“You’re just drunk, Kenny. And he’s nobody to mess with!” This came from one of the men who’d tried to grab on to Kenny and stop him.
“Sit down, Kenny, you dumb bastard!” a man at a table near the front shouted. “We got enough problems tonight!”
“You shut your face, Stevens,” Kenny snapped, “or I’ll take care of you before I get to Fargo here.”
The bartender joined in. “You just keep right on walkin’ out those batwings, Kenny. You been barred from here before and if you start any trouble here tonight, I’ll bar you for good.”
“How do we know this one here didn’t kill Clete?” Kenny said. “And there’s only one way to find out.”
“You didn’t hear who he is?” the bartender said. “This here’s the Trailsman.”
“You think I’m scared of somebody with a pumped-up name? Especially when he killed poor Clete?”
Fargo moved away from the bar. “No call to make this any worse a night than it already is. I didn’t kill your friend. And I don’t want to have to kill you, either.”
“You talk big.”
Kenny was faster than Fargo expected. The man’s right hand dropped to his holster, the .45 started gleaming in the light of the Rochester lamps and—
And in a single swift move, Fargo spun back toward the bar, grabbed the whiskey bottle by the neck and hurled it at the other man’s gun hand. The bottle smashed so hard against Kenny’s hand that his shot went wild as he squeezed it off. He stood there looking confused and angry, as if some diabolical magician’s trick had just been played on him.
Then he made a move so dumb Fargo gave up coddling him. Drunk as he was, Kenny dove in the direction of the .45 that had been knocked from his hand and then skidded a few feet away.
Fargo had put two bullets in Kenny’s gun hand before the man was even close enough to his weapon to retrieve it.
Kenny had a good pair of lungs. He cried out with enough force to break every single glass behind the bar. He sank to his knees cursing and wailing. Nobody moved to help or comfort him. He’d been a damned fool and this was no night for damned fools.
“I saw you do the same thing down in Waco one time.”
The voice was familiar. Fargo turned to glance at the bat-wing doors. Towering above them was an imposing man with a wind-leathered face and a pair of eyes so ice blue they were almost silver. The silver hair complemented the eyes.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Fargo laughed.
The batwings parted and the outsize man stepped into the saloon. Smiling and imposing himself on the situation. “That’s right, Fargo, Skye. It’s Tom Cain. And you sure will be damned. You’ll be burning in the lowest, hottest part of hell as I remember.”
Steve Trotter the town tamer now carried the name Tom Cain? Why?
But Cain didn’t give Fargo much time to think about it. He cleared the distance between them in four long steps and shoved forth a hand big enough to make even Fargo’s seem small.
He winked at Fargo and said, “Kenny here’s part of the welcoming committee.”
“I kind of gathered that.”
As soon as they were done shaking hands, Cain looked at the men nearest the crouching Kenny and said, “Get his ass out of here before I throw him in jail for a couple of weeks just for the hell of it.”
Then, to the bartender, “It’s a shame Fargo here had to waste that liquor bottle on Kenny. How about another one? Fargo and I have got some catchin’ up to do.”
Once they were sitting down, Steve Trotter said, “Had a little trouble back there down the trail, so I thought it might help things along if I changed my name.”
“So you’re not Steve Trotter anymore?”
“Well, I guess I never did get around to tellin’ you, Fargo. Steve Trotter wasn’t actually my name either.”
Fargo had always known that Cain was a shady actor. In the days when Fargo had known him he was a town tamer who, after setting the town to rights, made sure that he left town with plenty of money and the affection of ladies young and old, married or not. He was a scoundrel and Fargo should have disliked him. But the man had such incredible gall that all a person could do was stand back and be amazed at how many different roles he could play when he needed to. He could be the sober, fatherlike lawman; the mean, trigger-happy gunny; the slicker who could talk a duchess into bed. He was like one of those animals who could adapt their coloration to whatever the situation was.
The men in the Gold Mine had returned to their drinking and their cards and their cheap feeling of the girls. Fargo and Cain sat at a table in the back away from the others.
“On your way to Denver, then?”
“Yeah. See a couple of people there.”
“I may be movin’ on. Probably time I do. But before I do”—he raised his glass of bourbon—“thanks for bringing the kid in. That’s the only thing that’s keeping me here now. I want to find out who’s behind all these killings. Go out with people respecting me for doing my job. If I leave before that—”
“Town this size, I imagine people are spooked.”
“Spooked and for the first time since I cleaned this place up, they’ve got their doubts about me. They’re starting to wonder if maybe I’m all right with a gun but not so good when it comes to figuring out murders. I’m not used to that kind of treatment and I don’t like it.” He leaned back in his chair and said, “I even thought of calling in the Pinkertons for some help.”
Fargo remembered what Deputy Pete Rule had said. That Cain wouldn’t ever call in the Pinkertons. Apparently Cain didn’t share his thoughts with his underlings.
“Say, don’t I remember you working with the Pinkertons a few times?”
“A few times I helped a couple of them out.” Fargo smiled. “I wouldn’t want to make a habit of it, though.”
“Well, how about helping me?”
“Helping you how?”
“Doing it the way the Pinkertons would. How they find killers.”
“You probably know a lot more about that than I do.”
“Hell, no, Skye. I tame towns. That means I use my fists and my gun. Not my brain. Besides, we’d make a good team.”
Fargo shook his head. “I’m not a detective and I’m leaving town tomorrow morning.”
“I’m in a bind here, Skye.”
“Well, you’ve been in binds before and you sure seem to have done all right.”
“If I could take you to the town council with me—tell them you’re helping me with this—”
“Who’s your friend, Sheriff?”
Fargo glanced up to see a pretty but worn dance hall girl with her dark hair pinned up around a blue ribbon. A deep-cut neckline revealed delectable full breasts. She was older than the others and in a few years would be too wasted to compete with the new girls. But for now she was vivacious despite her fading looks.
“Mame, this is my old friend Skye Fargo. They call him the Trailsman.”
“I like the company you keep, Sheriff.” Mame’s blue eyes traced Fargo’s face, obviously liking what she saw. “Handsome man.”
“Hey, I thought you said I was the handsome man.” Cain winked at Fargo.
“Well, I’d say you have some competition.”
“I may just throw you in jail, Mame.”
“Long as you put me in the same cell as Mr. Fargo here.”
“How about this, Mame?” Cain said, taking her hand. “If you want to get to know Skye better then you have to help me convince him to stick around and help me find who’s been killing these boys.”
The playfulness left Mame’s voice. “I feel so sorry for Karen and her mother. Not everybody in my line of work gets treated well. But the Byrneses have been nice to me since the day I got here.”