“What’s happening?” Hank asked as he crouched down to try to help Caleb to his feet.

  But Caleb was already upright and searching the saloon around him. When he saw the first glint of bared iron, he grabbed hold of the barkeep’s shirt and pulled him down behind the bar. A gunshot barked through the air as the table that had played host to Mike’s game rolled lazily on the floor.

  “Just what I thought would happen, that’s what,” Caleb snarled.

  “You knew there was gonna be a fight?”

  “I had a real good suspicion.”

  “Should I call the law?”

  “No,” Caleb said as he began searching behind the bar. Finding what he was after, he grabbed hold of the sawed-off shotgun and made sure it was loaded. “I’ll take care of this myself.”

  The first gunshot had come from another table not too far from where Doc was sitting. Even though there wasn’t actually a table in front of him any longer, he remained in his seat and looked around as though he was merely sampling a passing breeze. Apparently, someone had tried to take advantage of the sudden turmoil by grabbing the money from another table.

  It didn’t seem as though they were going to get away with it.

  “You’re dead, Holliday,” Mike said as he kicked his chair onto the floor behind him.

  “It was a fair hand,” Doc said while calmly getting to his feet. “Grousing about it won’t help.”

  Virgil dusted himself off as he got back onto his feet. While he’d managed to avoid getting hit by too much of the overturned table, the miner sitting next to him had caught the brunt of it. Orville was holding his side but still managing to scoop up as many of his claims as he could hold with his free hand before making a run for it.

  “Doc’s right,” Virgil said. “You lost fair and square. We both did.”

  Mike’s lips curled back into an animal’s snarl. “Fair, my ass. He either agrees to hand my money back, or I put him out of his goddamn misery.”

  Doc’s eyes were even colder than when he’d bet everything he had on an ace high. The hand he was betting on at the moment, however, was the one hovering within a few inches of the pistol holstered beneath his left arm. “You already made a mess,” Doc said in his smooth, southern manner. “Don’t make it any worse.”

  As the players at the nearby table still struggled among themselves for the money in their own game, the flaring tempers seemed to spread like wildfire throughout the rest of the saloon. People who’d turned away from their games to see what was happening found their stacks of money depleted or another player peeking at cards that weren’t their own.

  Standing in the eye of the hurricane, Mike, Doc, and Virgil stared each other down as if nothing else existed.

  Suddenly, thunder filled the Busted Flush as the air exploded with the sound of a shotgun being fired into the ceiling.

  “Enough of this!” Caleb shouted from where he stood in the middle of the main room. “Everyone step back, put your guns on the floor, and take a breath! If we can settle up and get on with our night, there won’t be any need to get the law.”

  Doc’s voice drifted toward Mike like a stiletto wrapped in silk. “I know how we can settle this. Let’s flip a coin for it. Maybe you’ll have an easier time at that than trying to figure out how to play poker.”

  A string of unintelligible curses spewed from Mike’s mouth as his hand snapped toward his gun.

  With a flicker of motion and a subtle lean forward, Doc had drawn his own pistol and stuck the barrel underneath Mike’s chin.

  Mike froze in his place; his hand still wrapped around a pistol that was almost clear of its holster. After a bit of pressure from the gun against his chin and a devilish tilt of Doc’s head, Mike loosened his grip and allowed the pistol to drop back into its holster.

  “That’s better,” Doc said, ignoring the chaos swirling around him.

  “Goddammit, Doc,” came a grumbling, familiar voice. “Why couldn’t you just leave well enough alone?”

  Doc’s eyes flickered in the direction of that question and found Virgil standing up and shoving aside a drunk who’d decided to try his hand at brawling. As he looked back toward Mike, Doc made a couple of sideways steps so he could watch both men without having to look away from either one.

  “That miner had more deeds in his pocket. Deeds that were actually worth something,” Virgil said. “He was about to wager every last one of them before you stepped in and spoiled the whole thing.”

  “Well then,” Doc said. “I suppose you had every intention of splitting your share with me?”

  Virgil glanced over to the miner, who was busy scrambling toward the front door while doing his best to avoid the incoming punches, kicks, or bottles flying through the air. While the brawl wasn’t the biggest the Busted Flush had ever seen, it was doing a fair amount of damage.

  “Damn. He’s headed out the door,” Virgil said.

  “He’s a gambler,” Doc pointed out. “Not to mention the fact that he came out ahead today. He’ll be back, and he won’t mind playing with us. It’s this one he’s gonna be wary of.” With that last part, Doc pushed his gun underneath Mike’s chin just enough to point the other man’s head upward a few more degrees.

  But Virgil didn’t even seem to take notice of Mike squirming and cursing at the end of Doc’s arm. Instead, he shook his head and slowly lowered his arm until it was within drawing distance of his pistol. “He’s not the one that worries me, Doc. At least he knows his place.”

  For a moment, Doc looked surprised. That moment passed quickly, only to be replaced by a subtle shaking of his head. “That truly is a shame, then. We could have made some real money together.”

  “Partners need to trust each other, Doc. At least a little.” Virgil’s hand flashed toward his gun while his eyes remained locked upon his target. He cleared leather, certain that he would get his shot off before Doc could shift his own gun from where it was wedged beneath Mike’s chin. There was a mix of regret and victory in Virgil’s heart, soon to be joined by a chunk of hot lead.

  Doc’s right hand snapped to aim his pistol at Virgil. Without blinking an eye, he squeezed his trigger and rocked Virgil back a few steps.

  The gambler’s eyes were wide as the pain started to flood through his chest. His instinct was to aim and take his shot anyway, but he no longer even had the strength to hold his gun. The pistol slipped through his fingers as it and its owner both dropped to the floor.

  At that moment, Doc felt some pain of his own. It was a jab in his ribs followed by a sharp stab when he tried to breathe.

  Mike’s elbow had pounded into his side while his other hand came up to try and knock the gun from Doc’s hand. The next move he made was to draw his own pistol and thumb back the hammer.

  “You cheatin’ son of a b—”

  Mike’s insult was cut off by the roar of a shotgun at close range. The blast took a chunk out of his torso and spun him around. The pistol in his hand went off but sent its round into the mirror behind the bar.

  Stepping forward with the shotgun still smoking in his hands, Caleb looked down as though he expected Mike to take another swing at him. Not only was Mike dead, but the pistol he’d been holding had been knocked clear from his hand.

  Although a single shot had sparked the fighting to begin with, the shotgun blast had been more than enough to end it. Everybody in that saloon stopped what they were doing. Every face turned to stare at Caleb, who stood over the messy remains of Loco Mike Abel.

  For a few seconds, the roar of the shotgun was the only thing Caleb could hear. The echo of that shot rumbled through him like a smaller tremor after an earthquake had passed.

  Then, after what felt like an eternity of standing there with that gun in his hands, Caleb was able to lower the weapon and take in some of what was going on around him.

  Although the saloon was considerably less full than it had been moments ago, it was far from empty. The faces that gaped back at him were mostly familiar. Every last one of them, however, seemed to be in shock.

  “Jesus Christ,” came one voice from near the bar. “He shot him.”

  “He shot him dead,” agreed another. “I saw it.”

  “I saw it, too. Damn near cut him in half.”

  “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

  As Caleb glanced around at the people he thought he’d been protecting, he soon came to realize that every last one of them was talking about him. The bottom of his stomach dropped out, and soon the floor seemed to tilt beneath his feet. Almost immediately, he felt a steadying hand on his shoulder.

  “It’s all right,” Doc said in a low, soothing voice. “It’s all over. You did good.”

  But Doc’s voice swam with all the others in the confusing swirl of Caleb’s thoughts.

  “Give me that shotgun,” Doc said.

  Still working on instinct, Caleb’s grip tightened around the shotgun so he could pull it closer to himself.

  “I’m not the one you need to worry about,” Doc said.

  “You should probably get rid of that gun before things get worse.”

  “What happened?” Caleb asked while looking around at the bodies of Virgil and Mike, which lay sprawled on the floor.

  “I told you there was a cheater in your place,” Doc explained. “Virgil was the one. He’s been lining up that old miner for a week or so. Damn near had him ready to fall, too.” Shaking his head, Doc said, “That would have been a hell of a haul.”

  “But he was going to shoot you.”

  “I should have known better than to step in without thinking it through.”

  As the smoke was clearing and people were getting their wits about them, the air within the saloon grew heavy. The only person who seemed unaffected by that change was Doc. Unlike the others, who milled around or beat a quick path to the door, Doc pulled up his chair and dropped himself down onto it.

  “Actually, you were set to fall as well,” Doc said. “Virgil would have stirred up all kinds of hell, and this place would have been marked as a money pit for years. That’s why I stepped in. I was hoping Virgil would just move his game to another place. Lord knows that miner would have followed him.”

  “I don’t know how I’m going to fix this,” Caleb said, looking around at his broken, bloodied saloon.

  “I think you’ve got bigger problems than the mess.”

  Before Caleb could ask Doc to clarify, his answer came stomping through the front door.

  Four men poured through that door. Two of them jabbed their fingers toward Caleb and Doc. The other two were not only armed but wearing badges.

  “That’s the man,” one of the pointers shouted. “He gunned down Loco Mike, and Mike was already being held up by that other one there!”

  The second pointer nodded furiously. “I saw it, too. Caleb killed Mike for callin’ him an Injun. I heard all about it, an’ I seen him kill Mike with my own eyes! I seen it all!”

  Doc shook his head while taking a drink from his flask. “I told you to get rid of that shotgun.”

  “Aw Jesus,” Caleb said, dropping the shotgun as both lawmen stepped forward to point their guns at him.

  “Caleb Wayfinder,” the first lawman snarled. “You’re under arrest. You, too, Doc.”

  [7]

  The law in Dallas was a mixed bag of volunteers and Texas Rangers passing through to keep the peace. There were a few constant faces, but Caleb had learned real quickly to enforce his own rules rather than rely upon anyone wearing a badge. It was a fairly good arrangement, since the law had never seemed too interested in doing anything but drinking inside the Busted Flush.

  For the time being, a Texas Ranger by the name of Ben Mays had pulled the duty of keeping the peace in Dallas. There were other lawmen in town, but Mays seemed to be the one who was at the center of them all. It could change before too long, or it could stay the same for years. Caleb didn’t care either way. All he wanted at the moment was for that damn snoring to stop.

  A simple ride down any of Dallas’s streets would display walls of stucco, wood, or even brick. The fact of the matter was that a lot of those walls had been crafted in factories out East, shipped by the newly laid railroad tracks, and put together by anyone with a strong back and some simple tools. Dallas had plenty of promise, but a long way to go before being strong enough to withstand a nasty gust of wind.

  Unfortunately, Caleb Wayfinder’s current accommodations had withstood plenty more than wind. Judging by the chips in the walls and the dents in the iron bars covering the door and windows, more than one man had tested their strength and failed. At the moment, Caleb wasn’t much interested in testing his strength.

  He wasn’t even interested in getting up from the cot, which was the only thing besides himself inside that six-by-three cell.

  All he wanted was some peace and quiet after a hard night. His jaw was still giving him hell, every muscle ached, and his head was throbbing. With the sun’s rays slicing into his cell through the square window near the ceiling, it seemed as though Loco Mike Abel had been dead for years already.

  In fact, the only thing that seemed real to Caleb just then was the stench of the cell and the constant thumping of the guards’ feet as they walked back and forth to check on him before thumping back to a nearby desk. Caleb sat upon his cot, which was actually an old, broken door covered in a horse blanket. One leg was stretched out in front of him, while the other dangled off the edge to rest upon the floor. His back was propped against the wall, and his eyes remained partially open as they had for the entire night.

  He hadn’t said a word since he’d been tossed into that cell, which had done a world of good for his jaw. Having only been able to sleep for a couple hours, he’d spent the remainder of his time behind bars flicking at his stitches with the tip of his tongue. The little jabs of pain gave him something to focus on instead of the constant noise coming from his neighbor.

  Dr. Holliday was in the cell next door, and when he hadn’t been talking to Caleb over the last ten hours, his coughing fits had filled the air with a wet, hacking sound that was impossible to ignore. More recently, Holliday hadn’t uttered a word. His coughs had died down and were soon replaced by another sound that was just as bad for Caleb’s nerves: snoring.

  As Holliday’s snoring continued, it started to feel like a dull saw being dragged across Caleb’s eardrums. Part of that irritation came from the situation, while another part came from jealousy, since Caleb would have traded a few of his own fingers to get a couple hours of such restful sleep.

  Just thinking about it made Caleb clench his eyes shut so he could try to will himself into oblivion. His back ached, his eyes were burning, and every bone in his body was crying for mercy. Every breath was a hardship, and Caleb knew for a fact that he couldn’t have gotten up from his cot without a whole lot of strenuous work. Even with all of that, sleep would not come.

  Holliday kept snoring like a well-fed mutt, while Caleb was forced to watch the sunlight grow brighter against a wall as his eyelids slowly pasted themselves into haggard slits. Caleb opened and closed his mouth, only to wince at the pain those simple motions caused.

  The same set of boots thumped against the floor, just as they had every half hour or so since the arrival of the fresh-faced guard at dawn. The guard couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet but walked as if he was punishing the floor. More than a little of that confidence surely came from the gun at his hip and the stout club in his hand.

  Strutting past Caleb’s cell, the guard looked in through the bars with a scowl on his face. He nodded approvingly when Caleb stayed in his place and kept on walking for a few more paces. Straightening up to his full five feet eleven inches, the guard took hold of the bars of the neighboring cell and rattled the door noisily.

  There was so little space in the cramped hallway connecting the cells that Caleb could still see half of the skinny guard’s frame from where he was sitting.

  “Rise and shine, Holliday,” the guard said.

  The snoring was interrupted for a moment as Caleb heard the sound of something shifting upon a board similar to the broken door beneath his own smelly blanket.

  The guard fidgeted with a ring of keys hanging from his belt, and when he looked up from that, he started smacking the bars impatiently with his club. “Come on! I said get up!”

  Hearing the guard’s overeager voice echo through his aching head, Caleb pinched his eyelids together and let out a groan.

  “I won’t hear nothing from you,” the guard said as he leaned a bit to one side so he could peer in at Caleb.

  “What the hell?” Holliday croaked.

  After finding the key he’d been looking for, the guard fit it into the cell door’s lock and turned it. “Get on out of there. Ben says you can go.”

  Caleb only had to tilt his head to one side and press his ear to the wall for him to hear the dentist struggling to get up in the cell next to him. Holliday’s movements sounded as if they were coming from one of the oafs who passed out nightly at the Busted Flush. There was a lot of scraping of limbs against the cot’s edges, followed by the drop of heavy feet against the floor.

  “That was the best sleep Ah’ve had in weeks,” Holliday said in a voice that barely seemed human. His words were still thick with his southern drawl but now were rougher than tree bark and punctuated with a rasping cough that hurt just to hear it.

  The guard winced at the sound of Holliday’s desperate hacking. That expression changed considerably after the dentist spat a juicy wad onto the floor. “Jesus Christ, are you all right?”

  “Ah’m fine and dandy,” Holliday replied in a drawl that was thicker than ever. “Now what time is it?”

  “Just past ten in the morning.”

  “And you’re here to tuhn me loose?”

  The guard nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Ben talked to some folks at that saloon who said you were defending yourself when that other fellow tried to shoot you.”

 

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