broad back. “This here squawman botherin’ you, ma’am?”
Caleb felt the sting of the insinuation. Many new-comers to the northern country thought every white man who wore fringed buckskin was a squawman. Most, however, were very careful with the term. Graveyards all over the West were populated by men who had insulted others by calling them squawmen. The stranger saw the horror in Sally’s eyes and didn’t wait for her answer. With two large steps, he was be-side Caleb and a talon-like hand grabbed for the scout’s shoulder. “In Texas, we don’t tolerate no insultin’ o’ women, squawman!”
Caleb was out from under the reaching fingers of steel, on his feet, facing the man. Texan was stamped all over him. He was obviously one of the drovers with the Texas herd. Caleb noted the two tied-down guns, too. Texas gunfighter. He shook his head slowly and his eyes were frosty. “This young lady happens to be a friend of mine, an’, if I were you, Texan, I’d go easy on that squawman term up here.”
There was a sneer on the tall man’s face. “Y’would, would ya? Well down in Texas….”
“You’re not down in Texas now.”
The man’s face darkened. He looked contemptuously at the smaller man for a second, then one long, wiry fist shot out. Caleb rolled with it and the blow glanced off his shoulder. The Texan was making a very common and fatal error. He was over confidently underestimating the man in front of him. Caleb had fought the best brawlers on the frontier, Indian and white, and he was respected by both. He moved forward on the balls of his feet with the speed of light, and a massively muscled arm shot out. The Texan looked surprised when it smashedinto his stomach. He went over a little to take some of the shock out of the blow.
Sally Tate, ashen-faced and horrified, was rigid be-hind the counter as the tall Texan swore violently and lunged at Caleb. The scout wasn’t there when the stranger’s ham-like fist, a bludgeon of bone and sinew, whipped into the hot atmosphere. Caleb stepped clear of the furiously charging gunman, ducked under the long arms, and bore in. He shot a rock-like fist into the Texan’s stomach that stopped the larger man. Before the gunman could recover, another bone and muscle piston crashed into his chest, and the third, as the Texan was rocking back on his high boot heels, slammed into his jaw like the kick of a mule. There was a loud popping sound, sharp and clear in the charged atmosphere, and the Texan went down half in, half out of the café, his head and shoulders lying through the half-opened door.
Caleb turned and looked at Sally. Her large eyes were glassy. “Sit down, Sally. Get a hold of yourself. I’m awfully sorry. It shouldn’t have happened in here.”
A rush of color came back into the girl’s cheeks as she turned to Caleb. “Is he dead?” Caleb looked down at the stunned Texan and shook his head. Sally let a long, pent-up gust of air out of her lungs. “Caleb Doom”—the violet eyes were snapping angrily with released tension and relief—“you’ve hurt that man badly. You ought to be ashamed, Caleb. You had no right…. ”
Caleb was halfway up the plank sidewalk toward his room at the Lincoln House, before the voice finally died away behind him. He was amused at Sally’s reaction and irritated at the overbearing arrogance of the Texan, and, when his mind reviewedthe happenings of the day, he felt foreboding over what the future held. If all the drovers with the Texas herd were of the same stripe, there would be no way to avoid trouble. The hotel was dark when Caleb went up to his room. The bed felt good, and, until he sank down into it with a comfortable sigh, he had had no idea how tired he was.
When Caleb awoke, it was to find a pair of worried, squinted blue eyes, faded and anxious, bending over him. “Come on. Hell, ya can’t sleep all day.”
“No? Jack, you don’t know me, once I’m in one of these manmade beds.” He swung
Caleb felt the sting of the insinuation. Many new-comers to the northern country thought every white man who wore fringed buckskin was a squawman. Most, however, were very careful with the term. Graveyards all over the West were populated by men who had insulted others by calling them squawmen. The stranger saw the horror in Sally’s eyes and didn’t wait for her answer. With two large steps, he was be-side Caleb and a talon-like hand grabbed for the scout’s shoulder. “In Texas, we don’t tolerate no insultin’ o’ women, squawman!”
Caleb was out from under the reaching fingers of steel, on his feet, facing the man. Texan was stamped all over him. He was obviously one of the drovers with the Texas herd. Caleb noted the two tied-down guns, too. Texas gunfighter. He shook his head slowly and his eyes were frosty. “This young lady happens to be a friend of mine, an’, if I were you, Texan, I’d go easy on that squawman term up here.”
There was a sneer on the tall man’s face. “Y’would, would ya? Well down in Texas….”
“You’re not down in Texas now.”
The man’s face darkened. He looked contemptuously at the smaller man for a second, then one long, wiry fist shot out. Caleb rolled with it and the blow glanced off his shoulder. The Texan was making a very common and fatal error. He was over confidently underestimating the man in front of him. Caleb had fought the best brawlers on the frontier, Indian and white, and he was respected by both. He moved forward on the balls of his feet with the speed of light, and a massively muscled arm shot out. The Texan looked surprised when it smashedinto his stomach. He went over a little to take some of the shock out of the blow.
Sally Tate, ashen-faced and horrified, was rigid be-hind the counter as the tall Texan swore violently and lunged at Caleb. The scout wasn’t there when the stranger’s ham-like fist, a bludgeon of bone and sinew, whipped into the hot atmosphere. Caleb stepped clear of the furiously charging gunman, ducked under the long arms, and bore in. He shot a rock-like fist into the Texan’s stomach that stopped the larger man. Before the gunman could recover, another bone and muscle piston crashed into his chest, and the third, as the Texan was rocking back on his high boot heels, slammed into his jaw like the kick of a mule. There was a loud popping sound, sharp and clear in the charged atmosphere, and the Texan went down half in, half out of the café, his head and shoulders lying through the half-opened door.
Caleb turned and looked at Sally. Her large eyes were glassy. “Sit down, Sally. Get a hold of yourself. I’m awfully sorry. It shouldn’t have happened in here.”
A rush of color came back into the girl’s cheeks as she turned to Caleb. “Is he dead?” Caleb looked down at the stunned Texan and shook his head. Sally let a long, pent-up gust of air out of her lungs. “Caleb Doom”—the violet eyes were snapping angrily with released tension and relief—“you’ve hurt that man badly. You ought to be ashamed, Caleb. You had no right…. ”
Caleb was halfway up the plank sidewalk toward his room at the Lincoln House, before the voice finally died away behind him. He was amused at Sally’s reaction and irritated at the overbearing arrogance of the Texan, and, when his mind reviewedthe happenings of the day, he felt foreboding over what the future held. If all the drovers with the Texas herd were of the same stripe, there would be no way to avoid trouble. The hotel was dark when Caleb went up to his room. The bed felt good, and, until he sank down into it with a comfortable sigh, he had had no idea how tired he was.
When Caleb awoke, it was to find a pair of worried, squinted blue eyes, faded and anxious, bending over him. “Come on. Hell, ya can’t sleep all day.”
“No? Jack, you don’t know me, once I’m in one of these manmade beds.” He swung
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