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.