremony, they’re gonna have a horse race.”
Steve’s interest visibly perked up. “Is that so? I’ve never been much for dancin’, so I’m not sure I’d be welcome at any baile, but I’ve got a fast hoss.”
The red-faced man laughed. “If you’re thinkin’ about entering, friend, I’d advise against it. The fastest horses in the state will be in this race. I don’t reckon some saddle tramp’s nag would stand much of a chance.”
Steve drew in a sharp breath. He didn’t want to lose his temper, but it was hard not to in the face of a comment like that. Keeping a tight rein on his words, he told the man, “My horse ain’t no nag—”
Before he could continue defending his mount, someone bumped heavily against his shoulder. The impact was enough to make Steve take a staggering step to his left. The mug in his hand tipped, and the beer that was still in it splashed over the feet of the big, red-faced man.
“What the hell!” he roared, but the noise level in the room was already so high, the shout was less deafening than it might have been. “What in blazes do you think you’re doin’, stranger?”
If the man wanted an apology, he wasn’t going to get one. Steve jerked his head toward the man who’d bumped into him and said, “It’s not my fault. It was this jasper who’s to blame for bein’ so damn clumsy.”
The offender was tall and kind of skinny. Steve probably outweighed him, but the man had broad shoulders, long arms, and big, knobby-knuckled hands. “What’re you talkin’ about? I didn’t do a damn thing.”
“The hell you didn’t. You bumped into me and made me spill beer on this hombre.”
“I barely touched you,” the tall man said. “If you can’t hold your liquor and start stumblin’ around, it ain’t my fault.”
The red-faced man took hold of Steve’s left shoulder and half-turned him. “I didn’t see anybody run into you. You just up and dumped beer on my feet, probably because I called your horse a nag!”
For a second, Steve wondered if these two were working together, trying to provoke a fight for some reason that was beyond him. When he glanced back and forth between them, however, he didn’t see any sign of such a conspiracy in their faces. They both looked genuinely angry and upset.
“I’m the only one who lost out here,” he snapped. “I lost part of a beer, but it’s not worth fightin’ over, so let’s just forget it.”
“The hell we will,” said the red-faced man. “I’m gonna have to get these boots shined before I go out to the Sugarloaf in the morning. That ain’t gonna be free, you know.”
Steve set the empty mug on the bar and inclined his head toward the tall man again. “Talk to him. It was his fault, like I told you. I’m gonna go find some friendlier place to drink.” He stepped away from the bar, toward the saloon’s batwinged entrance.
Both men caught hold of him, a hand on each shoulder, and jerked him back.
The tall man said, “The hell you are,” and the red-faced man declared, “You ain’t goin’ anywhere!”