There was no more resistance in Jim’s wrist, so Caleb let it go. He then took hold of Jim’s shoulders and pushed him away from the saloon. “Stay out of my sight,” Caleb growled. “Or the next thing I’ll break is your neck.”
Jim might have tried to say something, but his words became tangled up in a series of labored breaths and whimpers. He managed to keep moving through the lot behind the Busted Flush and all the way to Commerce Street before shouting a few more halfhearted insults over his shoulder.
Caleb couldn’t have cared less what Jim said. He didn’t even care too much about the blood trickling down his belly and soaking into the front of his shirt. A few quick touches and a glance was all he needed to be sure that the wound wasn’t much more than a scrape. When he looked up again, he saw the door swinging open and a pale face looking out at him.
“Having a bit of trouble out here?”
“Better late than never, huh, Doc?” Caleb replied.
“Well, I did manage to look up in time to see Jim’s legs kicking over the side of the bar. By the time I realized he wasn’t going after a free drink, I decided to come a check on you.”
Letting out a breath, Caleb nodded and said, “I’m doing fine, Doc.”
“Then I suppose that cut across your stomach is a fashion statement?”
“Not exactly, but it’s nothing serious.”
Doc extended a finger and pulled down the flap of Caleb’s shirt that had been cut open. After a quick examination of his own, he nodded. “Did he say anything interesting, or was he too busy scampering off?”
“Actually, he mentioned something about having someone else backing him.” Caleb didn’t care too much for the way Doc pondered that possibility. “Do you think he was bluffing?”
Doc shrugged and replied, “I didn’t see his face, so I couldn’t say for sure. I do know that these Deagles are pressing awfully hard for something that is more or less out of their reach. I admire a man for taking a shot at something, but this is above and beyond what one might expect.”
“You admire these assholes for trying to carve off a piece of my saloon?” Caleb asked.
“No. I admire the effort.” Seeing the unapprecialtive scowl on Caleb’s face, Doc patted him on the shoulder and started walking back into the saloon. “Looks like you’ve discouraged any further efforts.”
“And what about this backing?”
“If that was a bluff, nothing will come of it. If there really is someone else behind this, then all we’ll need to do is sit back and wait for the next shoe to drop. Either way, there’s no reason for us to stand out here when all the real fun is inside.”
And just like that, Doc was done with the matter. Although he still had his doubts, Caleb couldn’t argue with Doc’s logic. Judging by the noise coming from inside the Flush, there was more than enough in there to keep him busy for a while.
[16]
After stumbling onto Commerce Street, Jim broke into a run and made a straight line for Market. Along the way, he spat out an endless string of obscenities that had as much to do with Caleb Wayfinder as it had to do with the stabbing pain that shot from his wrist all the way up to his shoulder and back down into the pit of his stomach. The hand above his broken wrist had already gone numb, allowing Jim to see straight just long enough to find the St. Charles Saloon.
As one of the more respected saloons in Dallas, the St. Charles was also one of the most fortunate, since it had survived one fire that had claimed the lives of two establishments on the other side of the block. It was also known as a friendly place to gamble, which was more of a testament to Champagne Charlie Austin, who ran the place wearing an ever-present smile on his wide face.
Charlie was known as a good fellow and a straight shooter, which brought a hell of a lot of players to his card tables and tournaments. Charlie was just as likely to buy a man a drink as he was to pour one, and he did his best to greet folks as they walked into his saloon. This night was no exception.
“Hello there,” Charlie said even before he saw who’d kicked open the St. Charles’s front door. Once he got a look at the weary humpback, Charlie rushed forward, grasping the bar rag that hung from his back pocket. “You’re hurt, Jimmy!”
Jim’s first instinct was to slap away Charlie’s helping hand. His next was to grit his teeth and snarl in pain since he did the swatting with his newly broken wrist. “Just get the fuck away from me,” Jim spat. “And get me something to drink.”
Although Charlie didn’t appreciate Jim’s brusque manner, it wasn’t in his nature to return such ugly behavior. Instead, he backed up and went to the bar before he said something he might regret.
The St. Charles was as full as it was on any other night, meaning that nearly every table in the place was playing host to card games of various sizes. Smaller, narrow tables were situated around the edge of the main room, which were reserved for faro. A small stage was currently being used by a dark-haired woman singing along with a moderately talented guitar player.
At one of the faro tables closer to the door, Kyle’s bulbous head poked up when he heard his cousin’s venomous cursing. He then rushed up to the front of the saloon as quickly as his stout legs would carry him.
“What the hell happened to you?” Kyle asked the moment he got a look at Jim.
Snatching the shot of whiskey Charlie handed to him, Jim downed the liquor before replying, “That goddamn Injun jumped me behind his saloon.”
“Son of a bitch!”
“What are you two going on about?”
Both Jim and Kyle jumped a bit since they hadn’t even noticed the other man step up and join their conversation. The new arrival was average in height and build, allowing him to blend into the crowd within the saloon. What made him stick out a bit was the seriousness in his face and a darkness in his eyes, which plenty of gunfighters had worked years to perfect.
“Oh, uh, nothing, Bret,” Kyle stammered.
Jim grabbed his wrist and let out a labored groan as another stab of pain lanced through that side of his body. “Nothing, my ass. My goddamn hand is busted!”
Bret took another step forward to examine Jim’s hand. His bald head sported a few long scars, but nothing to make him look half as ugly as the humpback. A narrow face and bony features were accented by a thin mustache that looked as if it had been sketched under his nose using a pencil and ruler.
“You should see a doctor about that,” Bret said.
“I don’t like doctors.”
“Then quit crying like a woman and tell me what happened.”
Although he immediately regretted his refusal of treatment, Jim stuck by his posturing and proceeded to lay out a quick account of his recent visit to the Busted Flush. “And when I tried to have a word with that Injun, he pulled me over the bar and took me outside to threaten my life.”
“All without merit, I suppose?”
“Yeah, Bret. I was just meaning to talk.”
Bret looked Jim up and down before nodding. “I see you’re not wearing a gun. What about that pig sticker you keep under your shirt?”
“Huh?”
“The knife,” Bret said in a tone of voice that cut just as well as the weapon in question. “What about the knife you’re so fond of carrying?”
“You told us not to go in there with weapons, so—”
Without another word, Bret reached out to grab hold of Jim by the hump on his back. When Jim started to protest, Bret’s other hand flashed out to wrap around Jim’s broken wrist so he could give it a quick squeeze. Whatever Jim was going to do or say was quickly eclipsed by the pain that engulfed him. After the humpback had dropped to one knee, Bret pushed him over and pulled the back of Jim’s shirt up enough to see the empty scabbard tucked under his belt.