Ben drank his first beer in the Mexican cantina on the broad plaza in the center of Abilene. The brew had a delicious, tangy flavor, and was cold from the keg having been sunk to the bottom of the deep water well behind the cantina. He took another long pull from the mug and let the savory liquid trickle delightfully down his throat.
He sat at a table in the rear of the cantina. The building was an old adobe structure, high-ceilinged and with an earthen floor. The furnishings were old and had taken rough usage over the years. He knew there were much fancier saloons elsewhere on the plaza, but he preferred this one.
On his right was a long bar where a handful of men were drinking. In the larger space on the left were two dozen or more tables. Four men were playing poker at one of the tables. A pair of men were drinking and talking at a second table. The remaining tables were empty.
The evening was growing old and daylight fading. Yet the three coal-oil lamps hanging from the rafters had not been lighted. That was fine by Ben. As he usually did, he had his hat pulled down low. From under the brim he watched the other men in the cantina. They were talking, and he listened to the rumble of their voices. The conversations at the bar were too far away to make out. He could plainly hear the men making their bets at the card game. It was good to once again be among men even though he could never have one for a friend, someone to just talk with about unimportant things. Passing time by himself had grown very oppressive after more than a year.
The three cowboys who had run their mustangs through the boys playing ball came through the open doorway. The blue-shirted man was in the lead, and he halted with the others just inside the room to allow their eyes to adapt to the darkened interior. He said something to his comrades and they all laughed loudly. After a few seconds, the cowboys came deeper into the room with a swaggering walk and boots thumping and spurs jingling. They stopped at the middle of the bar and ordered a bottle of tequila. They gulped the first shots, poured a second one for each, and began to talk.
Ben turned away from the cowboys, after noting each man wore a revolver belted to his waist. He held up his mug and caught the bartender's eye.
The man nodded his head acknowledging the empty mug, and drew and brought a full one to Ben's table. He picked up the empty mug and the silver coin for payment and left.
Two men entered the cantina. They paused in the doorway, as the cowboys had done, and peered ahead into the shadows. They looked about for half a minute and then they moved on in. The shorter man walked with a limp, his right leg being the bad one. The second man was quite thin. He had his shoulders hunched forward and appeared exhausted. The men were unshaven and dust-covered.
They took seats at a table not far from Ben and ordered beers. The thin man, the ridges of his bones showing sharply through his skin, sat leaning wearily over the table. The man needs to gain at least thirty pounds, Ben thought. The men's brews arrived and they immediately took long drinks. The thin man shivered as the cold beer hit his gullet.
"Damn, now ain't that delicious," John said.
"What's even better is to get out of that saddle and sit in the shade where it's cool," Evan replied.
They are soldiers from the fighting in the east and both wounded, Ben thought. They are like me, damaged, and crippled men. He knew what they knew, felt what they felt.
The taller of the two men looked at Ben across the tables that separated them. The man's eyes were on Ben for only two or three seconds before he turned away. Still, Ben recognized that the eyes were gentle, and that they had looked through the shadows to the scars on his face.
"Hank, light the damn lamps," one of the cardplayers called out to the bartender. "I'm being robbed here 'cause I can't see my cards."
Hank left the bar and went into a back room. He returned with a short stepladder that he positioned under the lamps, one after another, and lit them. The area around the bar and the card table became illuminated with light, while the remainder of the wide room remained in shadow.
Evan and John ordered two more beers. They drank them slowly as they talked quietly together. Finishing the brews, they rose and started for the door leading onto the street.
The cowboys turned to watch them pass. "Got shot up in the war, eh?" said the blue-shirted man in a mocking voice. "Dumb thing to do for it's not Texas's fight."
Both Evan and John stopped and glanced over their shoulders at the cowboys.
"I thought it was our fight and went," John said.
"Look what it got you," said the blue shirt.
Evan put his hand on John's shoulder. "Our part is over, done with, and not worth arguing about."
"Yeah, you're right," John said.
They again moved, one limping and one with his shoulders hunched, in the direction of the door. The other men at the bar were now watching the wounded soldiers, and so too were the poker players. Ben felt his anger heating at the insulting words of the cowboy.
"There's no argument to be made for fighting in the war," the blue shirt called out in a loud, coarse voice. "We ain't got any slaves."
Ben saw the shorter soldier turn back and start to speak, and again the taller one took hold of him and said something that Ben didn't hear. The shorter man relented to the words of his companion and continued to limp on. Ben's anger was smoking in a corner of his mind. Still, he held himself reined in for he didn't want trouble.
"Any man who went to war was a fool—hell, more than that, just plain stupid," the blue-shirted man called out in a strident voice.
Ben's anger was scorching. He rose, shoving his chair back with a loud scraping sound. "Say that to me, loudmouth," Ben said in a rough voice.
The sudden challenge froze all movement in the saloon. Then heads swiveled and eyes fastened on the man in the rear corner of the cantina. In the shadows, Ben's white shirt stood out like a beacon.
"Tell me I'm a stupid fool," Ben ordered, his words like darts flung through the air at the blue-shirted man. "Tell me what you told those other wounded soldiers."
Ben moved away from his table and into the open space that lay between the tables and the front of the bar. He shoved his hat back to show his face. At the same time he put his hand on the butt of his pistol.
Evan looked into the devil face of the man who had taken insult from the cowboy's words. The flat, deadly way he had spoken and his savage eyes sent a chill along Evan's spine. There was a taut, menacing aura about him, a confident animal ready to fight.
The cowboys saw the readiness of Ben to fight. One spoke hastily to the blue-shirt one. "Better let it go, Rolph," he said.
"Yeah, that's right," added the third man. "I don't want to fight with that fellow. He scares me just looking at him."
"Ugly doesn't mean he's tough," Rolph said.
"He looks tough enough to me," said the third man.
Evan couldn't look away from the scarred man threatening the cowboys. He detected not one ounce of fear in the man, only that willingness to do battle, maybe a desire to start it. He heard two of the cowboys trying to talk the one called Rolph into leaving the cantina, and Rolph's words resisting the advice. Then the two cowboys won and all three were moving toward the door.
"You in the blue shirt, apologize to those two wounded soldiers for what you said to them," the devil-faced man ordered.
"Like hell I will," said the blue shirt.
"Do it, you damn coward," Ben said.
The blue-shirt man pivoted around to Ben. "Go to Hell, you ugly bastard." He reached for the pistol in the holster on his side.
You are the stupid one to draw on a man who already has his hand on his pistol, Ben thought. He pulled his revolver and shot through the blue cloth covering the man's right shoulder. He knew the .44-caliber bullet would break the bones in the shoulder. Let the man know how it feels to be seriously wounded.
The cowboy was spun to the right by the impact of the large bullet fired from but a few feet away. He crashed into a table, knocked it over, and fell to the floor with it.
His pistol went sliding across the floor. He clutched at his shoulder and began to moan. Ben took a step closer to the two cowboys still on their feet.
"Do you want to try your luck to see if it's better than his?" Ben said.
"It's not our fight," one of the men said quickly. "I tried to get him to let it alone."
"Then sit down there at that table and wait for the sheriff. He'll want to know what happened here. You'd better tell him the straight of it for if you don't, I'll come hunting you."
Ben spoke to the bartender. "Do you know where the doctor's office is?"
"Yes, just a few blocks down the street."
"Go ask him to come here. And bring Sheriff Blackaby back with you so we can settle this matter right now."
"You bet," said the bartender, and hurried from the cantina.
All the other men were silent and watching Ben. He didn't see any danger from them. He sat down at a table and laid his gun on top in front of him. Now to see how the sheriff would take the shooting.
Evan and John came across the cantina to Ben's table.
Evan spoke to Ben. "May John and I sit with you?"
Ben was surprised at the request, but quickly recovered. "Sure, have a seat," he said.
The two soldiers sat down across the table from Ben.
"We can vouch that he tried to shoot you and you only defended yourself," Evan said.
"That's right," John said "He had no right to insult us and I'm damn glad you shut him up."
But I goaded him into pulling a gun, Ben thought. So I'm responsible for it coming down to a fight. He must learn to control his quickness to anger.