Ray MacGowan shut down his oven, dampened the flue, and smothered the firebox. He took off his dull white chef’s cap and hung it on a wall peg in the kitchen. He untied his grimy apron and hung it on another peg next to where he’d put his cap. He was a burly, muscular man with a potbelly that hung over his belt buckle like a sag of mush.
Deke Sutherland stood at the center counter and stacked elk meat sandwiches from a large tin breadbox.
“Mac, can you help me tote Tom Brody’s body out back when we’re finished in here?” Deke said as he put two more sandwiches in a separate stack.
The smells from the kitchen were still present, but subsiding. The garbage can teemed with thrown-away fried eggs, pork bacon, and boiled potatoes, the remnants of the two breakfasts never served that morning.
“Wished I’d seen it,” MacGowan said as he waddled over to help Deke. “I guess I’ll have to throw out that big pot of coffee since we’re closed up.”
“We’ll pack these sandwiches and take ’em to the saloon. Maybe we can sell ’em there for a nickel or a dime. Bring the pot of coffee with us, just in case anybody’s there this early.”
Ray snorted.
“And give it away, I reckon,” he said.
“Better’n to throw it out and waste good coffee.”
“Yeah. Who was that jasper who shot Tom anyway?”
“Never saw him before. But Alvin seemed to know him.”
“And he told you to close down the café, did he?”
There was a slight burr to MacGowan’s voice, a remnant from the highlands of Scotland. He and Deke were partners. They had just come off feeding a cattle drive on the Colorado prairie when Bledsoe approached them about opening a café in a place he called Sawtooth. Mining town, he’d said. And so they had rolled their wagon into Wyoming Territory and set up in a place already built for them by Bledsoe.
But since all the miners had left, they were in a ghost town, and now the man in black had shut down their café after shooting Tom Brody and running off Lew Crane and Barry Vernon, shy of their hardware. A hell of a note, MacGowan thought as he stacked sandwiches he had made for the sentries on day duty.
When they were finished, MacGowan set a large metal tray next to the butcher block. He and Deke lifted the stacks onto the tray.
“Got something to cover this while we lug it over to the saloon?” Deke asked.
“I’ll put a thin towel over it to keep the deerflies off,” Mac said. He opened a lower cupboard door and took a dish towel off the shelf. “What do we do after today?”
“We might have to pack our wagon and light a shuck for Texas,” Deke said. “Something’s going on here in town and I don’t like it.”
“You think the town’s dead?” Mac asked.
“As a doornail,” replied Deke.
They finished up and Mac blew out the last two lamps in the kitchen. It was eerie in the dim light. He watched the smoke curl from the chimneys and felt a deep sadness. He liked his job as a cook in a thriving little town and now it was over. He hated to go on the road again, scout out ranches way down in Texas or over on the windy plains to the east where the wagon would struggle to wheel through the high grasses of the prairie.
He grabbed the tall coffeepot off the cooling stove as Deke hefted the tray. They walked out the back door, descended the steps of the small loading ramp into the alley. Then they both walked toward the saloon, through the streaming rays of the morning sun.
“Suppose Jake or Ronnie has opened up yet?” Mac asked.
“Yeah, one of the two. And Joe’s probably there by now.”
“And who else?”
“Damned if I know. It’s plumb spooky. I don’t see no sentries up on the rooftops and there ain’t a sound to be heard. Just listen, Mac.”
Mac twisted his head right and left.
He looked up at the roofs and they were silent, too.
“No horses. Nobody walkin’ about,” Mac said.
“Yeah. Spooky. I think we’ve run out our string in Sawtooth, Mac.”
“You don’t think the miners will be back, Deke?”
“To what? A dead town. Or a hail of bullets. Hiram ain’t goin’ to give up what he’s built here. Not to a man wearing black boots and clothes.”
“All he has now are gunslingers,” Mac said.
“Yeah, and that’s what worries me. We could get caught in the cross fire with all them guns goin’ off.”
“Yeah, we could. You got the back of my neck crawlin’ with lice and spiders.”
“And down my scrawny back,” Deke said.
The back door of the saloon was not locked. They walked inside and through the storeroom to the saloon hall. It was eerily quiet, but they could hear the swish of a push broom, smell the lingering scent of cigarette and cigar smoke, the tang of whiskey and beer fumes.
Joe Filbert looked toward the two men as he wiped down the bartop with a clean towel.
“What you got, Deke?” he asked.
“Sandwiches and hot coffee,” Deke said. He walked to a nearby table and set the tray down. Mac removed the towel over the sandwiches, folded it up into a manageable square, and set the pot of coffee on it to avoid searing the tabletop. The aroma mingled with the other smells in the saloon.
“How come?” Joe asked. He stopped wiping and looked over at the stacks of sandwiches.
“Café’s closed,” Deke said. “Maybe permanent.”
“The hell you say.”
“Yep. The man who shot Tom Brody told me to close up shop.”
“Tom got shot?”
“Plumb dead. Alvin was with the man who killed Tom. They run off two others in there for breakfast.”
“Who was the man?”
Jake Hornsby stopped sweeping. He set the handle across a chair and walked over to where Deke and Mac were standing.
“The man’s name is probably Slocum,” Jake said. “Same man who shot them two Mexes here in the saloon.”
“How do you know that?” Deke asked.
“Saw Veronica this morning. She told me that Slocum is going to clean the town, along with Alvin. She’ll be in shortly.”
“Slocum? Don’t ring a bell,” Joe said.
“Well, he ain’t wearin’ work clothes no more,” Jake said. “Ronnie said he’s dressed all in black and we might run into him.”
“Run into him? Where?” Mac asked.
“Maybe here,” Jake said, and grinned with his gap-toothed grin. The beard stubble on his face was flocked with gray hairs as was the short, spiky hair sticking from under his cap. He smelled of apple cider and tobacco.
“Want a drink, boys? On me,” Joe said. “And I’ll have one with you. I wondered where everybody was. Saw a couple of men walkin’ real fast toward the hotel. Coupla those on night watch atop the buildin’ roofs.”
“Ah, so that’s where everybody is,” Deke said. “Probably meetin’ with Hiram about that man with Alvin.”
“Most likely,” Hornsby said. “That go for me, too, Joe? That drink? If so, I’ll have rye and I don’t need no lemon.”
“We haven’t had a lemon in here since the day after we opened,” Joe said.
“Whiskey for me, Joe,” Mac said.
“I’ll have a beer. Might settle my empty stomach.” Deke sat down and stared at the sandwiches. He looked at Jake. “Ten cents apiece,” he said.
“I got me a sour stomach,” Jake said. “I et an apple and drank some apple squeezin’s just before I came here. I don’t know if you’ll sell them samiches before they turn hard as bricks.”
“They’ll likely bring the flies in,” MacGowan said.
Just then, while Joe was pouring the beer and drinks, the batwings swung open. All the men stared at the two men who walked into the saloon.
Joe’s hand froze in midair.
Mac’s jaw dropped.
Deke’s eyes widened.
Jake’s grin turned south.
Slocum walked to a table, followed by Alvin. Both men laid their rifles atop the table and pulled out chairs.
The room was silent for several seconds.
“Gentlemen?” Joe croaked. “What’s your pleasure?”
“Red eye,” Alvin said. “Two fingers.”
“Kentucky bourbon,” Slocum said.
“Comin’ right up, gents,” Joe said. After he was done pouring, he nodded to Jake, who walked over to the bar and picked up the tray with their drinks on it.
Slocum slipped a cheroot from his shirt pocket and dug out a box of lucifers. He bit off the end of the cigar and placed it in the ashtray on the table. He recognized Deke as the server in the café, but had never seen the fat man sitting next to him. He knew the other man was the swamper in the saloon and nodded to him.
He sat facing the door and the front window. But he could also see the bar and the others in the room.
“Sandwiches, ten cents,” Deke said to Alvin and Slocum. “Fresh made.”
“Hungry, Slocum?” Alvin asked.
Slocum pulled a dollar bill from his pocket, slid it across the table to Alvin.
“I’ll take two of those sandwiches, Alvin. Buy as many as you want for yourself.”
Alvin picked up the bill.
“Thanks. I’ll get us those sandwiches,” Alvin said. He got up and walked over to the sandwich table. He gave Deke the bill.
“How many?” Deke asked.
“Four.”
“Tell him to keep the change,” Slocum called over to Alvin.
Deke nodded as Alvin picked up four sandwiches. He pocketed the dollar bill.
Jake carried the drinks over to Slocum’s table and set them down. “On the house,” he said.
Alvin brushed against Jake as he came back with the sandwiches.
“Thank Joe for us,” he said to Jake.
“And would you bring up some water to wash this grub down?” Slocum asked.
“Sure thing,” Jake said, and walked away to the bar. He returned in a few minutes with two glasses of water.
As Alvin and Slocum ate and drank, they both watched the front window. They saw men walk by in twos, all in a hurry.
“Know them, Alvin?” Slocum asked.
“Gunfighters. They’re in a big rush.”
“Hunting me, most likely,” Slocum said.
“Likely,” Alvin said as he munched on his sandwich.
They both stopped eating for a few seconds when a lone man appeared in front of the saloon window. The man paused, walked up to the window, shaded his eyes, and peered inside.
Slocum held his breath.
“Know him?” he said under his breath to Alvin.
“Sure do,” Alvin said in a low voice. “That’s Tony Delfino, and it looks like he’s comin’ in here.”
“I hope so,” Slocum said.
“You going to shoot him?”
“No,” Slocum said. “Take him prisoner.”
“He’s a handful, Slocum.”
“I’ve got a big hand.”
Tony left the window and walked away. Toward the batwing doors. They did not swing in for a few moments, but Slocum saw his boots and pant legs. The man stood there for a few seconds.
Then the batwing doors swung open and Tony Delfino stepped quickly into the saloon. He stepped to one side and squinted his eyes to adjust to the change in light.
One hand was on the butt of his pistol.
Slocum slipped his pistol from its holster. He brought it up slow to level the barrel at Tony. Tony looked across to the sandwich table, then swung his head to regard Slocum and Alvin.
That’s when Slocum thumbed back the hammer on his Colt .45.
Tony froze when he heard the hammer click back to full cock. His hand closed and his fingers wrapped around the butt of his pistol.
Slocum stood up so that he was in plain sight, his pistol in full view of Tony Delfino.
A hush fell over the patrons and workers inside the saloon.
A deadly hush.
Slocum broke the silence.
“Draw that pistol and you’re a dead man,” Slocum said.
Tony froze, the knuckles on his hand turning bone white. But he did not draw his pistol.
The silence rose in the room like an invisible cloud. Time seemed to stop. The threat of death was almost palpable. All there could feel it, could sense it, and dreaded it.
Death seemed a tick away on a clock.