“All we have is good stuff, Mr. Lowry,” the nearest bartender said. “Lady Augusta don’t go in for that panther piss.”
Lowry’s hand shot across the bar and grabbed the bartender’s shirtfront. He jerked the man forward and roared, “Are you arguin’ with me?”
Sam stiffened. He didn’t like to see anyone being manhandled like that.
Stovepipe must have noticed the reaction, because he put a hand lightly on Sam’s arm and said, “Hold your horses, son. You don’t want to get on Lowry’s bad side. He’s not somebody you need for an enemy.”
Sam forced himself to relax. Stovepipe was right. Anyway, it was none of his business what Lowry did, Sam told himself.
The bartender said, “No, sir, I’m not arguin’ at all. I’ll get you that whiskey, the finest we got, right away.”
Lowry let go of him and nodded curtly.
“That’s more like it. Pour it up, apron. After what happened last night, we need those drinks.”
Sam wondered what had happened the night before. He didn’t have to think about it for long, because as soon as Pete Lowry had knocked back the slug of whiskey the bartender put in front of him, he turned around and addressed the room in a loud voice.
“A bunch of damned savages raided the ranch last night,” he said. “Killed two punchers and took off with fifty head of cattle. By God, there’s gonna be a whole new Navajo war here in the Four Corners!”
Lowry’s words shook Sam, although he managed not to show it. He had a hard time believing that Caballo Rojo or any of his people would have attacked the Devil’s Pitchfork ranch. Even the proddy Juan Pablo just wanted to be left alone. None of them would go out of their way to draw attention to themselves by raiding a ranch and killing white cowboys. Sam would have staked his life on it.
Lowry seemed convinced of what he was saying, though. Several of the other ranch hands joined in, loudly and profanely insisting that the Navajo had gone on the warpath.
As Sam listened to Lowry and the other cowboys rant, he thought about what Noah Reilly had said earlier about people in this area still being nervous about the Navajo. This was going to make them even more so.
“A new Injun war,” Stovepipe Stewart mused. “What do you think about that, Sam?”
“I think it’s loco,” Sam answered honestly and without hesitation. “If there are any Navajo still out there looking for trouble, there aren’t enough of them to fight a war. I don’t think they’d be foolish enough to risk that by raiding a ranch and killing some punchers.”
He spoke a little too loudly. A man who stood not too far away at the bar overheard him and called, “Hey, Pete! This fella says you’re lyin’. And from the looks of him, he might be a redskin, too!”
“Uh-oh,” Wilbur said. “This ain’t good.”
Lowry swung around with a belligerent glare on his face.
“Who called me a liar?” he demanded. His angry gaze landed on Sam. “I’ll bet it was you!”
Sam didn’t see any point in lying, and it went against his nature anyway. He said, “I never claimed you were lying. I just said I thought it was unlikely any Navajo would be foolish enough to attack your ranch.”
Lowry stomped toward him.
“Then how do you explain those missin’ cows and two of my friends bein’ dead?”
“I’m sorry about your friends,” Sam said. “But maybe the cattle were stolen by rustlers.”
“On unshod ponies? And those two fellas had arrows stuck in ’em! Navajo arrows!”
“Anyone can ride unshod ponies,” Sam said. “And white men can use bows and arrows, too. It wouldn’t be the first time whites have tried to blame the trouble they caused on Indians.”
Lowry stopped in front of Sam, looked him up and down, and sneered.
“You don’t talk like a redskin, but you sure look like one,” he said. “Half-breed, ain’t you?”
“I’m half Cheyenne,” Sam said for what seemed like the dozenth time since he’d ridden into Flat Rock.
“No wonder you’re defendin’ those filthy savages. You’re just like ’em.”
“The Cheyenne and the Navajo have never been allies,” Sam pointed out. “They’re from totally different parts of the country. Anyway, the Navajo fought more wars against other tribes, like the Pueblo, than they ever did against the whites.”
“A redskin’s a redskin, and I got no use for any of ’em,” Lowry snapped. “And I sure as hell got no use for a smart-mouthed one like you, mister!”
He launched a fist at Sam’s head.
Chapter 16
Sam was expecting that. He’d had a hunch that Lowry was working himself up to a fight.
As the man lurched forward and swung, Sam ducked his head and bent at the waist. The punch sailed wide past his ear.
Thrown off balance by the missed blow, Lowry stumbled against Sam, who hooked a hard right into his belly. The breath went out of Lowry’s body with a whoof!
Lowry’s companions from the Devil’s Pitchfork yelled and surged toward Sam. As Lowry doubled over from the pain of the blow, Sam grabbed his shoulders and shoved him into the path of the charging cowboys. A couple of them ran into him and knocked him off his feet. Tripping over Lowry, the men went sprawling. More of the cowboys got tangled up and fell.
That gave Sam time to slip his Colt from its holster and say, “Just hold on, blast it! There’s no need for—”
“Watch it, Sam!” Stovepipe warned.
Men were crowded around Sam. Someone in the bunch lashed out and drove the side of his hand against Sam’s wrist.
Paralyzing pain shot up his arm. His fingers opened involuntarily, and the revolver slipped out of his hand and thudded to the sawdust-littered floor.
Another man caught hold of Sam’s shoulder and jerked him around. He heard a shout of “Let’s teach the redskin a lesson!” and then a fist seemed to explode in his face before he could get out of its way. The impact sent Sam stumbling backward.
He knew if he went down, there was a good chance these men would stomp and kick him to death. Because of that he fought desperately to keep his balance, but he felt it deserting him and knew he was about to fall.
At that moment, strong hands caught him from behind and kept him on his feet. Sam glanced around and saw it was Stovepipe Stewart who had caught him.
“Much obliged!” Sam gasped.
“Don’t be thankin’ me yet,” Stovepipe warned. “Here they come!”
It was true. Not only were the Devil’s Pitchfork hands closing in around Sam, several of the men who’d been in the saloon to start with had joined the fight, too, and all of them wanted his blood.
Sam put his back against the bar, hoping that the bartenders would remain neutral as they usually did when a brawl broke out. Stovepipe was on his right, Wilbur on his left, and both of the cowboys had their fists clenched and ready.
Sam wiped the back of his left hand across his mouth. That left a streak of blood on it from a bleeding lip.
“Are you two sure you want to take cards in this game?” he asked.
“You bet,” Wilbur said. “We don’t cotton to such bad odds.”
“So we’ll make ’em a little better,” Stovepipe added.
“All right,” Sam said.
That was all he had time to get out of his mouth before angry shouts filled the saloon and fists started flying.
Sam stood there with his back against the hardwood, slamming punches back and forth and trying to block the blows aimed at him. Quite a few of them got through despite his best efforts and rocked him. He stayed upright, though, and continued battling.
On either side of him, Stovepipe and Wilbur were doing the same. Stovepipe’s big, knobby fists on the ends of gangling arms snapped out with surprising speed and force and sent more than one man flying off his feet.
Wilbur’s style was different. With his stocky frame, he was more of a grappler. He got hold of two men, knocked their heads together, and then used their limp forms to trip up several more men.