He wanted a drink. Whiskey, cheap and warm. After six weeks on the trail, he wanted the same kind of woman. Some men usually managed to get what they wanted. He was one of them. Still, the woman could wait, Jake decided as he leaned against the bar. The whiskey couldn’t.
He had another ninety long, dusty miles to go before he got home. If anybody could call a frying pan like Lone Bluff home. Some did, Jake thought as he signaled for a bottle and took his first gut-clenching gulp. Some had to.
For himself, home was usually the six feet of space where his shadow fell. But for the past few months Lone Bluff had been as good a place as any. He could get a room there, a bath and a willing woman, all at a reasonable price. It was a town where a man could avoid trouble-or find it, depending on his mood.
For now, with the dust of the trail still scratchy in his throat and his stomach empty except for a shot of whiskey, Jake was just too tired for trouble. He’d have another drink, and whatever passed for a meal in this two-bit town blown up from the desert, then he’d be on his way.
The afternoon sunlight poured in over the swinging doors at the saloon’s entrance. Someone had tacked a picture of a woman in red feathers to the wall, but that was the extent of the female company. Places like this didn’t run to providing women for their clientele. Just to liquor and cards.
Even towns like this one had a saloon or two. A man could depend upon it, the way he could depend on little else. It wasn’t yet noon, and half the tables were occupied. The air was thick with the smoke from the cigars the bartender sold, two for a penny. The whiskey, went for a couple of bits and burned a line of fire straight from the throat to the gut. If the owner had added a real woman in red feathers, he could have charged double that and not heard a single complaint. The place stank of whiskey, sweat and smoke. But Jake figured he didn’t smell too pretty himself. He’d ridden hard from New Mexico, and he would have ridden straight through to Lone Bluff except he’d wanted to rest his horse and fill his own stomach with something other than the jerky in his saddlebags. Saloons always looked better at night, and this one was no exception. Its bar was grimy from hundreds of hands and elbows, dulled by spilled drinks, scarred by match tips The floor was nothing but hard-packed dirt that had absorbed its share of whiskey and blood. He’d been in worse, Jake reflected, wondering if he should allow himself the luxury of rolling a cigarette now or wait until after a meal.
He could buy more tobacco if he had a yearning for another. There was a month’s pay in his pocket. And he’d be damned if he’d ever ride cattle again. That was a life for the young and stupid-or maybe just the stupid.
When his money ran low he could always take a job riding shotgun on the stage through Indian country. The line was always looking for a man who was handy with a gun, and it was better than riding at the back end of a steer. It was the middle of 1875 and the easterners were still coming-looking for gold and land, following dreams. Some of them stopped in the Arizona Territory on their way to California because they ran out of money or energy or time.
Their hard luck, Jake thought as he downed his second whiskey. He’d been born here, and he still didn’t figure it was the most hospitable place on the map. It was hot and hard and stingy. It suited him just fine. “Redman?”
Jake lifted his eyes to the dingy glass behind the bar. He saw the man behind him. Young, wiry and edgy. His brown hat was tipped down low over his eyes, and sweat glistened on his neck. Jake nearly sighed. He knew the type too well. The kind that went out of his way looking for trouble. The kind that didn’t know that if you hung around long enough it found you, anyway.
“I’m Barlow, Tom Barlow.” He wiped his palms on his thighs. “They call me Slim.”
The way he said it, Jake was sure the kid expected the name to be recognized…shuddered over. He decided the whiskey wasn’t good enough for a third drink. He dropped some money on the bar, making sure his hands were well clear of his guns.
“There a place where a man can get a steak in this town?” Jake asked the bartender.
“Down to Grody’s.” The man moved cautiously out of range. “We don’t want any trouble in here.” Jake gave him a long, cool look. “I’m not giving you any.”
“I’m talking to you, Redman.” Barlow spread his legs and let his hand hover over the butt of his gun. A mean-looking scar ran across the back of his hand from his index finger to his wrist. He wore his holster high, a single rig with the leather worn smooth at the buckle. It paid to notice details.