“You got proof?” the barkeep asked.
Mike gritted his teeth and said, “Fetch the asshole in that office. I want to have a word with him. Or maybe the law ought to know what goes on in here.”
“No need for that,” the gambler said. “You have a problem with me, you can take it up with me.”
When Mike wheeled around to get another look at the well-dressed man, he found the gambler was already on his feet and walking toward him. Mike’s lips curled into a humorless grin, baring a yellowed set of crooked teeth. “I do got a problem with you. And I think I can settle it right here. Right now.”
Mike’s arms dropped to his side, making a jerky wave toward his guns as if the weapons weren’t already on display well enough. “You wanna know why I’m called Loco?” Mike asked, patting the pistol on his right hip. “You’re about to find out.”
The gambler stood his ground. With a flip of a wrist, his coat was opened just enough to reveal the Colt housed in a finely tooled leather holster at his side. “You lost at cards, friend. See that you don’t lose a whole lot more.”
Mike wasn’t the only one to feel the impact of those words. All the others at the bar had taken notice and were backing away from the pair, getting ready to either run for the door or jump for cover. The barkeep had stepped a few paces back and was reaching for something with a twitching, desperate hand.
Words swirled around inside Mike’s head like whiskey at the bottom of a shaking glass. Before any of those words could be spoken, they were swallowed up by the nervous breaths leaping back and forth at the top of his throat. The corner of one eye twitched, flaring the nostril on that same side.
The gambler read Mike’s expressions as though he was reading a book. Sensing approaching danger, he let his smile fade as the muscles in his gun arm tensed beneath his skin. “Tell you what, Mike,” the gambler said evenly. “We can play again tonight. Bring your own cards for all I care. I’ll front you the money I won last night as half your stake. That way, if the fates are on your side, you can double what you risk tonight.”
“Double it?” Mike snarled. “You mean I’d win back what you cheated from me as well as what you put up tonight?”
Nodding, the gambler said, “Either way you want to think about it, that’s the only way you’re getting your money back. That is, unless you want to try your luck right here and now.”
When he’d said those last few words, the gambler’s voice dropped to a dangerous pitch. It wasn’t a dramatic change, but it was like the shift in a wolf’s eye. When another man spotted a change like that, he tended to think twice before taking his next step.
Mike’s jaw clenched, and the muscles in his arm relaxed a bit. Finally, he nodded. “All right then. But if’n I see the first sign that you’re cheating, I’ll blow you straight to hell.”
“Fair enough. I’ll see you back here tonight, and we’ll have our game. In the meantime, I think I’ll seek my refreshment elsewhere.” The gambler tipped his hat and started to leave.
Only then did the barkeep finally get a response to the insistent rapping of his knuckles against the narrow door behind the bar.
When that door swung open, it revealed a small back office as well as a man that nearly filled out the entire frame. He was of slightly better than average build and carried himself with a quiet confidence. Dark brown eyes darted back and forth, quickly taking in the situation within the saloon.
“Hold on here,” the man said as he stepped through the door. Addressing the gambler more than Mike, he asked, “Is there a problem?”
The gambler shook his head and continued out the door. “Not at all. I’ll be back later.”
Seeing that it was too late to say anything to the well-dressed man, the bigger fellow behind the bar shifted his attention to the barkeep. “What’s so urgent?”
The barkeep nodded toward Mike with a pained expression.
“Ain’t no problem here, Caleb,” Mike grunted. “Just get your ass back into that office like a good little bookkeeper.”
Annoyed, the taller of the two men behind the bar stepped forward, pushing the door shut behind him. “If you’re chasing off my customers again, Mike, I’ll have you run out of here for good.”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s what you always say.” The more Mike talked, the more steam he put into his words. And when he saw that nobody around him was heeled, he found even more courage. “If you think I’m taking orders from some goddamn Injun, then you’ve got another think coming.”
Those words dropped through the air like dead flies. Everyone else in the saloon who’d just been starting to relax now once again backed away. As Caleb stepped up closer to the bar, his boots knocked against the floorboards like hammers. When he got close enough, he placed his hands upon the bar and leaned forward.
What little sunlight that could make it through the smoked glass of the windows fell upon his face in a grimy wave. His skin was darker than most, carrying the underlying tint of desert clay. Coal-black hair sprouted from his scalp in irregular clumps, not one of which was longer than a brush’s bristles. The intensity in his eyes was powerful enough to light a campfire.
“What did you say to me?” Caleb asked.
Mike leaned forward. At this point, he was either too cocksure to care about the glint in Caleb’s eyes or too stupid to notice it. Slapping a coin onto the bar, he said, “You heard me, Injun. Now shut yer hole and give me some firewater.”
As Caleb reached out to accept the coin, he felt a calming hand on his shoulder. The barkeep eased him away from the bar and sidled in front of him.
“With all the heat we’ve been getting,” the barkeep said, “it’s no wonder tempers are flaring. Here’s your whiskey, Mike, and how about a round for the rest of you?” Glancing back at Caleb, he asked. “That all right?”
“Sure,” Caleb said. “I think I could use a drink.”
Caleb stepped away from the bar so Mike could get to his bottle and spout off to someone else. After filling up a mug of beer for himself, Caleb didn’t even get a chance to raise it to his lips before he heard Mike’s voice booming out yet again.
“This ain’t whiskey!” Mike shouted after spraying the liquor out at both men behind the bar. “It tastes more like piss to me! What’s the deal, Caleb? Did your squaw momma squat down on top of this here bottle and piss in it, or do you just need a lesson in how to run a goddamn saloon?”
Stopping just short of the narrow door leading to his office, Caleb pulled in a measured breath and let it out. He wasn’t at all surprised to hear the taunt coming from an asshole like Mike Abel. Unfortunately, the bottle thrown at him by that same asshole was a bit more of a surprise.
The bottle knocked against Caleb’s left shoulder blade and rolled down his back before hitting the floor. Although the impact wasn’t enough to do any damage, it was the spark that had landed too close to a powder keg.
The bottle hadn’t even come to a stop on the floor before it was snatched up again by Caleb’s hand. Shoving past the barkeep, Caleb glared straight into Mike’s eyes and slammed the bottle back onto the bar in front of him. The impact was hard enough to send a series of cracks through the glass.
“You’d best calm down, Mike,” Caleb snarled. “Or so help me . . .”
Mike’s smile was deceptively calm as he reached out to grab the bottle one more time by its neck. “Or you’ll what?” Mike taunted. “I’ve had enough grief for one day, so I sure as hell won’t take no more from some Injun bartender.” Without another word and before Caleb could say anything else, Mike brought the bottle up and around in a quick arc that was aimed directly at Caleb’s head.
Caleb’s first thought was to reach for the shotgun beneath the bar. He could also have picked up a thick length of timber that sported plenty of dents from cracking against the skulls of men like Mike Abel. Instead, Caleb stepped back after too much deliberation and almost tripped over the barkeep behind him.