A cursory survey of the room found two customers at the bar and another three at the gaming tables. The evening was just getting started, and so far things were quiet. It wasn’t until later that the whiskey and tanglefoot loosed inhibitions and tongues—not to mention fists. Jim Avery, the barkeep, stood behind the counter, and with his meaty hand methodically polished the waxed countertop with a cloth, making it glow a deep honey color while he watched the goings-on. Jim nodded, acknowledging Caleb’s entrance.
“Stop by your land?” Wyatt asked from his seat at the faro table.
“I’m still ponderin’ about buyin’ that particular stretch.”
“I’m surprised someone hasn’t beat you to it with the length of time it’s taking you to decide.”
Caleb shrugged. The stretch of river valley was choice grazing land—hunting, too. He had the money—had saved it up over the past five years, but each time he headed for the land office, something made him stop. He wasn’t the “settling” type. And owning land sounded more like an anchor than an investment.
“Ya sliced it, mister!”
A young man—boy more likely, judging by his spare frame—hollered at two men playing billiards. When they ignored him, he bellied up at the end of the bar, tried to hook his boot heel on the rung of his stool and missed. Another attempt and he sat square, grabbed his Stetson off his head and slammed it on the counter. His unruly red hair, matted with sweat and grime from the confining band of his hat, sprang up in shock at the sudden freedom. He beat his fist on the bar, motioning to Jim for a beer.
“Haven’t seen him here before,” Caleb mentioned to Wyatt. The kid couldn’t be a day older than seventeen.
“First time would be my guess. I believe that young man is on his way to a whale of a headache come morning.”
“One’s all it takes with someone his size,” Caleb said, pushing away from the bar and sauntering toward their object of discussion. The boy stopped guzzling and faced him with the reckless bravado and glassy gaze liquor could bestow.
“Had enough?” Caleb said.
“None of your business how much I drink. My money’s as good as the next man’s.” The boy took a defiant swig of beer and turned back to the bar.
“I can see that. Hard earned, too, I’ll bet.” The kid was nothing but stringy, corded muscle held together with sweat. “Which ranch you ride for?”
He didn’t answer. Probably didn’t even hear Caleb, the way he was caught up in his attitude—nursing some wrong with a heavy dose of anger. Suddenly he blurted, “Took six months! Six months of slavin’ for her daddy only to find out she planned to go back East to finishing school and catch herself a dandy.”
Acid roiled in Caleb’s gut. He wasn’t going down this trail. “What’s your name?”
“What’s it to you?” A belch rumbled out, and with it some of the boy’s bravado evaporated. “I might as well be a flea on a rock. Why’d she even treat me nice in the first place? Got me thinkin’ ’bout her all the time, thinkin’ about us. It was all a lie. Big sinkhole of a lie.”
“Best chalk it up to a lesson learned the hard way.”
“Sure bet! I’ll be a whole lot smarter from now on. Won’t no pretty skirt fool me again. I’ll take me another beer, barkeep!”
Jim’s gaze slid to Caleb. “Older and wiser,” Caleb murmured with a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. “Startin’ now.
“’Fraid you’ve had enough to drink, Rusty. Time to head home while you can still sit your horse.”
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
Caleb wasn’t fooled by the belligerent tone. The kid was heartsick and slidin’ toward misery. Caleb preferred anger. “Matter of fact, I can.”
“Just try it, mu—ister.”
On the last word, Caleb grabbed the boy’s upper arm so tight he figured he’d kill off some fingers—whose he wasn’t sure—but he wasn’t going to let the boy stay and drink himself to the floor. Better for him to throw a punch or two and get some of his feelin’s out.
Rusty flung a weak hook with his free arm. His fist stopped just short of Caleb’s jaw, caught in another firm grip. “Leave it!” Caleb ordered, and twisted the boy’s arms behind him while at the same time forcing him toward the door.
They stepped outside, and Caleb could have sent him sprawling into the street easily enough. Would have without a second thought if the boy had been a man—a man should know better—but the kid had had enough damage to his dignity in one day.
“Go home. Count yourself lucky you found out early on she was a gold digger.” He let go of the boy’s arm.
“But she weren’t. It was her daddy.”
“One and the same.”
Rusty met Caleb’s gaze. The young whelp still wanted to challenge him! Unbelievable. And stupid. Caleb raised one brow. When the boy swung, Caleb blocked with his forearm and jabbed his other fist into the kid’s gut, striking quick, like a snake. The blow knocked the boy down two steps, where he lost his balance and sprawled face-first in the dirt.
Caleb followed and stood over him. When he didn’t try to stand, Caleb reached down and yanked him to his feet. “I’m doing you a favor, kid. Take it. Make a move other than heading out of town and you’ll be sorry.” He picked up the boy’s hat, slapped it against his thigh once to knock off the dust and handed it over.
The boy curled the brim before stuffing it on his head and meeting Caleb’s gaze. “Name’s Josh. Not Rusty.”
It took a slice of humble pie for a boy this age to admit defeat...and a scrap of respect for authority. Caleb took the offered olive branch. “Caleb Houston. See you around, Josh.”
The boy nodded, found the reins to his horse and climbed on. Caleb figured he’d get about halfway to his ranch before spewing out the liquor that sloshed around in his belly.
“Well,” Wyatt said, standing up when Caleb reentered the saloon. “You handled that with more perception than usual.”
Caleb ignored him.
Wyatt slipped on his wool coat and bowler hat. Didn’t look much like the lawman who had cleaned out Tombstone, but anyone who crossed him knew those looks were deceiving. “Keep things quiet tonight. I need to check on my other properties.”
Caleb raised his chin in acknowledgment. Earp ran into more trouble at his other gambling halls. Caleb should know—he’d worked at both, the worst on the edge of the Stingaree district. A rougher brand of men with fewer rules and even less restraint frequented that establishment. After surviving a year, Wyatt had offered him the job here. Caleb looked over the waxed and polished wood of the bar and tables. Here in the center of the business district the glassware was finer, the clientele classier and even the brawls more refined—if that was possible. Oh, they happened—the arguments, the fights—but they started out subtle, creeping up on a body with only a look or a word before suddenly turning deadly.
Once
